This person is a chatterbox, talking endlessly and giving Scott Harris a headache, making it impossible for him to make sense of the situation or come up with any solutions.

"Quiet." Just as he coldly spat out these two words, something in the pocket of his dress pants buzzed.

Scott Harris paused, reached in and pulled it out, only then remembering that when he evacuated to the cryo capsule, he had casually stuffed the communicator he was holding into his pocket.

A communicator, unlike a wristwatch, consumes more power. Even in the most energy-saving mode, lasting fifty years is already a miracle.

That buzz just now was a warning: "Low battery, shutting down soon."

He was about to just turn it off and toss it back in his pocket when he saw an unread message notification on the screen, though he had no idea when it had arrived.

Scott Harris's brow twitched immediately.

He didn't even need to check the content to guess who it was from. After all, there was only one lunatic who dared to treat his private communication channel like their own backyard.

Sure enough, the message was from the space prison:

My dear Executor, I have some earth-shattering good news for you.

I’ve broken out of prison.

——Eric Bennett-Young

Scott Harris: "......"

To hell with your earth-shattering good news.

Author’s note:

Special reminder: This story is not science fiction, there are no mechas, it’s all complete nonsense—so much so that even Einstein would be rolling in his grave. Don’t try to make sense of it, just enjoy the wild imagination and treat it as a space fantasy fairy tale. Mwah~

Note: Esther’s "Neverland"—this book does not actually exist.

Chapter 2: Dangerous Individual

If this offhand message were seen by those old geezers in the nine offices of the Security Building, they’d be lining up to pop fast-acting heart pills. If the medicine worked a bit too slowly, half of them would keel over on the spot.

Only Scott Harris, looking at these two sentences, could still stand upright.

But even he felt his vision darken, the sense of oxygen deprivation growing worse.

The space prison, exiled beyond the system for over a century, had been under the surveillance and management of Office 5 of the Security Building since its inception. It housed the most dangerous people on the planet—calling it a demon concentration camp wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Any one of them was a ticking time bomb.

And Eric Bennett-Young was the most troublesome of them all, with an explosive potential beyond estimation.

Back then, it took a full 17 years just to lock him up, and how he was finally subdued remained a mystery to the outside world.

Even locked away in space, this dangerous individual was never a peaceful inmate. Ever since he arrived, the prison had never known a quiet year. The position of Chief Executor of Office 5 became the deadliest job, with someone new taking over almost every three years.

It wasn’t until Scott Harris took over that this cursed cycle finally came to a halt.

If his predecessor hadn’t quit so quickly, there’s no way someone his age would have landed such a high position.

His face must have looked absolutely terrible by now, because Mop glanced at the finger resting on his trigger, gulped, and subtly tilted his head to the side. “You look awful. Did you get some bad news?”

Scott Harris lifted his eyelids and glanced at him. “The worst ever. Do you know about the space prison?”

Mop gave a dry laugh. “Of course, my brother is a guard there. You look like all those demons just broke out at once.”

Scott Harris shook the communicator in his hand, expressionless. “I’d rather see everyone else break out together than this.”

“……” Mop’s mouth twitched. “That sounds terrifying. Maybe we should just suffocate to death instead?”

Scott Harris said coldly, “You’re really something.”

Mop quietly reached out and pulled the little mop beside him closer. “I’ve stuck with you through this terrifying bad news, so that kind of counts as sharing hardship, right? Can you put the gun down first? We really mean no harm.”

Scott Harris holstered his gun again, and Mop immediately breathed a sigh of relief, grabbing the little mop and shuffling a few steps closer.

No wonder these two hadn’t cleaned themselves in half a year—every move they made was “fragrant,” like human-shaped biochemical weapons sent by the heavens to torment him.

The smell was so invigorating that Scott Harris’s heart skipped a beat, and he suddenly remembered—he’d forgotten to check the time the message was received.

“One more step and you can say goodbye to your toes.” Scott Harris casually waved his gun, stopping Mop from coming any closer, and lowered his gaze to swipe twice on the communicator.

On the screen, beneath Eric Bennett’s message, the time was clearly displayed: February 18, 5736.

Scott Harris closed his eyes, then opened them again: “……”

His face looked even worse.

No mistake, he hadn’t misread it—it was 36, not 63.

Wonderful. The message had been received exactly 27 years ago. Twenty-seven years—enough time to build a spaceship and fly out of the star system, for god’s sake, let alone catch anyone!

Sometimes, when things have gone so wrong that there’s no fixing them, there’s really nothing left to worry about—