Hanging outside the window, Ke Ming could see countless black silhouettes gathering below.
From the wrist of his prosthetic arm, a grappling line shot out and locked tight around the window ledge.
He braced his feet against the wall and slid down slowly, landing on the second floor.
Pushing open a door half-hidden behind an array of butchering tools, he slipped into a slaughter room that felt like a prison. Groans leaked from the individual stalls inside.
Ke Ming nodded in satisfaction. Looks safe.
Now and then the ceiling above shuddered, and dust sprinkled down in gray flakes.
This is bad. The enemy is strong.
Ke Ming had never seen anyone who could fight the Head Chef for this long. In Alley Twenty-Three, every hostile gaze was usually strangled in the cradle—cut down by the Head Chef like vegetables.
Clearly, the only thing Ke Ming could do was stay hidden—don't get caught and used as a hostage.
He didn't want to be dead weight again.
The night before he arrived in Alley Twenty-Three, the sky had been full of fire—so vivid it still burned behind his eyes.
Just like the Head Chef said: a few scraps of tin couldn't stop his father.
His father stayed behind.
To buy his wife and son a chance to escape.
No matter how dazzling a blaze was… a crowd could still smother it.
"I… chi—"
A strange voice from above sliced through Ke Ming's thoughts.
Dark green liquid pierced the ceiling, dripping down—drop by drop—onto the floor.
This is very, very bad.
The Head Chef couldn't possibly produce a corrosive fluid like that.
The intruder has reached the inner rooms.
"Wing's… dog…"
It was the Head Chef's voice—only Ke Ming had never heard it this weak.
"Hss… ah…"
Along with the sound of muscle tearing, the ceiling visibly corroded, opening a widening hole.
"T Corp… wants to tear up the agreement unilaterally?"
"Ha… I knew it. Once you get tangled up with a Wing… nothing good ever follows."
"Bastards in fine suits… all polished and respectable on the surface—ha. All they know is protecting the shine of their own façade…"
The Head Chef sounded strangely refined—completely unlike his usual roughness.
"I am here only for that child."
The unfamiliar voice spoke again.
"Tell me where he is."
The Head Chef didn't answer.
A moment later, manic laughter exploded overhead.
"Klein… hahahahaha… my Klein."
His voice dropped abruptly, turning into a lover's whisper close to an ear.
"Klein will be with me forever—forever!"
"Hahahahahaha!"
Squish.
After the sound of minced flesh and crushed bone being stomped into sludge… came a silence as dead as a grave.
…
Ke Ming clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing himself not to make even a breath.
Footsteps were coming closer.
He was hiding in the only small room on the second floor.
Well hidden… and yet also painfully obvious.
This was where Ke Ming had nearly ended his own life once—where he'd nearly lost both legs.
The footsteps came closer and closer.
He didn't understand how the Head Chef had done it, but his legs—once sliced into strips—were somehow sitting right where they belonged, beneath his waist.
There was a shadow in his mind, but his legs worked the same as ever.
He didn't want to dig into the why.
Living quietly—that was enough.
The footsteps accelerated, as if the intruder had noticed something.
Ke Ming held his breath, eyes wide, fixed on the door in the darkness.
The footsteps stopped.
Right in front of the door.
A beam of light slipped through the crack and spilled into the room.
…
It was the Head Chef.
There wasn't a single intact part left on his body. Both arms—his livelihood—had been severed. Solid bone jutted out from his knees, a ghastly white.
The face that had once been passable was corroded into black slime mixed with brain matter, oozing down his cheeks.
He was dead.
"Hh… ah… hh…"
His ruined vocal cords trembled, struggling to form words.
"C-Chef…?"
"Kh… Kl… ein…"
"Hh—ngh… pff… want…"
Ke Ming looked up, trembling as he reached out a hand.
"How… how could this…"
"Kh… ngh… hh… watch…"
"Watch?"
He rose onto his toes and fumbled in the Head Chef's pocket—pulling out a pocket watch.
The Head Chef could no longer support his massive body. He swayed once, twice—then toppled straight backward.
Bang.
The powerful muscles in his legs withered rapidly, shrinking and wrinkling, skin creasing as it dried.
His once-straight back bent forward—hunched.
"Chef…?"
A man who'd looked forty-something just moments ago… now looked like an old man.
A dead old man.
....
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