The moment my knuckles gripped the anti-slip texture, the neural interface chip at the back of my neck sizzled with heat⚡️. A sour, acrid neon rain pelted the leaky dome glass of Neo-Tokyo, and I crouched inside the ventilation duct of a megacorporate bio-lab🧬, clutching this ice-blue dagger. It isn’t a sharp metal blade; its special 3D-printed polymer material evades all metal security scanners, and its pristine ice-blue blade reflects no infrared detection rays🔍. My teammate lost communication ten minutes ago—our plan was to steal back the corporate-altered underlying citizen-consciousness data—but now only this unsharpened training knife keeps me company as I slip past the patrolling mechanical hounds🐶. The curved blade fits perfectly into the sensor gap of the access lock, severing the circuitry, while the non-slip diagonal grip clings firmly to my sweaty palm💧. At the end of the corridor, in the incubation chamber, countless semi-synthetic experimental organoids float in midair; those translucent human eyes suddenly all turn toward me, locking onto the faint blue glint in my hand👁️. Suddenly I remember: this knife was a birthday gift my younger brother—kidnapped by the corporation for consciousness experiments—had 3D-printed for me. He said ice blue wouldn’t be flagged by the dark web’s traceability system; it was our exclusive stealth code🔹. Fragments of his shattered consciousness begin to surface again—the sound of his teenage laughter—and the ice-blue blade presses against my palm, its temperature slowly dropping until it’s as cold as bone marrow❄️. The green light on the access lock has already come on. Beyond the door lies the answer—or another trap?