Chapter 4：Administrator System
1242words
I failed to complete the task.
The screen flickered once, then displayed: "Time's up. Executing default procedure…"
The lights flickered as a low-frequency hum filled the room. My head spun, like something was siphoning energy straight from my body.
Just as I thought I might fade away completely, the humming stopped.
New text appeared on the screen: "Default procedure has been overridden by administrator privileges."
The door swung open. The man from the basement walked in. I realized now he wasn't "James"—he was another administrator of this system.
"Congratulations," he said, his expression unreadable. "You passed the test."
"What test?" I asked.
"The test of refusal," he replied. "The system needed to verify you still have enough humanity left. Administrators without a moral baseline are useless—they can't understand target psychology or create effective bait."
He took the seat across from me, his face hardening.
"Let me reintroduce myself," he said. "My name is indeed James, but not the James you think I am. I'm the administrator of this building. Been running things here for ten years."
"Then who am I?" I asked.
"You're Candidate Number 14," he said. "Your real name… irrelevant. The system assigns identities as needed. Right now, you're 'James,' resident of apartment 4271."
Panic surged through me. "What about my real memories? My actual identity?"
"Stored in the system database," he said with a shrug. "Perform well, complete enough tasks, and the system might return some memories. Though honestly, most administrators eventually stop wanting them back."
"Why?"
"Because real memories hurt more than this," he said, a flash of pain crossing his face. "Know why I became the first administrator? I had nothing left out there. No job, failed marriage, drowning in debt. Was thinking about ending it all. When the system found me, I practically begged to sign that contract."
## The Price of Breaking the Contract
"But you said I passed the rejection test," I said. "Does that mean I can choose not to do this?"
James shook his head. "Refusing to be bait and refusing to be an administrator are completely different. You've already signed the contract and burned through 66% of your life force. Now you have two choices: become an administrator, or…"
"Or what?"
"Let me show you what 'or' means."
He led me back to the basement, toward a section I hadn't noticed before. A row of glass containers lined the wall, each holding a human-shaped shadow floating inside.
"These are residents who tried to break their contracts," James said. "Their bodies died, but their souls are trapped here, eternally feeding energy to the system. They're frozen in their final moment—pure despair, fear, regret."
I approached one container. The shadow inside sensed me and began frantically slamming against the glass. Though I heard nothing, its movements conveyed silent screams that chilled me to the bone.
"This is what breaking a contract costs," James said. "And if you choose this path, others pay your debt. Mrs. Chen, Rodriguez, Jennifer—their life force extraction accelerates to cover your losses."
## Administrator's Responsibilities
We returned to the control room where James began explaining my duties as an administrator.
"First, maintain stability among existing residents," he said, gesturing toward the monitoring screens. "Make sure they follow their routines without showing abnormal behavior. If anyone starts questioning or resisting, you perform an 'adjustment.'"
"Adjustment?"
"Memory editing, emotion regulation, behavior correction," he said. "Simple tools. The system guides you through it."
He pointed to various devices on the console. "Memory editor—deletes or modifies specific memories. Emotion regulator—enhances or dampens specific feelings. Behavior corrector—implants compulsory patterns of action."
"Next, recruit new residents," he continued. "The system assigns target profiles regularly. Study their psychological makeup and design personalized bait."
He opened a folder filled with personal files. "See these? All potential targets. Single, broke, lonely, curious but fragile. Each needs a different approach."
"Finally, help the system evolve," he said. "Document operation effects, analyze failures, suggest improvements. The system adapts based on your reports."
James led me to a larger control room with a massive display wall showing a map of the entire city.
"See these red dots?" He pointed at the dense cluster of markers on the map. "Each one's a harvesting point. Apartments, office towers, schools, hospitals, malls, even ordinary-looking coffee shops."
I counted over a hundred red dots just in the visible area.
"How many harvesting points exist in the entire city?" I asked.
"Currently 1,247," James said. "Each with its own administrator and residents. The life force we collect goes to the central processor, then gets redistributed throughout the system."
"What's the system's purpose?"
"To keep the city running," he said. "Ever wonder how this place stays so perfect? Punctual subways, reliable power, fast internet, low crime, steady growth—all that needs massive energy."
"Shouldn't those come from human effort?"
James laughed bitterly. "Human effort? Please. People are chaotic, selfish, short-sighted creatures. Without the system's control, this city would've collapsed years ago. We harvest life force to maintain order, drive progress, prevent disaster."
"What about other cities?"
"We're rolling out gradually," he said. "This city's the pilot. If successful, we go national, then global."
"As an administrator, you get perks," James said. "First, reduced life force drain. Regular residents lose 0.3-0.5% daily. Administrators? Just 0.1%."
"Second, you keep more memories and emotions. Not everything, but enough to know who you are."
"Third, limited freedom. One hour outside daily—scout targets, gather intel, or just breathe fresh air."
"Sounds decent," I said. "What's the catch?"
"The price? You become other people's nightmare," he said. "You deceive, manipulate, and harvest innocent souls. You watch them slowly hollow out into empty shells."
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
James fell silent for a long moment. "I don't remember what 'regret' feels like anymore. The system adjusted my emotional responses to optimize performance. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I see fragments… faces of people I destroyed with these hands."
"Now for your first practical exercise," James said. "Jennifer's probation period ends soon, and her adaptation metrics look poor. The system wants a 'deep adjustment' performed."
We returned to the monitoring room. The screen showed Jennifer in Room 4A, perched on the edge of her bed, clutching a photograph, tears streaming down her face.
"What's she looking at?" I asked.
"Photo of her real mother," James said. "She's questioning the daily phone calls. Yesterday she tried calling at different times and couldn't get through. Her critical thinking is resurfacing."
"Isn't that good?"
"Good for her, terrible for us," James said. "If she keeps questioning, she might find the truth, try to escape, warn others."
He pointed to the console. "Use the memory editor to erase her real mother, then implant a false memory—that her mother died young and she's been talking to her aunt all this time."
I stared at the device, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
"I… I can't do this."
"You must," James said. "This is your first task. Refuse, and the system marks you unfit for administration, and then…"
He pointed toward the glass containers.
I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath, and reached for the console.
Just as my finger hovered over the button, alarms blared throughout the facility.
Every screen flashed red with the same message:
"System intrusion detected. External threat confirmed. Initiating defense protocol. All administrators enter combat readiness immediately."
James's face darkened. "Looks like we have company."
