A blade-cold killing intent jolted Ke Ming awake.
A butcher's cleaver rested against his throat—its edge carved with deep brown stains, giving off a faint, metallic stench of old blood.
The man in front of him wore an immaculate chef's uniform. The tall chef's hat, however, had been replaced by a bizarre white, lace-trimmed bowler. One sleeve was rolled up, revealing a forearm built from years of work; his fingers were thick, callused, and blunt.
Forty-something. Middle-aged. Looks like a cook.
What the hell is going on…?
Cold sweat broke out across Ke Ming's back.
"B-Bro… we can talk—p-please, don't… don't kill me."
He shrank his neck back in panic, crossing his short arms over his chest, trying to shield the most fragile part of himself.
"Oh?" The chef sounded amused. "You've got a sharp tongue for a little brat."
A soft thud.
A spike of pain ripped through Ke Ming's hand—followed by the tiny sound of something falling to the floor. He saw the chef flick his wrist, the cleaver flashing in a neat, casual flourish, then bend down to pick something up.
"Crunch… crunch…"
The sound was stomach-turning—bone cracking between teeth.
The chef straightened, brows drawn tight. Bloodwater mixed with minced meat seeped from the corner of his mouth.
"Ptoo."
He spat what he'd been chewing—disgustedly—right onto Ke Ming's chest.
A lump of pulped flesh mixed with bone grit and saliva.
Ke Ming stared at the mess on him, dazed, as the pain in his left hand finally caught up with reality.
He raised it.
His thumb had been severed clean through.
Pale bone stared back at him, still clinging with a few strands of tissue. Blood poured out uncontrollably.
"AAAAAAAH—!"
Terror widened his eyes. He kicked wildly against the bed, toes clawing at the sheets, body convulsing as the agony surged into his brain.
Warm liquid streamed down his arm and soaked his sleeve.
The shock was too much—his bladder gave out, and the center of his pants darkened.
"Tsk, tsk. Thought the meat would be decent," the chef clicked his tongue, grinning as he watched Ke Ming thrash. "What a loss. I figured those iron junkers—the Masks—would at least deliver good stock."
He muttered to himself, wiped the cleaver on Ke Ming's clothes, and shook the blood from his wrist.
"Figures. A bunch of idiots with nothing but head meat wouldn't understand food."
He sounded almost genuinely disappointed.
"Even with seasoning, you can't cover that filthy reek. Shame. Nest meat, too—I thought it'd be fresher. Guess sashimi's off the table."
Ke Ming's pupils contracted. The instinct to live was so violent it became a physical force. He thrust his good hand out.
"I… I've worked… in a kitchen—"
The cleaver flashed.
"AAAAAAAH!"
His index finger was chopped off.
"Liars don't make good ingredients," the chef said flatly. "What kitchen would hire a kid your size?"
Then he waved his hand as if brushing away a minor inconvenience, set the cleaver down, and wiped it again on the hem of his clothes.
"Whatever. I'm short a runner. Get up."
What… kind of lunatic…?
Ke Ming's brain short-circuited under the overload. A frantic, irrational joy—survival—forced him upright.
So I'm… spared…?
The chef rummaged through a cabinet at the foot of the bed and pulled out a roll of bandages.
"Make do. As long as you don't die, it's fine."
He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, grabbed Ke Ming's left hand with rough impatience, and wrapped the wound.
And then—unexpectedly—a faint warmth spread from the bandaged stump. The dizziness from blood loss eased far too quickly, as if something inside him had been forced to settle.
The chef looked at Ke Ming's left hand—now wrapped into a round, bulbous bundle—and nodded in satisfaction.
"Out the door, right. Wash up and come to the kitchen. Today's goods still haven't arrived."
He pulled out a pocket watch, checked the time, then slapped his forehead.
"Damn it. Bad luck—gonna be late."
He turned and strode out.
Ke Ming lifted his left hand again.
He couldn't feel his thumb or index finger anymore. There wasn't time to mourn—he edged to the door and peeked out.
A narrow corridor led to a spacious living room. Several wooden doors stood open along the side.
To the right, a sliding glass door blocked his view—probably the bathroom the chef mentioned.
Ke Ming crept out, careful as he could be.
A teeth-grinding creak—followed by human screams—came from somewhere beyond the living room.
He flinched, pulled his head back, and decided he'd follow instructions first and figure out the rest later.
The bathroom… looked normal. A glass partition separated the showerhead; a half-length mirror hung above the sink.
Standing on tiptoe, Ke Ming could barely see his own forehead in the mirror. He let out a shaky breath.
Don't think about fighting back. A muscle-bound adult like that… I can't afford to provoke him.
His eyes dropped to the bandaged "ball" that was once his left hand, and a wave of delayed fear rolled through him.
My fingers… I'm crippled just like that?
He'd known the City was dangerous.
He just hadn't expected it to come this fast—his parents murdered, himself sold to some hellhole, and the first thing that happened was two fingers being cut off.
Only now did it truly sink in: a four- or five-year-old child couldn't survive in a place like this.
He clenched his right hand and hammered the wall—once, twice, three times—until his knuckles throbbed.
Then he braced himself and slammed his forehead against it, tears spilling uncontrollably, mixing with the shower water and vanishing into the drain.
He hesitated for a long time.
He didn't want to live in a human-made purgatory. He didn't want to die after being carved up bit by bit.
For a moment, he even thought about ending it himself—anything to avoid a slower, crueler death.
But fear won.
He couldn't do it.
In the end, he could only rinse himself quickly, scrub the blood from his skin, and leave the bandages untouched.
He combed his hair into place, took a deep breath, and walked toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was unexpectedly clean. Tools were arranged neatly, almost meticulously.
Only the cutting board was soaked in fresh blood.
Everything else was spotless.
The chef hummed a tuneless little song, brandishing a spatula like he was conducting an orchestra.
"Si… sir…"
"Ingredient," the chef said without even turning fully, "you move quick."
He pointed toward the dining table in the living room.
"Sit there. The head chef's personal cooking—people in the Alley don't get to taste this often. And Nest ingredients like you? Clean and pale like that?" He snickered. "Even less."
Grinning wide, he clattered bowls and plates, ladling something into a dish.
To Ke Ming's surprise, it wasn't a mangled, bloody mess. It wasn't some grotesque "dark cuisine," either.
The aroma hit him like a punch—rich, sharp, intoxicating—hooking his nose and teasing his empty stomach.
Translucent skin, gleaming fat, soaked in a deep red sauce, finished with a perfect scatter of scallions.
Ke Ming didn't know how long he'd been hungry.
He couldn't take it anymore.
He lunged for it.
-------
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