A3-07 Lowering Your Hands

You do not press the button.

Perhaps out of kindness. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps because in the final moment you thought of those children, those families, those ordinary people strolling through city parks — and you could not become the one who destroyed them with your own hand.

Perhaps — the reason you dare not admit — you simply could not imagine how you would live with yourself after pressing it.

Whatever the reason, your hand slowly drops.

The countdown reaches zero.

On the screen, the first droplet strikes the Asian gravitational wave antenna.

The footage is captured from an orbital satellite. That vast facility spanning several square kilometers — one of humanity's most precise and expensive engineering achievements — is pierced through the center by a droplet less than half a meter long. The droplet's speed is beyond what the human eye can track — the screen shows a single flash, then the antenna's central tower disintegrates in an instant.

The shockwave radiates outward in concentric circles, and the antenna's ring array collapses like dominoes.

Thirty seconds later, the North American antenna is struck by a second droplet.

One minute later, the European antenna is destroyed by a third.

The entire gravitational wave broadcast system is destroyed.

The button in your hand has become a useless plastic shell. It no longer connects to anything.

Your deterrence — humanity's deterrence against Trisolaran civilization — has collapsed in your silence.

What follows unfolds like a nightmare.

The Trisolaran Fleet stops decelerating. They even accelerate — not the main fleet, but the droplets. Dozens of droplets detach from the fleet and hurtle toward Earth at near-light speed.

Humanity's space defense forces — already inferior to the Trisolarans — are meaningless without deterrence. The droplets can breach any defense line with ease.

The Earth Federal Government issues an emergency broadcast:

"Attention all of humanity. Trisolaran civilization has launched a full-scale invasion. All regions are to implement doomsday protocols..."

But no "doomsday protocol" can address this situation.

In the moment you chose not to press the button, humanity's fate was sealed.

You stand in the chamber. The button still sits on the table, cold and useless.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you do something strange — you pick up the button device from the table and slip it into your pocket. You don't know why. Perhaps to remember this moment. Perhaps to punish yourself — to let this useless button follow you forever, reminding you: you could have pressed it.

The door is pushed open. Security personnel rush in.

"Ms. Cheng Xin, we need to evacuate immediately. Trisolaran droplets are expected to reach Earth orbit within two hours."

You are taken away. Like a prisoner. Like a discarded tool.