A2-07 Iron Will

You stand before the mirror for a long time.

You tell yourself: you can do this. You must do this.

You recall Wade's words — "Hesitation equals surrender." You recall Luo Ji's sixty-two years — one man standing against an entire civilization. You tell yourself: if Luo Ji could do it, so can you.

You draw a line in your mind: if the Trisolarans attack, you press the button. Not "might press." Not "depending on circumstances." Will press.

You are going to turn yourself into a machine.

You repeat the logic to yourself over and over: pressing the button isn't destroying the world — it's maintaining deterrence. As long as the Trisolarans believe you will press it, they won't attack. Successful deterrence = the button never needs to be pressed. So, in order to never need to press it, you must be prepared to press it at any moment.

The logic is perfect. Cold. Pure.

But it requires you to shut off certain things inside yourself.

The next morning. The handover ceremony.

You put on the deep blue suit the UN has prepared. No jewelry, no adornments — as austere as a military uniform.

The ceremony takes place in the central hall of the United Nations building. Billions watch through the global broadcast.

Luo Ji emerges from the underground bunker — this is the first time in sixty-two years that he has walked to the surface. Sunlight falls on his white hair; he squints, like an old beast emerging from its cave.

He walks toward you. You walk toward him.

When the distance between you closes to one meter, Luo Ji stops. He looks at you — his gaze holds scrutiny, compassion, and a trace of something you cannot read.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready," you say. Your voice does not tremble.

He takes a small metal device from his pocket — the portable terminal for the button. He places it in your palm.

The device is much lighter than you imagined. And much colder.

Luo Ji's hand lingers on your palm for a second. He says, in a voice only you can hear:

"Don't hesitate."

Then he lets go, turns, and walks into the sunlight.

Sixty-two years of vigil, ended.

You grip the device and walk toward the elevator to the underground bunker.

Your back is ramrod straight. Your stride is firm. In your mind, you repeat the mantra: I will press it. I will press it. I will press it.

The elevator doors close. Descent.

What you don't know is — at the very moment you step into the elevator, four light-years away, the Trisolaran world reaches its judgment:

She will not press it.