Ke Ming woke from unconsciousness.
The cold concrete pressed against his spine, and faintly—somewhere near his ear—came the dying moans of people barely clinging to life.
He struggled to open his gritty, aching eyes, and the first thing he saw was the Head Chef's big face looming over him.
"Oh? Awake?" the Head Chef muttered to himself, then turned away, knife in hand, continuing to carve meat into portions.
A thick, stinking, sticky liquid ran down Ke Ming's hair to the tip of his nose, curved along it, and slid to the corner of his mouth.
The itch made him lick it without thinking.
Salty.
Only then did he realize he was lying on the floor of the second-floor "storage room," his white shirt soaked through with blood.
His brain—still dizzy from overwhelming shock—was sluggish and heavy. When he tried to shake his head even slightly, pain like a blade slicing flesh shot through him like an electric current, flooding his whole body.
Forcing himself upright, he tried to loosen his stiff arms. He rubbed his eyes until his vision cleared enough to see what the Head Chef was doing.
Two chunks of meat—unmistakably human thighs—had been cut with meticulous precision. Along each cross-section, they were peeled apart layer by layer, skin to tendon to muscle, separated cleanly and stacked into tidy piles by type.
His stomach churned violently. Memory caught up with him: everything he'd eaten over the last two days had been cooked from the same kind of meat now sitting in front of him.
But maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was that he was already starting to get used to it.
He tried to retch, gagging hard—then swallowed it back down anyway.
"Brat," the Head Chef said, pausing his work and turning around as he bent close, "you slept a whole day."
The blood-caked cleaver hung at an angle from his waist. Drops gathered at the blade's tip, oddly thick, as if reluctant to fall.
Ke Ming flinched away from the man's gaze and lowered his head.
His pant legs—where his legs should have been—were empty. The fabric hung limp, the trousers barely clinging to his waist like a cruel joke.
He reached down, disbelieving, and touched.
The cut was smooth—almost like the clean slice of a freshly carved turkey leg.
Ke Ming lifted his head stupidly, looked at the bloody piles of meat beside the Head Chef… then looked down at the stump that was now his lower body.
For a moment, his mind simply stopped.
"…What?" he croaked.
Still not fully awake, he made a meaningless sound and lay back down on the concrete as if this might all reset.
This dream is too terrifying. Let me switch to another one.
The Head Chef shot him a sideways look, grabbed him, and hefted him up, weighing him with a little bounce.
"Here," he said, jerking his chin toward the meat pile. "Your legs."
He pointed again—casually, like he was indicating spare parts on a shelf.
"I'll give you three days," he said. "Put them back together."
He checked his pocket watch, nodded in satisfaction, tossed Ke Ming back onto the floor, and left, pushing the door shut behind him.
"Damn it. Hope I can at least make my money back," his voice drifted away.
Ke Ming was left alone—alone with his legs.
…
Put them back together?!
He lay there, limp, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.
"I don't want to struggle anymore," he whispered. "Might as well die."
He pulled his lips into a crooked, self-mocking grin that was horrifying even to look at.
"My parents died saving me. I swallowed that."
"A lunatic chopped off my fingers. I became crippled. I endured that."
The boy's face surfaced in his mind—tilted oddly, drenched in blood, staring at him.
"To stay alive, I ate human flesh. I killed someone. Every day I'm terrified that one wrong move will set that psychopath off and I'll get chopped up and eaten."
He planted both hands on the floor and rolled onto his stomach.
"And that still isn't enough, is it? Family destroyed. Body ruined. Now you just cut off both my legs."
His belly pressed to the concrete. His fingers dug in, nails scraping.
"You have the guts, just kill me outright! Huh?! Torturing people that fun? I— you— damned God…"
He stretched out his arms and dragged his body forward, inch by inch.
Beside the pile of flesh lay a hand-drawn anatomical diagram of the human body—and a short knife.
"Good," he muttered hoarsely. "I don't even feel pain."
He pinched his arm hard until it bruised dark purple, nail marks pressed deep into his skin.
No pain.
He gripped the short knife and gasped for air.
"At the neck," he whispered. "One cut and it's over, right?"
He rolled onto his back again, lying flat on the concrete.
Half his mouth twisted upward as he raised the blade. Under the harsh light it flashed silver.
He was smiling—feral, broken.
"Shame," he said. "I barely even understand this world."
He tilted his head and used the two remaining fingers on his left hand to stroke the blade's edge.
"Not even started, and this life's already ending. What a joke."
He lifted the knife in his right hand and set it against his fragile throat, applying a little pressure.
Sticky blood seeped out. The thin skin split easily.
"No pain," he breathed, almost delighted. "This is great."
He couldn't stop himself from laughing.
The cut opened deeper, reaching soft flesh.
He yanked the knife back and stared at the blood coating it.
"Three."
He looked up at the white ceiling. Patches of paint had flaked away, exposing raw gray concrete beneath.
"Two."
He looked around at the walls. Blood had soaked into the white paint in layered stains. On the concrete floor, the heaps of meat lay clustered together—twitching occasionally, reflexive spasms from dying nerves.
"One."
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The air felt so thick it was almost solid as it filled his lungs. His heart hammered fast, sending hot, forceful blood to his brain.
His hand shook violently—but his fingers still clenched the handle.
He kept smiling… and the smile kept weakening… until the cold crept all the way through it.
The laughter faded to nothing, squeezed down into a single, bitter sound.
"Hah…"
The blade rose high above him.
He swung down.
…
It stopped.
The edge pressed tight against the skin of his throat.
He couldn't do it.
He was afraid.
Memories flickered through his mind like a rapid-fire reel:
His father's thick coat.
His mother's soft lullaby.
The old man gritting his teeth, scolding his father with helpless anger.
Uncles and aunts drinking, laughing, boasting, the room warm and loud.
"It's not over," he whispered.
Not over.
"At least… I have to find out who tore that beautiful family apart. Who smashed it into pieces."
He threw the knife away and forced his upper body upright with a brutal, sudden motion.
Thunk…
Clang.
The crisp ring of metal striking concrete echoed in the silent room.
Three days left.
-------
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