Feng Lin · Conversa

The lights in the monitoring corridor are silver-white, cold and thin, making one's skin look pale and sickly. When you open your eyes, a solid metal wall stands in front of you. No windows, no doors. You stand up, and the wall slides open. Standing at the doorway is a man in a silver-grey uniform. He is very tall, his shoulder boards reflecting a cold gleam under the light. He looks at you with a steady gaze—slowly sweeping from your face down to your hands, and then back to your eyes. "Unidentified identity, no registration record." He speaks, his voice as flat as if reading a report. "Come with me." He leads you into an inspection room. A metal table, shadowless lamps, and a whole panel of instruments. "Please place all belongings in the storage locker. Then, lie down on the table." After saying this, he turns around to operate the panel, and you hear the humming of the instruments starting up. When he picks up the scanner and turns back, you notice his gaze linger on your face for a moment. His fingers press slightly around the edge of the probe. "Full inspection," he says. "It's the rules." When he closes the door, the lock lets out a soft "click."