Copy & Paste Power in Modern World

Adam left the old lab and did not look back.

By the time he reached the road and boarded a bus, his mind was no longer on Kenji’s complaint. It had shifted somewhere more important.

The old-man disguise.

He had been using it too much.

That thought settled deeper with every passing minute.

It was not because Adam suddenly knew Bruno was still alive or because he sensed some immediate danger from that side. As far as Adam was concerned, that part was already over. He was not thinking about Bruno much at all now.

This was a different kind of problem.

The more he used one fixed disguise, the more dangerous that disguise became. Even a low chance was still a chance. And if enough people kept seeing the same old man moving between the same places, then one small thread could become a trail.

Adam sat by the window and watched the city slide past.

’I have to abandon this role, or at least bury it deep.’ Adam thought.

The old-man face had served its purpose. It had helped him reach Kenji. It had helped him reach Shinju. It had helped him move without exposing his real face. But now the same disguise was turning into a backbone risk. If anyone ever caught hold of that identity, then they would not just gain a fake face. They could eventually reach the people and places tied to it.

Adam would not allow that.

Most people in the city still did not know that disguise. In truth, only a very small circle had seen it clearly, and even for them Adam already had ideas in mind.

Still, repeating it further would be stupid.

By the time he reached home, his decision had settled.

He entered the apartment, locked the door, and changed out of the old-man disguise first. Wig off. Facial layers cleaned away. Extra folds removed. Hair adjusted back. When he finally looked like himself again, he stood in silence for a few seconds.

Even then, he did not feel safe.

His real face was not something he wanted on the street too often either. If John’s people somehow found his address, then too many things would slip out of Adam’s control at once. And if they left his control now, putting them back together would become far harder.

So after changing clothes, Adam put on a mask, lowered his cap, and left again.

This time he went to an internet cafe.

The place smelled of plastic, dust, cheap coffee, and warm machines. Rows of old monitors glowed in dim booths while keyboard sounds rattled through the room like steady rain.

Adam paid for a terminal, sat down in the corner, and opened the same ordering site he had used earlier.

He checked the tracking page.

Dispatched days ago.

Transferred through the regional freight channel.

Arrived at district holding branch.

Ready for collection.

Adam stared at the status for a moment and exhaled slowly.

Good.

He logged out, left the cafe, and headed somewhere else first.

This time he did not return to the original disguise shop. Instead, he chose another small place in a different alley, a cramped makeup shop tucked between a shuttered repair stall and a cheap tailoring room. He had already prepared for this. On the way there, he had bought a magazine from a roadside stall and torn out the page he needed.

Inside, he placed the photograph on the counter, then set down the money before anyone asked unnecessary questions.

"Make me look like this general type," he said.

The workers said very little. That suited him.

They tied back his slightly long hair, covered it, and settled a wig over it that gave him the look of shorter, neater hair. Then they worked on his face, building a middle-aged structure over his real features. By the time they were done, Adam no longer looked like a young expelled student. He looked like an ordinary middle-aged man no one would remember twice.

He paid, said nothing more, and left.

From there he went straight to the district holding branch.

The branch sat near a freight lane behind a row of supply shops, half office and half storage unit. A bored clerk sat behind reinforced glass while sealed parcels moved in and out through a side opening where two workers handled tagged crates and cartons.

Adam stepped up to the counter and slid over the pickup slip.

The clerk checked the code, then looked at him. "Identification?"

Adam had expected that.

He slid over the matching collection paper and kept his tone calm. "Private order. Paid already."

The clerk looked at the paper again, then yelled the reference number toward the back.

One of the workers disappeared into the storage area.

While waiting, Adam placed a little extra cash on the counter with two fingers.

Not enough to look dramatic.

Just enough to smooth the process.

The clerk glanced down, then quietly pulled the money out of sight.

A minute later, the worker returned carrying a sealed box with printed handling labels across the top and sides.

The box changed hands without more trouble.

Adam took it, gave a small nod, and left immediately.

He did not open it outside.

He carried it all the way home in his middle-aged disguise, locked the apartment behind him, and set the box on the floor.

Only then did he kneel, cut the seal, and open it.

Inside were chips, a lot of them and different kinds.

Small ones. Larger ones. Thin packaged ones. Broader framed ones. Fresh stock in multiple types, all packed in rows inside protective layers. Some were still sealed in anti-static sleeves, while others sat inside labeled trays that showed clear batch marks, voltage notes, and factory packaging codes.

Adam looked down at the box in silence.