No matter what, all he could do was settle in and make the best of it.
After spending several days on edge, Ke Ming finally managed to calm down.
At least this is a second chance. If I can help it, I don't want to live like a coward again.
That was what he used to steel himself.
As for this world, Ke Ming didn't actually know much.
Work had been brutal in his previous life. After buying a game from some company people jokingly called "Banana Lockhead," he'd only skimmed a bit of the plot online—then played it like a pure management sim.
He had a vague grasp of the setting.
Not much more than that.
From the looks of it, our family should be living in a Nest.
Ke Ming stared out the window. All he could see was the distant sky, smothered by thick smog.
The Nest is one of the few places in the City that can be called "safe." At least you don't have to worry about losing your head for no reason one day.
But which Wing's Nest is it? The environment's a lot worse than I imagined… still, it's been this long and nothing's suddenly exploded. If you just want to live quietly, it should be possible.
He thought of the last time his father came home—hideously wounded, shirt torn to rags—and clicked his tongue.
Yeah. As long as I don't end up in a high-risk job like being a Fixer, I'll be fine.
…
That was how they lived: not wealthy, but at least never short on food or clothing.
Years passed. Ke Ming integrated into the family surprisingly well.
Having an adult soul made it hard to pretend to be a simple child—but he'd clawed his way through society for years. Acting like a precocious kid was easy.
His parents didn't fuss over it. Visitors, though, often spared him a second look.
Strangely enough, his father shared the same surname as in his previous life: Ke—just a single-character name. His mother was called Jiela, a perfectly normal Western name.
When it came time to name him, a woman in purple—some aunt, some relative, someone from the family's circle—stared at him for a long time with an amused smile. Ke Ming nearly thought she'd seen right through him.
It's too much of a coincidence… the exact same name as my previous life. Like…
Like I really did get to live again.
…
For reasons he couldn't explain, his parents never took him out. Even the windows were always locked. The only way he could peek at the world was through their descriptions.
"Sigh. So busy. Those little brats in Second Section always shove a pile of work to the very last minute, and only come crying to us when they're completely out of options."
His father said things like that often.
"Can't you refuse even once? Overtime, overtime—coming home at eleven or midnight every night. One day you'll get stuck on a midnight job and won't come back at all, and I'll be a widow in everything but name."
His mother would scold him with a stiff face.
And yet, whenever his father's coworkers came over to eat and drink, she still laid out a full table of dishes and hosted them carefully.
"Please take good care of my idiot," she would say. "I don't know how he's survived this long. He's careless all day, always trying to help whoever he meets. One day he'll get himself killed and won't even realize it."
His father only laughed, cheerfully urging everyone to drink.
"I'm telling you—Third Section might not match First Section's combat freaks in raw strength, but our connections? Solid as steel!"
He'd thump his chest and raise his cup high.
"Those Colors—who wouldn't give me face?"
"Then we'll all be relying on you, Chief."
"When you strike it big, don't forget your brothers."
"Drink, drink!"
Of course, understanding the City through the adults at home was nowhere near enough.
If you wanted to survive, you needed information.
That rule didn't change anywhere.
A few days earlier, while his mother cooked, Ke Ming had quietly slipped to the window, dragged over a chair, and tried to climb up for a look outside.
At three or four years old, he was barely a meter tall. Standing on tiptoe atop the chair, he stretched his arm and tried to reach the window latch.
Through the glass, he looked out.
They lived on the third floor, right by the road.
The sky wasn't exactly gloomy, but under the blanket of haze it still looked dim. Thin clouds half-veiled the sun, draping it in a gauzy film.
Farther out, the smoke drew a sharp boundary line, slicing the street into two. One side was swallowed by thick smog; the other was covered only by a thin mist.
Scattered pedestrians moved through it, all covering their mouths and noses, hurrying past.
Within the dense smoke, shadows shifted—barely visible.
Then, suddenly, the smog churned like boiling water.
A man in his twenties stumbled out of the fog, panic written all over his face.
He sprinted forward, glancing back again and again as if something was chasing him—yet no matter how hard he ran, the smoke seemed to turn solid, slowing him bit by bit.
He grew slower. Slower.
Like an insect trapped in amber, gradually freezing into place.
The man's expression tightened—and he stopped completely.
His left shoulder was raised. His right hand reached forward as if trying to touch something. Left leg back, right leg stepping out, locked in a grotesque running pose. His mouth hung slightly open.
In the next instant, a gelatinous mass—green sludge mixed with blood—erupted from his mouth.
The surrounding fog rolled in like a predator catching the scent of blood, surging around him and swallowing him whole.
Ke Ming jerked in shock. His foot slipped.
His body tilted—and he fell off the chair, landing hard on his backside.
The screech of the chair scraping the floor startled his young mother. She rushed over, scooped him up, and felt him over left and right, terrified he'd hurt himself.
"What happened? Why were you so careless?"
"Ghk—urk—"
Stomach acid surged up Ke Ming's throat. The sheer violence of what he'd just seen slammed into his mind.
He gagged and retched for a long while, drool hanging at the corner of his mouth.
His mother glanced at the chair, then patted his back gently, rubbing his hair with a pained tenderness.
What the hell was that?
A living person… just died like that.
The man's final moment replayed over and over in Ke Ming's head.
He remembered his own death—the train rushing past, cleanly taking his life. There hadn't been much pain. Not much torment.
But that green gelatin…
Suffocating to death…
No matter how he thought about it, it sounded like torture.
"Good boy. Not yet," his mother murmured. "It's too dangerous outside."
She looked toward the window. The thick smoke moved like it was alive, rolling and tumbling in the air with a sick, playful energy.
"When you're older," she promised softly, "Mom will take you to the workshop to play."
As if sealing the vow, she took his small hand and held it tightly.
But…
After that day, his father nailed the window shut.
-------
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