Press Conference

"I am very pleased to represent the Bald Eagle Society in inviting you all to this press conference. Now, please ask your questions in an orderly manner."

Inside the Bald Eagle Society's branch meeting room, the front row was packed with reporters, while cameras stood in the back.

Anderson sat at the end of the long table, wearing a blue suit, his blond hair neatly combed back, and a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Hello, Manager Anderson!" A beautiful woman stood up, dressed in a red dress with exquisite makeup, looking more like a model than a reporter.

"Congratulations to the Bald Eagle Association on yesterday's resounding victory, with the stock market hitting its daily limit across the board. What are your thoughts on the stock market going forward?"

Anderson nodded slightly, as if he had rehearsed it beforehand.

"I have great confidence in our agents and technology. We will continue to use the most advanced technology in our next operation, and the stock market will naturally rise accordingly."

Anderson struck a few poses for the camera without leaving a trace, and then a series of questions came from female reporters, whose questions could almost be described as flattering.

These reporters were personally contacted and invited by Anderson, with the aim of increasing the impact of the operation and publicizing his glorious deeds.

After the female reporters finished asking their questions, a middle-aged man stood up.

"Director Anderson, first of all, congratulations on the stock price increase," he said, but there was no hint of congratulation in his tone. "However, why didn't the three agents attend the press conference yesterday? As is customary, agents who have carried out important missions will appear to receive recognition."

Anderson picked up the water bottle, unscrewed it, took a sip, and slowly put it down.

"They're in the recovery period," he said. "High-intensity tasks require recovery. That's standard procedure."

"Is complete isolation required during the recovery period?" the reporter asked. "We contacted the medical department, but we don't have their admission records."

"Recovery doesn't necessarily require hospitalization," Anderson said. "They rest in dedicated facilities. Next question."

The reporter wanted to say something more, but the microphone had already been cut off, so he had no choice but to sit down.

Another reporter stood up, speaking urgently and asking pointed questions.

"Yesterday's combat footage showed that the three operators moved at abnormal speeds, had extremely high shooting accuracy, and were able to pinpoint the locations of other operators with remarkable precision."

"Some experts believe this exceeds the limits of human physiology. Has the Bald Eagle Society used brain-computer interface technology, which is explicitly prohibited by the United Nations?"

"The absence of the three operators from this meeting, is it related to brain-computer interface usage?"

Anderson frowned, leaned forward slightly, and placed his hands folded on the table.

"The Bald Eagle Association adheres to all international conventions," he said. "Our technology is all within the legal scope. As for the performance of our agents, as I just said, it's the result of advanced training."

"How advanced is it?" the reporter asked, raising his voice slightly. "The footage shows that they barely communicated verbally. Turning, aiming, and firing—the three of them moved with a high degree of coordination. This can't be explained by training alone."

"Coordinated training can achieve a high degree of synchronization," Anderson said. "If you've ever watched synchronized swimming or aerobatic displays, you know that humans can be trained to achieve precise synchronization. Our operators are simply applying this coordination at the tactical level."

"Among the brain-computer interface projects officially banned by the United Nations, any form of 'neural direct-connect weapon system' is strictly prohibited," he read aloud.

"That is what is commonly known as 'auto-aiming'. In yesterday's footage, Operator Cole killed more than a dozen NPCs by spraying bullets into the administrative district corridor, and there was no obvious aiming action throughout the entire process."

"Does this mean you used some kind of aiming assistance system?"

"We use optical aids," Anderson said, "like the helmet-mounted sights on fighter pilots. That's legitimate visual assistance, not neural connectivity."

Anderson didn't want to continue answering this question.

"Next question."

Even after the microphone was cut off, the reporter continued to shout at the stage.

"Your behavior is practically like using cheat codes in a video game!"

The conference room fell silent.

Anderson didn't speak. He slowly leaned back in his chair, placed his hands on the armrests, and his blue eyes reflected a cold light.

"Cheat code." He repeated the word. "You mean, our operators are like cheat programs?"

"I'm not using a metaphor," the reporter said, his microphone allowed to reconnect. "I'm saying their performance went beyond advanced training or legal assistance. Some on social media have already called yesterday's action a real-life demonstration of cheating. What's your response to that?"

Anderson was silent for a few seconds, then he stood up.

"Since you're all so interested in the technology," he said, his voice clearer than before, each word sharp and distinct, "I'll explain a few more points."

"The exceptional abilities of our agents stem from the Mandel Supercomputing Unit, a revolutionary technology currently possessed only by the Bald Eagle Association! We cannot disclose the specifics, but you just need to know that this is our legitimate technology."

"Furthermore, for every operation involving the prison map, our Bald Eagle Association will utilize the corresponding technology."

"So, members from other clubs should stay away from us when the time comes, otherwise don't blame us if you get accidentally injured."

Anderson glanced at his watch.

"This press conference is now adjourned," he said. "Thank you all for coming."

He turned and walked toward the side door, and two staff members in suits immediately stepped forward, one on each side, and followed him out.

The moment the door closed, a commotion erupted in the conference room.

The reporters started talking at the same time, and the cameras turned to the empty stage. Some people were packing up their equipment, some were still arguing about the previous answers, and some had already rushed out to chase after Anderson.

Anderson walked quickly, his leather shoes making a crisp sound on the tiled floor. The two staff members couldn't keep up with his pace.

"Manager, do we need to prepare a response? A few of the questions were quite pointed..."

"No need," Anderson said. "That's enough."

"But the United Nations may have further inquiries regarding the brain-computer interface issue."

"Let them ask," Anderson said. "The documents are all ready, and they're all legal."

Anderson stepped into the elevator at the end of the corridor. When the staff tried to follow him in, he raised his hand to stop them.

I'm alone.

The elevator doors closed. His face was reflected in the mirrored elevator wall: blond hair, a blue suit, and a calm expression.

The elevator descended three floors, the doors opened, and outside was a white corridor.

Anderson walked to a metal door, performed a retinal scan, and the door slid open.

Inside is an observation room, with one entire wall made of glass, and on the other side of the glass is a white room.

There were three medical beds in the room, and three people were lying on them: John, Cole, and Miles.

They had their eyes closed, wore silver helmets, and were connected to various cables.

There was a monitor next to the bed, displaying electrocardiograms, brainwaves, and neural signal streams.

Two technicians, wearing white coats and holding tablets, stood on this side of the glass.

"How's it going?" Anderson asked.

"They're relatively stable," a technician said. "Although they didn't use the overload program yesterday, the continuous fighting still took its toll, potentially causing irreversible damage to some of their physical organs."

Anderson looked through the glass; the three people were lying motionless.

"They will participate in the mission two days from now."

The technician looked up at Anderson. "But, Supervisor Anderson..."

"I know," Anderson interrupted. "I know!"

"We have to get them to completely take control of the prison now, there's no other way! Even if they lose their minds, it'll be a contribution to the Bald Eagle Society!"