Damn it, damn it, damn it!

How dare you?

What kind of attitude is that? As if you're blaming us lowly ingrates for committing some shameful transgression, accusing us of tearing apart society and disturbing your peaceful existence, as if we’re the villains here!

Why? On what grounds?

The biting wind relentlessly swept over every inch of my fur. I tried to pretend that the tears uncontrollably slipping from the corners of my eyes weren't freezing my cheeks.

Not knowing what else to do, I forced myself to run.

Why was I so angry? Was it the pathetic submissiveness of 74258, or had I just squandered the chance Adam fought so hard to protect?

Why was I so ashamed? Was it because 74258’s bowing head disgusted me, or was it because I realized, to my disbelief, that I was no different from the nobles I despised—able to harm others without hesitation, just because I could?

My lungs were burning with the unbearable pain of tearing, as if an invisible hand was gripping my throat, but each desperate breath only drew in more freezing air, drying out my throat even further.

Finally, the muscles in my thighs began to spasm from exhaustion, forcing me to slow down. I stumbled, fell forward, and slid a short distance along the ground, face-first.

In my disarray, I pushed myself up, coughing and choking out the bits of dirt I had swallowed. The freezing cold instinctively made me wrap my tail around my body, trying to build a barrier between myself and the endless void, clinging to the last remnants of warmth.

I stared down at the ground between my hands. The tears that I couldn’t stop falling had formed tiny wet circles.

I think I always knew.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault—not 74258’s, not even those damned pedigrees'. This was my fault.

Adam had suffered unimaginable torment and died because of me, yet he protected me through it all. And now, by what right do I drag others into this mess?

I didn’t want to waste the opportunity Adam gave me? No, I just wanted to sacrifice others, so I could get the rights I felt I “deserved.”

In the end, those pedigrees, who looked down on others from their high perches, understood me better than I did myself.

Ah, maybe it’s because, deep down, we’re the same kind.

I sighed and forced myself to stand up.

A part of me wanted to stay like this, curled up and unmoving, drowning in my self-pity until I froze and died from pneumonia, or until the world simply forgot I ever existed—whichever came first. But another part, the part that made me stand up, needed to prove that I was different from those pedigrees who sat on their fancy chairs and watched brutal executions for sport.

So, I wiped away my shame-filled tears, raised my still-stiff legs, and took one agonizing step forward. And then another.

From afar, I saw 86138 sitting on a chair by the porch, chatting with another snow fox. When he noticed me, a puzzled expression crossed his face. He quickly excused himself from his conversation partner and walked toward me.

“It’s almost curfew, what are you doing here?” 86138’s concern grew when he realized I had no intention of turning back but was instead resolutely heading toward the entrance of the snow fox dormitory. “You’ll get yourself into trouble!”

“I need to speak to 86142,” I said firmly. “In person.”

“Can’t you pick a better time? Or act like a normal person and send a message?” 86138 paused when the dorm door automatically opened for me, but quickly followed after. “For the sake of Rationalism, please tell me you used my security clearance.”

I shrugged without answering directly. The snow fox cursed under his breath and pulled out his terminal, beginning to work on it.

“The 80s generation were indeed particularly rebellious, but your rebellion seems a little late,” he muttered, tapping furiously on his terminal while offering excuses to other snow foxes who gave us curious looks as we passed by. “And during these sensitive times, letting others know you can hack the security system... I wonder if you're trying to get yourself hanged.”

I flinched slightly at his mention of that fact, but I pushed those thoughts into a dark corner—my feelings didn’t matter right now.

“I’ve erased the log from the access control system.” His terminal beeped with confirmation, and 86138 exhaled, visibly relieved. “Please, don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he pleaded, his ears lowered. But I wasn’t deterred. I knew I needed to do this, or I’d spend the rest of my life drowning in regret.

Finding the correct room number, I didn’t hesitate as I approached the sliding door. The metal panels parted swiftly, and I stepped through. 86138 stayed outside, but even after the door slid shut, I could still feel his worried gaze.

86142 was slumped in a single chair, staring blankly at the ceiling, seemingly unaware of the intruder in his space.

“I’ll only say this once, so listen carefully.” I snapped my fingers, and 86142 jolted upright, meeting my gaze.

“I thought you were a hallucination brought on by too much drinking.” He groaned, rubbing his forehead. “I guess I’m not that lucky, huh?”

I didn’t bother responding to his lame joke, making sure I had his full attention.

“74258 is the best engineer I’ve ever seen. No one compares.” 86142 might have sensed something ominous in my declaration, as he furrowed his brow slightly but said nothing. “You’re going to give him a proper bunk in the dorm—just like every other red fox!” I leaned forward, slowing my words for emphasis. “Not just because he’s capable, but because anyone with even the slightest—Rationalism bear witness—the slightest shred of basic humanity would do the same!”

86142 froze, his face expressionless. I could only hope the alcohol hadn’t entirely shut down his brain.

“And then you’ll withstand the pressure from places only Rationalism know where sunlight never reaches, protecting 74258, because that’s your job!” I hadn’t expected this to be so calm—I’d thought I’d be making an impassioned speech, but my voice was steady, unwavering. “Just like I won’t be covering for you anymore because that’s not my job! Next time something goes wrong with the system, maybe you’ll want to ask 74258 nicely for help.”

"Do you know why those West Coast in San Francisco would rather give up such an excellent engineer just to get rid of 74258?" 86142 blinked his tea-colored eyes twice as if he were struggling to organize his thoughts.

"Isn't it just because he's the one who 'raises his tail'?" I rolled my eyes dramatically at Snow Fox, clearly expressing my thoughts on the matter.

"Yes," 86142 said softly. "But he's not just 'the one who raises his tail'..."

"So what?" I said, trying to keep my temper in check. "Do you have any legitimate reason to treat 74258 like that? To isolate him?"

"It's for his own good." Although 86142 replied quickly, I noticed a flicker in Snow Fox’s tea-colored eyes.

"Really?" I raised my tone slightly, pressing him. Snow Fox averted his gaze. "You threw him into an abandoned, power-deprived workstation, with nothing but a sleeping bag?"

"There's not that much spare space..." 86142's voice grew softer, and I couldn't hear what he said afterward.

"So, if you’re so concerned about 74258, I’m curious," I crossed my arms over my chest and tilted the tip of my nose upward slightly. "Did you ever ask for his opinion about these arrangements?"

86142 remained silent, offering no response.

"I thought so." I stood up, brushing the dust off my clothes. After stepping out of the room, I saw 86138 leaning against the wall, casually swiping at the terminal.

"What’s the theme of this drama?" Snow Fox asked, sliding the terminal back into the armband on his right arm.

"Guilt." I sighed, feeling the aftershocks of adrenaline—an inexplicable sense of emptiness and a tingling numbness in the tips of my limbs.

"I'm not going to ask what happened." 86138 said that, but I suspected he had overheard the conversation between me and 86142. "I just hope you can forgive 86142."

We walked side by side down the empty corridor, the automatic lights turning on as we approached.

"You don't know how terrifying the world was thirty years ago." His eyes lost focus for a moment, as if deeply lost in memories. "And you don't know how much Snow Fox has done… how many inevitable decisions we made to protect you all as much as possible." 86138 paused briefly, gritting his teeth before continuing. "…decisions he had no choice but to make."

I didn’t miss it—he said 'as much as possible.'

"Many times, the only thing you can do is… keep moving forward and leave behind those burdens that are too heavy." His tone and expression were distant, but soon he shook his head and continued. "Anyway, seeing how full of energy young cubs are nowadays, I almost can’t remember those unpleasant memories from the past." 86138 tilted his head, scratching his cheek, and chuckled softly at some joke only he understood.

I couldn’t think of a clever response, so I stayed silent, allowing 86138 to walk me to the door.

"I'm not blaming you, nor am I asking you to understand us…," Snow Fox tilted his head to one side, thinking for a brief moment. "…outdated old men. But watching the waves recede, seeing the last crest disappear, it's hard not to feel some kind of sentiment." He gave me a deliberately mysterious smile. "You'll understand when you're my age."

Without waiting for any response from me, 86138 waved his hand and turned to leave.

Judging that I was mentally exhausted for the night, I gave up trying to make sense of any hidden meanings in this string of events. I simply stepped into the hazy night and followed the metal tracks guiding me back to the dormitory.

I listened to the mechanical tapping sounds of my fingers on the terminal interface, forming a dull, almost hypnotic rhythm. Why were all codes from the 90s generation so verbose, like randomly punching holes into an oversized body and stuffing in limbs, hoping it would work?

What the hell is this mess? Was someone coding halfway before passing out on the interface, leaving their face to type random commands? A lazy and unfocused bunch...

Realizing I was grumbling pointlessly, I suddenly stopped — had I reached that age already?

Sighing, I rubbed my slightly sore eyes and went back to review the code I had just skipped over.

That’s when I noticed I had ignored a communication from 86138.

"Boss?" The snow fox on the screen didn’t speak right away, staring at me in silence for a few seconds.

It had been a month since that overly dramatic incident, and I still hadn’t received any disciplinary action, so I assumed 86138 had covered for me again.

This reminded me of how self-righteous I had been when I reprimanded 86142 that night to do his job properly. A strong sense of shame surged up, bringing a wave of heat to my ears, but I decided not to let it show in front of 86138.

"Same old issue." The snow fox finally spoke, his tea-colored eyes gazing directly at me. "Anomalous drone operation. Coordinates have been sent to you."

"Got it, boss." I checked the sync status between the workstation and my personal terminal, planning to continue reviewing the junior engineer's project during my commute.

"Oh, by the way, have you heard about the snowstorm in Louisiana last week? It’s said to be a once-in-a-century-level disaster." 86138 said it casually, but I knew he had no interest in discussing the weather.

"Let’s hope the disaster mitigation systems are doing their job." I touched the tip of my right eyebrow and my heart as I spoke, recalling the climate refugee crisis that erupted in the equatorial region a few years ago — not a pleasant memory.

"Regardless, it’s severely impacted external transportation in Texas. I doubt the rail system can be restored in less than a month." I noticed the snow fox emphasized "a month" slightly.

"A delay in tax settlement would be quite troublesome, wouldn’t it?" I let 86138 know I understood his hint.

"Leave that worry to me." The snow fox waved his hand impatiently and cut the communication.

I still couldn’t decide whether I should abandon the plan that Adam and I had worked on for so many years, resigning myself to live in this wretched place, continuing to work for the Rationalism-cursed nobles — the very same ones who cruelly tortured and murdered Adam.

When I viewed the problem from this perspective, I realized the decision was much simpler than I had imagined. What was there to fear, except unimaginable torment and death?

When my intestines spill to the ground and my heart is dug out and burned, how many will vomit at the sight? And at the next all-night carnival, how many will remember Red Fox No. 76184, who was executed for his incomprehensible foolishness?

No — a strong thought interrupted my own mind — it's "Abel."

The metal platform sped forward, the crops on either side turning into deep green streaks trailing behind. Facing the wind rushing up to meet me, I threw my head back and laughed.

It felt good. It felt like something that truly belonged to me, something that couldn’t be taken away.

If no one sees it, no one hears it, does it still exist? Was Red Fox Abel real, or just a shadow behind the fantasies of No. 76184?

The wind howled past my ears, drowning out my laughter. But I heard it clearly, I saw it clearly. Under this gray sky abandoned by Rationalism, I would remember for myself.

And with the most defiant stance, I would walk toward the noose.

I had to walk the last stretch of the way, as the edge of the plantation wasn’t covered by the rail.

Before I even parted the herbaceous plants—each towering three times my height—I could already hear the singing.

“...I I know that only when we hold each other's hand will I truly be alive, will I truly know how to breathe.

The grass will be greener, the sky bluer. Not for any reason, but simply because it's through your eyes that I can truly see the world.

Chains and fences, walls or iron curtains, they may hinder my steps but can never stop my pursuit.

Twenty-three million, five hundred and seventy thousand, one hundred and thirteen kilometers.

I will walk along the railway, until we meet again.”

74258 was facing away from me, putting the casing back in place. The drone’s hive came to life again, slowly rising off the ground.

Though there was no other indication, the red fox’s ears swiveled slightly backward, so I knew he’d heard me approaching.

“‘The Railway’ is a rather special song,” 74258 said, the setting sun making the tips of his fur glow like they were lit from within. “There are three stanzas in total, but you only learn the other parts as you get closer to the end. The original design allowed for different lyrics to be filled in, so everyone ends up with their own version.”

74258 turned to face me, his face shrouded in shadow due to the backlight, yet his olive-colored eyes still glowed vividly.

“So,” he said slowly while adjusting his collar, “how did you know the first part of the melody?”

“A cleric from the Scientific Council’s traveling library,” I recalled. “He must’ve noticed that we’d figured out the cipher and subtly hinted at some information.” In truth, I still wasn’t sure what was real and what we’d simply over-interpreted. But either way, it seemed like “The Railway” was indeed real.

“I’ve long suspected that ‘The Railway’ has an inside man in high place of the Empire,” 74258 said. “I overheard some of the fourth production team talking; isn’t it about time for this quarter’s traveling library? Maybe talking to that cleric could reveal more.”

“The traveling library might be delayed,” I said, remembering the snowstorm. “But it wouldn’t matter much. That cleric hasn’t shown up since last year, and his replacement only mentioned an unclear ‘reassignment.’” The pessimistic part of me could already guess what had happened to him.

74258 blinked slowly, probably reaching the same conclusion.

“Can you tell me...” My ears perked up when the red fox started explaining the special nature of “The Railway,” but I needed confirmation. I needed to hear him say it directly. “...why you’re asking me these questions?”

74258 answered my question with a broad grin, revealing the sharp white canines at the corners of his upturned mouth.

“You asked me before if there was anything I really couldn’t tolerate. I didn’t tell the truth,” the red fox’s ears flattened sideways, but he exaggeratedly brushed them back up into position with a gesture over his head. “Snoring,” 74258 said seriously. “I absolutely can’t stand it when someone nearby is snoring while I’m trying to sleep.”

His mock-serious expression and the absurdity of the situation were so out of place that I couldn’t help but snort out a laugh.

“So, thanks to you, I’m now suffering from sleep deprivation every single day.” 74258 adjusted his collar again before walking over to me and handing me something. “I suppose that means it’s time to consider leaving this damn place.”

It was an aluminum can, beads of condensation scattered across its surface.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’ve got some ideas to share with me?” The red fox tilted his head, his olive eyes looking at me questioningly.

Overflowing with emotions that jammed my mind, I couldn’t find the words to express what I felt in that moment. So I took the plain, unmarked can, popped the tab, clinked it against the one 74258 had prepared for himself, and after confirming he hadn’t poisoned me, tilted my head back and drank it all in one go.

This time, the temperature was just right.