ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Winter, 1984

• LOCATION: Wanshou Road Apartment, Beijing

• ACOUSTIC DATA: Blood rush through palms (Humble vibration), Table-grinding fist

• WARNING: The "Honeycomb" infrastructure (Non-soundproof reality)

 

 

The heavy door thudded shut. My father turned, his gaze boring into me. Inside his slightly stooped frame, a chaotic array of low-frequency tremors erupted.

 

“Attention!” he barked. “Yes, sir!” I snapped to, rigid as a Hero fountain pen.

 

“Listen to me, Bai Eagle.” His back curved further. “This is the final warning. Right now—plug those trouble-making ears of yours. In this world, every human word you hear could be a trap. Look at this building, these walls—they aren't soundproof. They are honeycombs. They are sieves.”

 

Suddenly, he cupped my ears. The sound of the blood rushing through his palms held no will for power; it was the rhythmic, humble vibration of a plea. “Son! Stop showing off that you can hear internal friction. Stop challenging those Qigong frauds to their faces.”

 

“Promise me, Comrade Bai Eagle.” His fist ground into the coffee table. He knew everything.

 

“I never show off!” I shot back.

 

“Right. My choice of words was poor. It’s not showing off—it’s exposure. Do you really want to be dragged off by them? To spend your life like a nail, being hammered by whoever chooses?”

 

His tone softened, but his heartbeat raced. I nodded. “At ease,” he sighed, collapsing into the sofa. 

 

I prepared to obey, to learn the art of being mediocre, yet my heart refused to yield. The rats in Huaxi and those bowls of cystic pork—they wouldn't allow me to surrender.