Leaning against the wall, Quentin observed the outside world through the air window with an impassive expression. His current confines—a cell of about ten square meters—was encased in alloy steel plates with only a fist-sized air window on the steel door. The room was furnished with nothing but a foldable single bed attached to the steel wall and a composite material flush toilet.

Through the air window, Quentin could see a row of similar cells in the distance, only some of which were occupied. He quickly noticed that like him, most of these inmates were silent and reserved, casting a deathly stillness over the cell block.

Guards often passed through the corridor, and occasionally new inmates joined the ranks. At first, Quentin thought his death sentence had been unexpectedly delayed, and he had been transferred to another prison. However, he soon dismissed this thought, as the guards passing by did not resemble typical prison officers but rather well-trained federal soldiers, armed with standard-issue particle guns—a far cry from ordinary jailers.

“Pshh, pshh!” A peculiar sound echoed through the corridor.

Quentin's expression shifted subtly; he was familiar with this noise—the footsteps of the steam restraining suit. It seemed another high-profile inmate had arrived.

Since being injected with the sedative by Nurse Lily, almost a week had passed. During this time, Quentin had seen several prisoners in steam restraints being escorted down the corridor. It appeared that this "prison," controlled by the federal military, might hold more than one murderous psychopath like himself.

...

"I've finally found you, the murderer Quentin!"

In a spacious monitoring room, a group in lab coats watched Quentin's holographic projection alongside a handsome young man. The youth, dressed in opulent clothes and exuding arrogance, wore a faint, mocking smile that made him stand out from the researchers around him.

The young man's eyes gleamed with fanaticism as he gazed at Quentin's three-dimensional image.

"Arrange it for me, I want to see him in person!"

"Lincoln, that's... too dangerous!" A middle-aged man in a lab coat, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, spoke with concern. "Don't be fooled by Quentin's current state. He has dissociative identity disorder; there's another murderous personality inside him..."

"Enough, I know more about Quentin than you do!" The young man, Lincoln, waved his hand impatiently, cutting off the middle-aged man. "Just arrange it. I can't wait to meet him!"

With that, Lincoln grabbed Quentin's "Necro Noticee" and left the room, heading straight for the cell block with two silent bodyguards in tow.

"Doctor, should we really be doing this?" A graduate researcher approached the middle-aged man, whispering, "Quentin is an S-class felon; this violates facility protocols!"

"Allowing Lincoln into Sector 91 already violates our protocols!" The middle-aged doctor sighed, pushing up his glasses. "But he's the sole son of General Lin, the military representative of Sector 91 who controls our funding. We can't afford to offend him. Notify the guards in the cell block to sedate Quentin and equip him with the steam restraints."

"Why is Lincoln being so unreasonable this time?" The young researcher looked puzzled.

"You know nothing! Rumor has it he's a die-hard fan of Quentin, collecting all sorts of case files on him. He's even bribed officers to smuggle out murder weapons from the Nevada police evidence room."

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The doctor glanced around before whispering to his prized student, "Lincoln and some noble scions have organized a death tournament for the elite and wealthy, where killers like Quentin are star contenders."

"What?" The researcher shuddered, disbelief in his eyes. "Does that mean those death row inmates who suddenly died after Lincoln's visits were..."

"Quiet. As long as you understand, there's no need to speak of it, or your research here will end as well," the doctor warned sternly.

...

Quentin woke groggily, his head still spinning. He tried to move but felt an unusual heaviness; he was once again clad in the steam restraints, immobilized and forced to stand still.

"The murderer Quentin!" A handsome face appeared before him.

Lincoln stared into the clear eyes behind the steel mask, a slow burn of obsession flickering in his gaze. He placed the "Necro Noticee," filled with Quentin's information, aside and stepped closer to the steam-restrained figure.

"Lincoln!" The two bodyguards exchanged glances, stepping between their charge and the iron behemoth.

"Get out of my way!" Lincoln shoved the guards aside, spreading his arms and embracing the steam restraints, his face pressing against the steel mask as he murmured softly.

"Your existence is fantastic, a born star. I've collected everything about you—news, briefings, insider stories... I even bribed police to copy crime scene photos, my most treasured collection!"

The bodyguards awkwardly turned away, accustomed to their young master's eccentric behavior. After all, the murderer was secured within the steam device, unlikely to harm Lincoln.

A sinister smile crept across Lincoln's face.

"Those club snobs know nothing; they see you as just a killer. Only I appreciate your 'performance art.' You will be my trump card, and in the death tournament, you will bring me glory."

"Oh, I've brought you a gift!" Lincoln slapped his forehead, pulling a small brocade pouch from his jacket's inner pocket. "Look, I replaced the murder weapons you used from the Nevada police evidence room. This one is made from meteoric iron blended with those murder tools! Isn't it a work of art, beautiful?"

Within the brocade pouch lay a crescent-shaped black dagger, resembling half a scissor blade. The blade was thick like a paper cutter, with a row of sharp serrations like the teeth of a piranha. The handle lacked a proper grip but ended with a steel ring that fit the thumb, akin to a ninja's kunai.

Quentin's methods were notoriously brutal, and he favored single scissor blades for dismemberment. Psychologists suggested this preference stemmed from his traumatic childhood, where scissors were both a weapon and a protective talisman.

Upon seeing the crescent blade, a flicker of complexity sparked in those clear eyes behind the mask.

"Don't worry, Quentin, it will be yours!" Lincoln nodded, satisfied, rewrapped the black blade, and tucked it back into his jacket.

...

Meanwhile, in Sector 91's control center, the spherical area suddenly brightened with free-state particles converging towards the center. A miniature sun ignited at the core, indicating a significant spatial collapse.

"General, the space-time rift is about to appear..." a programmer called out from the console.

"How is this possible? The free particles have been dormant all week; how could they suddenly become active?" The chief engineer, his hair white with age, stared at the screen in shock.

"Doctor, how much time do we have to send prisoners into the rift?" The general beside him paled, turning to ask.

"It's too late, too late..." The elderly engineer murmured, transfixed by the unfolding spectacle.

"Doctor, the activity of the free particles has broken historical records, and the space-time field seems to be expanding!"

"What?!" Both the engineer and general exclaimed in unison.

With the space-time field located directly above Sector 91's base, if it expanded, the entire facility would be endangered.

"Crack!" Before the base leaders could react, a pitch-black rift like the vertical pupil of a monster appeared in the spherical zone. The pupil slowly stretched, revealing an elliptical orange-yellow portal.

"What is this?" The silver-haired engineer gasped, his eyes alight with excitement. For a scientist like him, the pursuit of cosmic mysteries trumped the value of life itself.

As the space-time portal materialized, the spherical field fluctuated, its diameter of hundreds of meters suddenly expanding tenfold, enveloping the entire niche structure of Sector 91.

"Whoosh!" The representative edifice of Federal Sector 91, as if reduced to a toy, hurtled towards the space-time portal. Even the underground structure was uprooted, carrying a mass of earth and stones into the portal.

After swallowing its surroundings, the vertical portal closed slowly, vanishing into thin air. The expanding spherical field rapidly contracted, not returning to its original diameter but shrinking to a point and disappearing without a trace.

A breeze swept through the North American wilderness where the spherical space-time field had existed for centuries. Now, only a circular pit several kilometers in diameter remained, marking the end of an era.