I Am a Convicted Felon (Part 1)
1
I am 32 years old, 179 cm tall, 75 kg, blood type A, inmate number 9582.
That is all the information I have about myself.
Because I am a criminal—a repeat convicted felon.
Of course, that's also what they told me. For my repeated serious crimes, I would have been executed long ago under the old system. But the new era had passed the Human Protection Act, which stipulated that no person or institution had the right to deprive another human being of life. So I survived.
But for villains as heinous as me, there were other forms of punishment:
All my memories had been wiped.
I couldn't remember what crimes I'd committed—I didn't even remember my own name. I had become a complete blank.
As a blank person, making a living was exceedingly difficult. No household registration, no official position, no degree, no family, no friends. In this unfamiliar city, I knew no one, and no one knew me. At least I still had my physical strength, so I found a job loading and unloading at a machinery factory.
My coworkers kept their distance, terrified that I might snap and break someone's neck in a fit of rage. But honestly, I felt I was a rather kind person. Once, when an old lady fell on the side of the road and no one dared help her—people just stood around watching, filming with their phones—only I went over and helped her up. Even though she extorted three thousand yuan from me afterward, my conscience was clear.
I often wondered what kind of heinous crimes a person like me could possibly have committed.
I lived like a wisp of air, alone and unnoticed. Even if I drifted away one day, no one would notice. Honestly, it was lonely. "Lonely" is the loneliest word of all—it doesn't even have an antonym. That was the law's punishment for me.
But suddenly one day, color entered my blank existence.
It was a modest fast-food restaurant—outdated decor, terrible ambiance, perpetually reeking of cooking grease. But it was close to my workplace and, most importantly, cheap, so I frequented it often. All the servers there wore expressions of studied indifference, but she was different. Her eyes sparkled, she had a few freckles on her cheeks, and she always looked at me for a long time.
I gathered my courage and asked if I could take her to a movie.
She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, smiled, and said, "Sure, but it'll have to be after I get off work tonight."
So that evening, I went to pick her up. For the first time in my life—or perhaps not the first time, but I had no memory of any other—I watched a movie with a girl.
After the film, we walked back in a somewhat awkward silence. I said, "I don't want to deceive you. The truth is, I don't have a name. My number is 9582. I'm a criminal whose memories have been wiped."
She looked up at me, utterly astonished.
I quickly waved my hands. "If you don't want to—"
"No," she said, looking at me. "I'm the same as you. My number is 3410."
Now it was my turn to be stunned. I never imagined I'd meet my own kind in this strange city. And what shocked me even more was—what crime could such a gentle girl possibly have committed?
After we got together, she reasoned it out: "Maybe I committed some kind of financial crime. Murder or anything like that is impossible—I can't even bring myself to kill a chicken."
I stroked her smooth back and slender arms and said, "Who knows. Our pasts have all been blown away by the wind."
2
We stopped dwelling on the past. After all, living in the present was what mattered most.
This city hadn't changed at all. I lived like air, and she lived like air. But two wisps of air together were at least a little warmer.
I don't know who leaked my identity, but one day a black-market dealer found me. He said he'd obtained a batch of gene-repair capsules—contraband, extremely potent. Take one and it could repair the missing DNA in your brain, restoring your memory, letting you remember everything from before.
I asked how much per capsule. He named a price.
I thought about it and shook my head—the price was beyond what I could afford. In the past, I would have bought it without hesitation to recover my history. But now I had 3410. I wanted to save that money and live a good life with her.
The black-market dealer grew anxious. "Brother, think about it—what if you used to be a big boss with a whole crew under you, running both the underworld and the legitimate world? Or at the very least, some legendary thief, robbing the rich to feed the poor—how glorious! Don't you want to reclaim your former glory, instead of living out the rest of your days in obscurity?"
I said, "Brother, it's not that I don't want to. I genuinely don't have the money."
"Money is nothing—spend it and earn it back."
I smiled bitterly. To him, money was nothing; to me, it was everything. 3410 and I had finally built a home together. I didn't want it to fall apart so easily.
The gravity of reality was too heavy. Rent, living expenses, electricity, water... Our combined wages barely covered it all. But we were happy. I was content.
I had no ambitions. I just wanted to keep everything as it was.
She looked up at me, utterly astonished.
I quickly waved my hands. "If you don't want to—"
"No," she said, looking at me. "I'm the same as you. My number is 3410."
Now it was my turn to be stunned. I never imagined I'd meet my own kind in this strange city. And what shocked me even more was—what crime could such a gentle girl possibly have committed?
After we got together, she reasoned it out: "Maybe I committed some kind of financial crime. Murder or anything like that is impossible—I can't even bring myself to kill a chicken."
I stroked her smooth back and slender arms and said, "Who knows. Our pasts have all been blown away by the wind."
2
We stopped dwelling on the past. After all, living in the present was what mattered most.
This city hadn't changed at all. I lived like a wisp of air, and so did she. But when two wisps of air came together, at least it was a little warmer.
Someone leaked my identity. One day, a black-market dealer found me and said he'd obtained a batch of gene-repair capsules—contraband with extremely potent effects. Swallow one capsule and it would repair the damaged DNA in your brain, restoring your memories, letting you recall everything from before.
I asked the price. He named a figure.
I thought about it and shook my head. The price exceeded my expectations. In the past, I would have bought the capsule without hesitation to recover my history. But now I had 3410. I wanted to save that money and live a good life with her.
The black-market dealer grew anxious. "Brother, think about it—what if you used to be a big boss, with a whole crew under you, running both the underworld and the legit world? Or at the very least, a notorious outlaw, robbing the rich to feed the poor—how badass would that be? Don't you want to reclaim your former glory, rather than living out your days in obscurity?"
I said, "Brother, it's not that I don't want to. It's that I really don't have the money."
"Money is a grandson—spend it and earn it back."
I smiled bitterly. Money might be a grandson to him, but it was an ancestor to me. 3410 and I had finally built a home together, and I didn't want it falling apart so easily.
The gravity of reality was too heavy—rent, living expenses, electricity, water... Our combined wages barely covered it. But we lived happily. I was already content.
I had no ambitions. I just wanted to keep everything as it was.
It wasn't until 3410 fell ill and was hospitalized that I understood life wasn't a still pond—it was a rushing river, and you never knew where it would flow.
She had myeloid blood cancer—a hereditary condition with a 25% adult onset rate. Unfortunately, she'd drawn the short straw.
I watched her grow thinner by the day. Her once-bright eyes lost their luster, like a candle burning down to its end. After one round of chemotherapy, the doctor told me the cancer cells were spreading rapidly and could no longer be controlled. The patient could die at any moment, and I should prepare myself.
The disease could potentially be cured if matching stem cells were found, but in such a vast sea of people, the odds were infinitesimal. And it would require enormous medical expenses—which the doctor knew I couldn't afford.
I went back to her hospital room, forcing a smile. But she saw through my facade immediately and told me to stop treatment—to save what money was left for my own life afterward.
I told her that if she died, what meaning would my life have?
She stroked my hair and said, "Don't be silly. Life has to go on."
A week later, she was skin and bones. She lay in the hospital bed, barely able to sit up. I knew time was running short, so I asked her—was there any last wish she wanted fulfilled?
She was extremely weak, but she still held my hand, smiling, and said, "Meeting you was my greatest wish come true. But I do have one regret—I've lived my whole life and don't even know who I am. What did my parents look like? Do I have brothers or sisters?"
I couldn't answer her. But I wanted to grant her this final wish.
I thought of the black-market dealer.
3
I withdrew every penny I had, sold everything that could be sold, and took a six-month salary advance from the machinery factory to buy a DNA capsule from the black-market dealer.
I didn't say much to her. I simply fed her the capsule and waited quietly for a miracle.
But two days passed, and she remembered nothing.
The black-market dealer who sold me the capsule had already blocked my contact. I disguised myself as another buyer to track him down again. In my fury, I nearly broke his arms and legs before he told me the truth: there was no such thing as a memory-restoration capsule. It was all fake—just ordinary vitamins.
I lost my mind and almost beat him to death, blood splattering everywhere. In that moment, I believed that I truly was a criminal.
Perhaps to save his own life, the black-market dealer told me there was actually one way to recover my memories. He lay on the ground, groaning like a dead pig. "I heard... there's a Memory Repository. All the memories that were wiped have been crystallized and stored there. If you can get your hands on your own memory crystal..."
For this information, I spared his life. Then I acquired a gun, loaded it, and tucked it into my waistband. I really felt like some notorious outlaw—leopard spots don't change, and a criminal's nature is hard to erase. When pushed to the brink, a person's true nature always resurfaces.
I went to the hospital to visit 3410 and told her I was going on a long trip. I made her promise to wait for me.
She asked weakly, "Where are you going?"
I said, "I'm going to get your memories back. I know where they're kept. Wait for me."
The Memory Repository was a highly secure facility with a formidable security system. On a dark and stormy night, I infiltrated it, breached two security doors in succession, and entered the central control room. A thrill of subverting