117: Chapter 117 Agent Betrays, Punches Chief

The regeneration of Marcus Lin via liquid zero was basically complete.

The last piece of bone fragment in his cranial cavity was embedded back into place along the regeneration template, the scalp covered the top of his head at a speed visible to the naked eye, and the bullet hole disappeared completely.

But after he opened his eyes, there was nothing in them.

It was a void more absolute than death.

He propped up half his body with his hands, swept his gaze across everyone in the sealed chamber, and then, without warning, slammed his head into the metal bulkhead beside him.

Several security personnel still guarding the side lunged forward to hold him down again.

He did not struggle, but while being pressed to the ground, he repeated the same sentence in an extremely light and faint tone:

"It is meaningless... living is also meaningless... humanity itself is a mistake..."

"Let me go! Let me end this mistake!"

Musk did not continue watching.

Neither did Edward.

They closed the alloy door of the sealed chamber behind them.

In the corridor, there were scientists everywhere, pressed against the walls, mumbling to themselves even after being injected with sedatives.

Security personnel used tactical zip ties to bind their hands and feet, recovering any sharp objects that could be used for self-harm.

"You are also half a scientist; what is your take on their despair?"

Edward turned his head to look at Musk, his tone as flat as if he were asking a question at a Senate hearing.

Musk was silent for a long time.

He leaned his back against the concrete wall of the corridor, crossed his arms over his chest, swept his gaze over the laboratory security lights that were still flickering throughout the entire floor, and then slowly exhaled, his words weighed down by the heaviness he had yet to fully digest.

"I am different from you."

"When I was an engineer, I nearly died many times next to some exploding engine, so I know what the despair they just calculated feels like."

"If π = 3 is truly an unsolvable seal, and if the entire Solar System is really just a distorted prison cell, then the logic behind their suicide is correct. From another perspective, I am standing on that same cliff edge."

He uncrossed his arms, lowered them, and turned to look directly at Edward.

The previous heavy expression had not completely faded, but the focus in his eyes had gathered again, as if after sliding down a long, dark tunnel, he had finally stepped onto solid ground.

"But I just thought of something."

"If π = 3 is really an unsolvable problem, really a seal that locks humanity within the Solar System, then how did the Deep State create a Space Fleet of two hundred thousand?"

"Therefore, the future of humanity is definitely not just destruction."

"There is definitely still a glimmer of hope."

Edward just nodded slightly, not continuing to expand in this direction.

He was not a scientist after all. To him, whether π was 3 or 3.14 was separated by several dimensions from the survival of the Warren Family he had to deal with.

But getting Musk to regain his composure was enough.

...

Washington, D.C., Federal Bureau of Investigation headquarters, Hoover Building, seventh floor.

When Philip Moran kicked open the heavy oak door of the director's office, Michael Whitfield was sitting behind his walnut desk, which he had used for many years, holding a cup of freshly brewed black tea.

The expression on Whitfield's face shifted from composure to astonishment amidst the loud thud of the door hitting the wall.

Then it shifted from astonishment to a look of embarrassment, as if he saw all his petty schemes backfiring.

Moran was followed by Lewis, Rivera, and Owens.

Their shirts were wrinkled beyond recognition, and their faces were still streaked with dried blood and dust they hadn't had time to clean off after leaving the Federal Detention Center.

But there was no hesitation in their eyes.

"Whitfield! You son of a bitch!!"

"You lied to me, saying we were investigating military industrial kickbacks, you lied to me, saying we were investigating engineering corruption at the Hoover Dam, and what is the result!!"

"It's the Aliens! It's the Deep State! It's a case where everyone involved ends up 'committing suicide'!"

Moran grabbed a swivel chair from the side and hurled it at Whitfield.

The chair hit the edge of the desk and bounced off, the monitor tipped over, and the desk lamp fell to the floor.

Lewis went around to the side of the desk, yanked Whitfield from his leather chair, and pressed him onto the desk.

Rivera and Owens lunged at him simultaneously.

Fists, knees, paperweights from the desk, keyboards with the power cords ripped out, and hardcover law books pulled from the bookshelf...

Everything that could be used to vent their anger was unleashed upon the Federal Bureau of Investigation director who had once used their lives as stepping stones.

The sound of dense punches and dull thuds echoed in the office.

Whitfield initially tried to explain something, but a few seconds later, he could only curl up on the floor, holding his head and groaning.

When he was lifted from the floor,

that face which had maintained its dignity in the director's leather chair for years was now swollen beyond recognition.

His left eye socket was bruised so badly he could barely open it, and a thin line of blood mixed with saliva hung from the corner of his mouth.

However, before Moran could throw the next punch, it suddenly grew dark outside the window.

It wasn't dark clouds blocking the sun; the entire sky instantly plunged into a starless polar night.

Then it brightened,

then darkened again,

then brightened again,

amid the rapid, repeated switching, accompanied by a harsh, fragmented crackling sound,

sweeping all the windows of the entire Hoover Building into a dizzying alternation of light and dark.

Moran looked up, Lewis released Whitfield's collar, and Rivera stood up from the floor.

The four of them walked to the window simultaneously, looking up at the sky that was flickering violently.

Then, that line of text:

π = 3

Moran licked the dried blood from Whitfield at the corner of his mouth and smiled.

There was a complex mix in that smile.

There was a trace of lingering fear after being shocked by the alien power, a trace of the resignation of someone who no longer cared about the consequences,

and a trace of that feeling belonging to someone who had been standing on the edge of a cliff for so long that everything they saw just felt beautiful.

"It's here again."

"These Aliens have so many tricks."

"Yesterday they released a fleet, today they changed the formula."

Lewis also pushed his glasses with his fingertips and remained silent for a long time before speaking, his tone dry and frank, without trembling.

"We are not scientists, and we can't figure out what that formula is trying to tell us, but for people like us, it doesn't matter."

"Anyway, we have long been sentenced to a fate of 'likely to commit suicide at any time' by the Deep State. Not being dead yet is already a bonus."

"It makes no difference whether the Alien fleet comes or not."

After they were released from the Federal Detention Center, the first thing they did was rush into the Federal Bureau of Investigation headquarters to beat up the director. This was not because of anger; anger was just the surface.

The real reason was that during their detention, they had discussed it repeatedly and unanimously reached the same rational conclusion:

As long as they remained Federal Bureau of Investigation agents, and as long as the leads regarding Walsh being sniped, the secret base at the Hoover Dam, and the Deep State were still associated with their names, they would be live targets on a hit list.

The only way to detach themselves from this lead was to commit a sufficiently serious internal disciplinary offense and be formally detained by the Federal Bureau of Investigation,

and then have the case transferred, letting the next unlucky soul take over the follow-up investigation of Walsh and the Deep State.

And "rushing into the Federal Bureau of Investigation headquarters and beating the director half to death" was obviously a sufficiently serious offense.