The path to the basement was not easy. Ming You checked every corner, listened for sounds to make sure no one had noticed his actions.
Finally, he reached the basement and with effort opened the door, trying not to make a sound.
Ming You dragged Hee Rak into the basement, throwing him down sharply by the door. Leaving the body on the concrete floor, he took off his backpack, reached into his pocket, and pulled out gloves, pulling them onto his hands, after which he took out several rolls of thick polyethylene.
Methodically, without unnecessary movements, he covered the floor around the massive concrete pillar, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles—every crease in the film could leave unwanted traces. Then he wrapped the pillars with polyethylene; there were three of them in a row. Finishing with the pillars, he dragged Hee Rak to the prepared spot, making sure he was lying straight.
Leaning over the backpack again, Ming You took out a spool of strong synthetic rope and, approaching Hee Rak, he lifted him by the arms and moved him closer to the pillar. He began wrapping ropes around his body and the pillar. The loops lay tight—across the chest, hips, ankles—not a single chance for movement. He tightened each knot until it creaked, checking its strength.
Then Ming You raised his head and inspected the ceiling. He took wide duct tape and began sealing the joints between the slabs, the corners, the ventilation grates—everything that could retain particles, droplets, or smell. The strips overlapped, covering the slightest gaps. He worked silently, focused, as if assembling a sealed capsule.
After twenty-two minutes, the room, or rather the polyethylene box, was completely ready.
Without wasting time, Ming You knelt beside Hee Rak's backpack and quickly unzipped it. His fingers slid over the contents until they bumped against the familiar ribbed surface of a basketball.
Taking out the ball, he stood up and stepped over to the unconscious Hee Rak. Without further thought, Ming You began methodically tapping the ball against his head—not too hard to cause harm, but firmly enough to wake him. Each tap was accompanied by a quiet thud, and Hee Rak's face gradually began to wrinkle with discomfort.
Hee Rak slowly regained consciousness, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim light of the basement. Ming You stood nearby, his face cold and determined.
"Hi-hi, Hee Rak," Ming You uttered emotionlessly, throwing the ball behind his back. "If you scream," he pressed a knife to Hee Rak's lips, "I will cut out your tongue and make you swallow it, so let's talk calmly while we still can."
"What do you want?" Hee Rak tried to get up but quickly realized his arms and legs were tied. "Who are you!? You can't hold me!"
"Actually, I can," replied Ming You, not looking away. "And I have a few questions you need to answer."
Hee Rak panicked, and his eyes showed confusion.
"Please, let me go! I didn't do anything wrong and I don't know anything!"
Ming You stepped closer, his voice becoming low and threatening.
"You don't understand the position you're in. I don't just want information. I am ready to do anything for victory. And if you don't cooperate, the consequences will be less pleasant than you'd like. Like this, I can give you a chance to survive. Or you can stay silent for ten seconds and I will kill you, starting with your nails, then the phalanges, then your hands, and so on up to your head."
Ming You stepped even closer and widened his smile. Hee Rak clenched his teeth and his eyes filled with fear.
"O-okay, what do you want to know?"
"Tell me about your team and their plans, and I'd like to know how much money you can offer for your freedom." Ming You leaned even closer, his voice becoming more insistent.
"My team? Plans? So you kidnapped me because of some street basketball game?" Hee Rak asked frantically, but Ming You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer.
"I'm the only one asking questions here," he said, using the knife to tear off the nail from Hee Rak's index finger.
"AAH!!!" Hee Rak screamed with all his might, but no one except Ming You could hear him.
"You'd better not make me angry. Talk, and maybe I'll let you live." Ming You flicked the torn nail onto the polyethylene.
Hee Rak hesitated, his fear intensifying to its peak.
"I understand, I understand! I-I'll tell you. But please, please don't kill me."
Ming You thought for a moment, then said coolly:
"No one in this world is safe from death, Hee Rak. But I can hear you out."
Hee Rak swallowed anxiously and, taking a deep breath, he began to speak:
"All the team's plans depend on me; without me, they don't act. And about the money... I'm in debt myself. According to the agreement with Taek Joon and Tae Hwan, I have to play streetball with other teams, thereby covering the debts."
"I'm sorry, Hee Rak," he said, and there was not a drop of pity in his voice. "You are too useless to be left alive."
"Please, stop!" shouted Hee Rak, his voice trembling with fear. "I really can be useful to you! Just give me a chance!"
Ming You, ignoring his pleas, pulled out a kitchen knife that gleamed in the dim light of the basement. Hee Rak trembled, his eyes wide with horror.
"What a pity that you are also a debtor," Ming You said in an icy voice.
"Don't kill me!" exclaimed Hee Rak, his voice becoming pleading. "I have a family! My mother, my fath—"
Thud!
Before he could finish, Ming You, with a sharp motion, raised the knife and forcefully plunged it into his neck. The blade crunched as it cut through the skin, sank deep into the flesh, severed the artery, and stopped, barely missing the throat.
Hee Rak slowly lowered his head downwards, his blood drenching the polyethylene on the pillar he was tied to, and blood streamed down his clothes.
Blood from the artery slowly spread across the floor, forming dark, sticky puddles. Its metallic smell mixed with the dampness of the basement, creating a heavy, suffocating atmosphere. Ming You stood over the body, assessing the situation with a cold, calculating gaze.
He picked up his backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out several trash bags. Most of them were empty, rolled into tight bundles, but one was heavier than the rest. The blades of a cleaver gleamed inside, and Ming You gripped it firmly, feeling the cold metal in his palm. He placed it on the polyethylene-covered floor next to the body, preparing for work.
Without haste, he began to undress the corpse. His fingers, accustomed to precision, methodically freed the body from layers of fabric. First, the sweatpants, which slid off heavily, as if resisting. Then the gray hoodie, soaked with the smell of sweat and fear. Under it—a T-shirt, stuck to the chest, which had to be peeled away with a barely audible tearing sound.
The underwear and socks were the last. Only when a naked body lay before him did Ming You pick up the cleaver again.
His fingers closed around the handle with familiar confidence, as if the tool were an extension of his arm. He bent over Hee Rak's legs.
Running the cleaver along the skin, he began cutting through the meat until he reached the bone. The flesh parted under the pressure, revealing layers of muscle and tendon. Blood oozed thickly, mixing with the tanned skin, leaving sticky, dark smears.
The bone was a burgundy color from the blood and the chunks of flesh stuck to its surface. It seemed almost alive under the layer of scarlet fluid, but Ming You did not hesitate. After a few precise strikes, he severed the bone with a dull crunch. The severed foot fell onto the polyethylene with a thud, and he pushed it aside.
He did the same with the second leg—his movements were measured, mechanical, as if performing a long-rehearsed ritual. When the second foot was also severed, he pushed both away, leaving a bloody trail stretching across the dirty floor.
Firmly gripping the cleaver, Ming You bent lower, bracing one hand on the corpse's thigh for better leverage. The polyethylene under his feet crinkled, stretching under his weight, and the viscous blood stuck to the soles of his boots.
A sharp blow—the blade sank into the knee with a dull crack. Blood spattered slightly, spraying scarlet drops onto the polyethylene and his sleeves. A deep gash gaped on the skin, exposing the shattered kneecap with a crack, like broken glass.
He struck again—the bone gave way with a sickening crunch, the kneecap finally splitting in half, revealing the wet, pinkish tissue of the joint. A final blow—the cleaver cut through the remaining ligaments, and the shin, with a bloody trail and shreds of meat, separated from the thigh.
Ming You flung the severed part aside, where it landed heavily on the polyethylene with a wet slap, leaving a greasy blood trail. Without pausing, he moved to the second leg, squatting down for a better swing.
The exact same manipulations—a strike, a crunch, a splash of blood. His movements were honed, as if he had done this a thousand times. The second shin flew off after the first, and he was already reaching further, to the thighs, where the dense muscles required more effort.
Ming You moved close to the body, his knees sinking into the sticky polyethylene film. Adjusting his grip on the cleaver for better leverage, he drove the blade into the thigh—the skin split with a faint crunch, like an overripe fruit.
At first, the blood oozed lazily, in thick drops. But as he deepened the cut, slicing through the yellowish layer of fat and the dense muscle fibers, the scarlet liquid began to pool in the wound, overflowing and streaming down the leg onto the transparent, now stained floor.
The blade reached the bone with a dull thud. The femur—thick, matte, with rough edges—looked almost black in the basement's dim light. Ming You raised the cleaver, gauged his strike, and—
Crunch!
The first blow left a white notch on the bone. The second—a deep crack, from which a dark red ooze of bone marrow seeped. The third finished it: the thigh broke with a wet crunch, exposing jagged, sharp edges.
He flung the severed part aside, where it landed heavily on the polyethylene, spraying clots. Without even wiping his spattered face, Ming You immediately adjusted his grip on the cleaver and reached for the second thigh.
The shadow on the wall swayed in time with his movements—one-two, one-two. A heavy, sweet-metallic smell hung in the air. Something dripped somewhere. But he no longer heard it. He just chopped, and chopped, and chopped—until the body was left without legs and freed from the ropes, falling to the floor.
Ming You kicked the bloody stumps of the legs aside, and his gaze dropped to the corpse's splayed arms. The dead man's fingers trembled slightly from residual nerve impulses, as if trying to grasp something in the void.
He raised the cleaver, took aim, and with one sharp blow, sliced through the skin and tendons. The blade cut through the wrist joint, severing ligaments and cartilage with a crunching sound, like small branches breaking. The bones—the scaphoid and lunate—cracked under the pressure, exposing the spongy tissue inside. Blood gushed from the severed arteries, staining the polyethylene a deep scarlet.
Turning the forearm over, Ming You drove the blade into the bend of the elbow. The joint was stronger—the humerus, connected to the ulna and radius, resisted. The first blow only split the joint capsule, from which a little synovial fluid leaked, mixing with blood. The second blow—more precise, at an angle—shattered the olecranon, and the arm bent at an unnatural angle. The third blow finished it—the joint fell apart, leaving only flaps of skin which he cut through effortlessly.
BANG!
"Hm?"
Ming You slowly raised his gaze to the ceiling…
…
BANG! BANG!
The bullets hit him right in the forehead, and his head snapped back with an unnatural, frightening suddenness, like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut. His body, not yet receiving the signal of death, went limp and collapsed heavily to the floor. Muscles, deprived of control, lived their own convulsive life—his fingers curled, his limbs, twitching in agony, thrashed against the sticky, warm floor, tracing clumsy patterns in the scarlet muck.