Lately I can't stop thinking about one thing.
When exactly did I stop being able to tell the difference between myself and that crocodile?
Don't call me crazy. I've got surveillance footage, last month's attendance records—want to see?
My name is Li Ming. Trainee crocodile keeper, ID number 037.
We have a rule here:
If a Siamese crocodile bites a keeper, the biting crocodile gets moved to a separate cage. The injured person has to go to the zoo director and pick up a consecrated talisman. Wear it nonstop for seven days—supposedly it prevents soul swapping.
The first time I heard this, I thought it was total bullshit. But after you've worked here long enough, some things happen whether you believe in them or not.
Like today. I saw Old Zhang squatting by the pool feeding Old Six. Fresh bite marks on the back of his left hand, oozing blood.
Old Zhang didn't even react. He wrapped it with gauze and was about to go back to work when Brother Wang ran over and dragged him away.
And that Siamese crocodile named Old Six? It retreated quietly back to its corner, its yellowish eyes fixed on Old Zhang's back. I recognized that look.
It was exactly the same way it looked at the chicken frames on the iron tray.
On my first day at the crocodile house, Old Zhang was smoking in the locker room. The first thing he said to me was, "Kid, remember—before you stick your hand into a Siamese crocodile's cage, tap the iron railing three times first."
He blew a smoke ring that slowly dispersed under the fluorescent light.
"Why?" I asked, still naive, pulling on my work pants.
"Let the thing inside know someone's coming." He crushed his cigarette butt on the windowsill, where a small pile had already accumulated. "They don't like strangers. You stick your paw in there suddenly, it scares 'em."
I thought the old guy was hilarious back then. Knocking to say hello to crocodiles.
After a few days on the job, I realized the whole crocodile house only had five people. The director occasionally dropped by, but normally it was just me, Old Zhang, and a full-timer named Brother Wang rotating shifts.
This place is at the very back of the zoo. Few visitors, lots of trees. It's cool in summer, but eerie—even at noon you feel your back tightening.
Old Zhang had worked here ten years. Two scars on the back of his hand, both from crocodile bites years ago, he said.
I asked if it hurt. He grinned. "Hurts when it happens. Afterward, not so much."
"But those few nights I kept dreaming I was submerged in water. Murky, foul-tasting water. Shadows pacing along the shore—couldn't reach 'em no matter how hard I tried."
Brother Wang, cleaning the pool nearby, piped up without looking up. "Old Zhang, don't scare the new kid."
Old Zhang just chuckled and stopped talking.
The biggest Siamese crocodile was motionless in the farthest corner of the pool. Over two meters long, its gray dorsal scales like a concrete slab. Eyes half-closed, just the tip of its nose sticking out of the water.
By the rules, it had a name—Old Six. Supposedly the only survivor of the first six Siamese crocodiles brought in.
The others occasionally swam around, tails splashing. Old Six never moved. It just lay there, like a stone sunk to the bottom. Only moved at feeding time.
The first time I fed alone, I carried the iron tray of chicken frames to the pool. My hand had barely touched the railing when Old Six suddenly lifted its head.
Just like that. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. That look—how to describe it? Not like an animal sizing up food. More like an old man looking at the new neighbor through his window.
That assessing, calculating gaze. It made my skin crawl.
I figured I was overthinking it. After all, weird stuff happens all the time working at a zoo.
After feeding, I went back to the break room for water. On the wall was a yellowed printout titled "Siamese Crocodile Care Guidelines."
Rule #3 was underlined in red: If a keeper is bitten, report immediately. Isolate the attacking crocodile. The affected party must go to the director to receive a talisman, worn for seven days without removal.
The red ink had bled into the paper. It'd been up there for years.
I asked Brother Wang about the talisman. He was scrolling through short videos on his phone, not looking up. "The director gives it to you. Ask him."
"Relax, it's just a small cloth pouch. Won't get in the way. But don't take it off—seven days. Not one day less."
"What happens if I do?"
Brother Wang locked his phone and looked up. His expression was serious. "There was a temp worker before, about your age. Thought the thing was annoying. Took it off on day three."
"And?"
"Day four, he was gone." Brother Wang stood and brushed dirt off his pants. "Didn't show up for work. All his stuff was in the dorm. Just... gone."
"Reported to the park. Put up a missing person poster. Never found him. Ended up counting it as voluntary resignation."
"Any news after that?"
Brother Wang shook his head. "Nothing."
I didn't think about it much back then. Young people tend to dismiss old rules as superstition.
I was studying for the civil service exam. This zoo job was just a temporary stopover. I'd build some experience, pass the exam, and be out of here.
Old Zhang got bitten on Thursday. I remember perfectly because my girlfriend called that morning saying she'd come visit next month. I was in a good mood, humming as I got changed for work.
Old Zhang was already by the pool. Today was his turn to feed Old Six. I was cleaning the filter screens for the other two pools, about ten meters away. I could see his movements.
Old Zhang worked efficiently. He stirred the water with a long pole first. Old Six didn't move as usual. Then he squatted down and lowered the iron tray along the pool edge.
Too fast.
When I heard the water explode and turned to look, Old Six's upper body was already out of the water, its jaws clamped around Old Zhang's left hand and not letting go.
Old Zhang groaned and grabbed an iron hook nearby, stabbing at the crocodile's mouth. Only then did the beast let go, retreating with a splash. It stopped halfway, two eyes rising above the surface, staring at Old Zhang.
By the time I ran over, Old Zhang was already standing. A row of teeth marks oozed blood on the back of his left hand, skin flayed. Not deep but dense, like puncture wounds from broken nails.
His face was pale, lips trembling, eyes locked on that spot in the pool.
Following his gaze, I saw Old Six had settled back to the bottom. Half its mouth showing, only its eyes open and staring.
I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was different about Old Six's eyes. Before, they'd been cold and empty—like any other animal.
Now there was something in them. Something I could understand.
Brother Wang came running, holding a roll of gauze. When he saw Old Zhang's hand, he swore.
While he wrapped the hand, he yelled at me, "Li Ming, go to the office and find the director. Tell him Old Six bit Old Zhang. Have him prepare the isolation cage and get that thing."
"That thing" — I later learned he meant the talisman.
The director's surname was Chen. Fifty-something, gold-rimmed glasses, didn't manage much normally. When I arrived, he was drinking tea and reading the newspaper.
When I finished explaining, his face changed. He pulled out a red cloth packet from his drawer and handed it to me. "Have Old Zhang wear it on his hand. Seven days, don't take it off."
"Move the biting crocodile to the back room. Lock the iron cage. Nobody gets too close during this time."
I asked if we should take Old Zhang to the hospital. The director waved me off, saying Brother Wang would handle it. I should prepare the cage first.
When I ran back with the red cloth packet, Old Zhang was already gone from the pool. Brother Wang said he'd driven him to a nearby clinic.
Old Six had already been fished out. Brother Wang was efficient—he'd used a net and iron clamps to move it into a transport cage. The iron cage sat in the corridor. As I walked past, I could hear its tail sweeping against the metal.
I handed the red cloth packet to Brother Wang. "From the director."
He opened it. Inside was a small yellow silk pouch, palm-sized, smelling faintly of sandalwood.
He stuffed it into Old Zhang's toolbox. "Give it to him when he gets back." Then he pointed at me. "Go lock the isolation room's iron door. The key's with the director."
The isolation room was behind the crocodile house. Originally a storage room, its windows were welded shut with iron bars—only a narrow feeding slot left. Used for sick or troublesome crocodiles.
When I opened the door, a moldy smell hit me. Tiles on the floor, a rusty pipe dragging in the corner. I pushed the transport cage in. Old Six curled up inside, its tail tip twitching.
Something made me glance back at it as I closed the door. Old Six was looking at me too. Head slightly raised, yellowish eyes not blinking.
At that moment I swear it looked like it was smiling. Crocodiles can't make expressions, but that's what it felt like—it recognized me, and it was smiling.
I slammed the door shut. My palms were sweating. I pulled out my phone to send a message to my girlfriend about the weird thing that happened, but deleted it halfway through.
What would telling her do? She'd just say I was overthinking again.
Old Zhang came back in the afternoon. His left hand was wrapped in gauze, with the yellow silk pouch outside, tied to his wrist with a red string.
His face had recovered some color, but he seemed like a different person. He sat in the break room chair, staring at the wall. Brother Wang poured him hot water. He took a sip and suddenly said, "It's strong."
Brother Wang clapped his shoulder. "Old thing, of course it's strong."
"No." Old Zhang put down the cup, looking at his hand. "When it bit me, I looked into its eyes. Know what I saw?"
I was leaning against the doorframe drinking water. I pricked up my ears.
"I saw a me in its eyes." Old Zhang's voice was barely above a whisper, like talking to himself. "Clear as day. A tiny person, huddled in the very center of its eyeball."
Brother Wang's lips twitched. "Okay, you're in shock. Go rest. I'll cover your shift these two days."
Old Zhang stood to leave. At the door he paused, glanced back at the area behind us. Neither of us said anything. He just stood there for a few seconds, then pushed the door open and left.
After he went, I couldn't help asking Brother Wang, "What did he mean by that?"
Brother Wang was stacking the feeding trays, not looking up. "Old Zhang just got scared, that's all. Remember—you and I are covering shifts these seven days. Let Old Zhang rest at home. Don't let him near the back isolation room."
"Why?"
Brother Wang stopped and turned to look at me. The fluorescent light hit his face, half lit, half shadowed. "The rule. Within seven days, the bitten person and the biting crocodile can't meet again. If they do..."
He didn't finish. He rubbed his fingers together with his empty hand, stacked the trays. "Just remember."
That evening, I stayed late to close up. The water circulation hummed. The young crocodiles in the pool slouched listlessly.
When I reached the back row of isolation rooms, I stopped. Stood there for a while, then fished out the key and unlocked the door.
I pushed the iron door open a crack and looked in. Old Six was lying in its transport cage in the same position, head facing outward, eyes bright.
I pushed the crack a little wider to see better. Old Six suddenly moved.
It slowly raised its head, chin level with the top of the cage. Something bulged in its throat, and it let out a low, drawn-out sound.
Not a crocodile's cry. More like the muffled sound of a person with a sore throat trying to clear it but can't.
I slammed the door shut and backed up. My lower back hit the wall, making me wince. I locked the door and walked back on shaky legs.
Six days left until the seven-day deadline.
The next morning, Old Zhang didn't show up. Brother Wang called him—no answer. Messages—no reply. Brother Wang frowned and said he'd check in the afternoon. I should cover for the day.
I carried chicken frames to the pool to feed, passing Old Zhang's toolbox. The door wasn't fully closed, revealing a corner of the yellow silk pouch. It was still sitting right where it had been placed.
Around 2 PM, Old Zhang appeared suddenly. Wearing a drab gray jacket, zipped all the way to the collar.
It was 34 degrees outside. No AC in the crocodile house, it was sweltering. I saw him come in wrapped in that jacket, sweat stains showing through on his back.
The talisman was still on his wrist. The gauze had been removed, replaced with a band-aid covering the tooth marks.
Brother Wang asked where he'd been, why he wasn't answering his phone. He said he'd left his phone at home charging.
While he was talking, Old Zhang kept looking everywhere but at Brother Wang, unconsciously shuffling his feet on the floor—*rustle rustle*—the soles scraping the ground.
Brother Wang dragged a chair for him to sit and rest, then poured him warm water.
When Old Zhang took it, his hand shook a little. He backed up half a step, sitting under the row of lockers in the corner.
That spot was backlit, half his body in shadow. He sat there huddled, knees drawn up, sipping water, shoulders slightly hunched.
Something about that posture seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it.
That afternoon, after feeding the crocodiles and carrying the empty tray back, I passed where Old Zhang was sitting. He suddenly called me. "Li Ming."
I stopped.
"You think when they're soaking in water," he said, eyes on the ripples in his cup, "it's stuffy?"
I paused. "The crocodiles?"
He didn't answer. His thumb stroked the cup wall over and over. "Cold in the water. Nothing at all. Just lying there. Old Six has been lying there for over ten years. That pool's so big it can barely turn around."
That made my chest tighten. I thought of Old Six's iron cage, that isolation room—tile floor, iron roof, turning around would indeed be difficult.
Looking at Old Zhang huddled under the lockers, gripping his cup so tightly, back against the wall, not touching anything else—just curled up into a ball.
I didn't answer. Carrying my tray, I walked away.
Five days left until the seven-day deadline.
That night I had the late shift. After closing, I checked the equipment. When I reached the back isolation room, I didn't open the door. I just stood outside the iron door and listened for a while.
Inside was silent. Not even water sounds. Just as I was about to leave, a smell drifted through the narrow feeding slot—fishy, mixed with sandalwood.
Old Six didn't eat sandalwood. That smell was from the talisman.
I bent down and leaned in to smell. The scent was definitely coming through the slot—faint, the same smell as Old Zhang's yellow silk pouch.
I stood there. The water circulation hummed from underground. The emergency light overhead glowed green, stretching my shadow long on the ground.
That night I dreamed. I dreamed I was submerged in water. Murky, foul-tasting. Iron bars sealing the top, light leaking through the cracks in strips.
I opened my eyes underwater. I saw people pacing along the shore. They wore blue uniforms, carrying iron trays. I didn't recognize any of them.
I tried to open my mouth to shout, but my throat let out a thick, hoarse muffled sound.
I woke up at 3 AM, drenched in sweat.
Day three at work, Old Zhang didn't show up. Brother Wang said he'd gone to check on him last night. Knocked—no answer. Slid a note through the door asking him to call back. Still no response.
I dialed Old Zhang's number. Rang until it disconnected automatically.
I was distracted all morning. Taking apart and washing the filter screens, water running *splash splash*. I stared at my hand soaking in the water for a long time.
Things look distorted underwater. Fingers thicker than usual, skin pale and wrinkled. I yanked my hand out and shook it, water droplets splashing everywhere.
At lunch, Brother Wang lifted the lid on his meal, took two bites, then suddenly stopped. "Li Ming, when I went to Old Zhang's yesterday, he was wearing a thick jacket when he opened the door."
"Thirty-four degrees and wearing a thick jacket?"
"Yeah. No AC inside. Heat hit me in the face when I walked in." Brother Wang put down his chopsticks. "I asked if he was hot. He said no—he said he was cold."
My chopsticks dropped back into the box.
"Also," Brother Wang lowered his voice, "when he was talking to me, he kept shrinking into the corner of the sofa. That big sofa, and he wedged himself into the smallest corner, back against the armrest."
"I stood up to leave, and he finally stood up too. Walked me to the door and said one thing."
"What?"
Brother Wang cleared his throat, mimicking Old Zhang's raspy tone: "Wang... you go back and check if Old Six has eaten enough. I'm afraid it's hungry."
Brother Wang and I stared at each other for a few seconds. A splash sounded from the pool—some crocodile rolling over.
In the afternoon, Brother Wang went out to buy something.
I wandered alone in the zoo. Near the back isolation room, I noticed some water stains on the ground, seeping out from under the iron door, winding their way toward the corridor, half-dried.
I squatted down and touched them. The water was cold, with a faint fishy smell.
I leaned down to the narrow feeding slot and peered in. The iron cage was a dark mass inside, couldn't tell if Old Six was there.
As I pressed my face closer to change angles, a puff of hot air shot out of the slot, hitting me directly in the face.
I jumped back so hard I landed on my butt, sitting on the cement floor.
That air was warm, damp, and fishy-salty—like breath from deep in someone's throat. I sat on the cement floor, gasping for several breaths before getting up.
The iron door was tightly shut. The lock was properly locked.
Four days left until the seven-day deadline.
On day four, Brother Wang came in with a strange look. He handed me his phone. There was a voice message from Old Zhang, sent the night before at 11 PM.
I pressed play. Old Zhang's voice came through, so hoarse each word dragged: "Wang... I can't sleep. This cage is too dry... can they sprinkle some water... I'm thirsty..."
The message finished. I handed the phone back to Brother Wang.
"He sent it to the wrong person," Brother Wang slid the phone back into his pocket. "This was meant for the director. His number and mine are off by one digit. He's always mixing them up."
"The cage he's talking about..."
"Old Six's isolation room."
Neither of us moved in the break room. The wall clock tick-tick-ticked. The fluorescent light buzzed.
"Is he still at home?" My throat was tight.
Brother Wang shook his head. "I went again this morning. Knocked—no answer. The landlord has a spare key. I got it."
We went to Old Zhang's place. The security door opened, and a wave of dampness rolled out—thick, heavy, with an unnameable fishy smell.
Curtains drawn. Light dim. On the living room sofa lay that gray jacket. On the coffee table, his phone screen was cracked, lying there. Half a cup of water on the table.
He was gone.
On the bedroom nightstand sat the yellow silk pouch talisman. The red string was coiled neatly under the pouch, like someone had carefully removed it and placed it there. I touched the silk—cold.
Brother Wang found something on the bedroom floor. A tiny piece, gray-green, thin enough to be translucent, like a layer of shed keratin from something.
He shone a flashlight on it, flipped it over. Several short black hairs stuck to the back.
His hand trembled.
"What is this?" I asked.
Brother Wang didn't answer. He put the piece into a plastic bag and sealed it. He also took Old Zhang's phone, opened a crack in the living room window for ventilation, then we locked up and left.
Going downstairs, he walked ahead. At the first-floor entrance, he stopped, turned back and said to me: "That temp worker who disappeared years ago—also on the fourth day."
Something blocked my throat.
On the drive back to the zoo, Brother Wang drove in silence. Stopped at a red light and suddenly said: "Li Ming, tomorrow we'll redo Old Six's isolation room."
"How?"
"Weld a layer of iron mesh on top of the iron door. Seal the original feeding slot. Open a small opening on top for feeding, lock it after." He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. "Can't let it see outside anymore."
"What about Old Zhang?"
Brother Wang looked at the red light ahead without turning his head. After several seconds he said: "Have you considered that Old Zhang is already in the cage?"
I thought of the way Old Six looked up at me when I fed it, Old Zhang's posture huddled under the lockers, that warm damp air puffing out of the feeding slot.
The light turned green. Brother Wang stepped on the gas.
Three days left until the seven-day deadline.
On day five, Brother Wang found someone to weld a fine iron mesh over the isolation room's iron door. The original feeding slot was sealed with an iron plate.
Only a 20cm-by-20cm opening remained at the top, normally covered and locked. Brother Wang personally locked it, the key hanging from his waist.
That evening I climbed a ladder with chicken frames, opened the small opening and looked down.
It was completely dark, no light in the room. I couldn't see anything. I dropped the chicken frames one by one, hearing them land on top of the iron cage. Then something moved slowly below and began to eat.
I lay on the ladder and listened for a while. The chewing below was slow, deliberate—exactly the same sound as Old Zhang eating in the break room.
Meticulous, unhurried. Tearing the meat with his incisors first before swallowing.
I locked the iron cover and climbed down. When my feet hit the ground, my legs buckled.
Day six, I took a leave. I told Brother Wang I wasn't feeling well and wanted to stay home. He looked at me and said okay.
I didn't go anywhere. Just holed up in my rental room scrolling on my phone. My girlfriend messaged asking how I was. I said I had a cold and a sore throat.
She called me. I answered and said a couple of words before hanging up—because as soon as I opened my mouth, my voice was hoarse, like something was stuck in my throat that I couldn't swallow.
I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face looked the same as always, just darker circles under my eyes.
I opened my mouth and looked at my tongue. A thin layer of white coating on the surface. I leaned in closer. There were several fine cracks in the middle of my tongue—shallow, but they hadn't been there before.
I held my hand under the tap. Cold water on my hand. I watched the beads run down my wrist. It felt strangely comfortable.
That comfort startled me. I quickly turned off the water.
That night I barely slept. Half-awake, I kept feeling itchy all over. Scratched at myself but couldn't find anything. I got up in the middle of the night and turned on the light. Nothing. But my skin felt harder than usual.
Day Seven.
I arrived at the zoo early. Brother Wang was already in the break room, sitting in a chair smoking, five or six cigarette butts crushed in the ashtray. He saw me and nodded his chin. "Here."
"Today's the deadline," I said.
"Yeah."
Neither of us spoke again. About ten minutes later, the director pushed in. He had a form for Brother Wang to fill out, saying Old Zhang's paperwork needed to be processed.
Brother Wang filled in a few blanks, then asked: "What about Old Six?"
The director pushed up his glasses. "What about it? Still locked up."
"Forever?"
"What else?" The director glanced at me, then at Brother Wang. "Send it somewhere? Who'd take it? Which of you two would take it?"
Brother Wang and I both said nothing. The director took the form, paused at the door without looking back, and left one sentence: "Don't think too much about things here. Just do your job. Crocodiles can't talk. As long as people don't talk, nothing will happen."
The door closed.
Brother Wang extinguished his cigarette and stood up. "I'll go feed it."
I followed him to the back. Brother Wang climbed the ladder, opened the iron cover and dropped chicken frames. I held the ladder legs from below, listening to the food drop. Then silence. Then eating began below.
Brother Wang locked the cover, climbed down, brushed dust off his hands, and suddenly said: "Li Ming, what happened to your hand?"
I looked at my left hand. On the back was a faint ring of bruises, circular, close together, exactly the shape of teeth marks.
I stared at that mark for a long time. I didn't remember being bitten by anything.
Brother Wang came over, grabbed my wrist and held it up to examine. His fingers pinched hard enough to hurt. He looked at the mark, then at my face. His lips moved but no words came out.
Then I remembered. On day five, when I climbed the ladder to feed, I'd stuck my hand into the small opening. Old Six couldn't reach me, but its nose had brushed the back of my hand.
It didn't hurt. After the brush, my hand was clean—not even a red mark. I'd thought nothing of it.
But the spot where that nose had touched... the skin had slowly hardened. These past few days I'd thought it was calluses from work.
Looking closely under the light, that ring of bruises wasn't bruises at all. It was color showing through from under the skin—gray-green, thin, like a newly growing shell.
Brother Wang let go of my hand. He pulled out his cigarette case to light one, but his hand shook twice and couldn't get it out.
"Brother Wang," I said, "Old Zhang only got in trouble because he took off the talisman. I've been wearing it the whole time."
I lifted my right hand. A yellow silk pouch hung from my wrist on a red string, sandalwood-scented. I'd gotten it from the director on my first day and worn it ever since—never even took it off to shower.
Brother Wang looked at the talisman on my wrist, then at the gray-green mark on the back of my left hand. He stuffed the cigarette case back into his pocket, squeezing out a sentence from his throat: "That thing... only works for seven days."
"What do you mean?"
"Wearing it for seven days prevents the swap." Brother Wang backed up half a step, not meeting my eyes. "But if you get bumped or touched, once seven days pass it's too late.
"The talisman only protects for seven days. After that, it's useless. Old Zhang was also gone on the seventh day."
I stood there by the ladder, not moving. The water system hummed from underground. The fluorescent light overhead hit the mark on my hand.
That gray-green mark sat there quietly, exactly the same pattern as Old Six's dorsal scales.
Brother Wang turned and left, footsteps quick and urgent, leather shoes *tap tap tap* on the cement floor. I heard him push open the break room door and close it. Then the entire zoo was left with only the sound of water and the hum of the lighting.
I stood there. The ladder was still leaning against the iron door, the cover locked securely. I walked over and pressed my palm against the iron door.
The iron was cold. But the spot on my palm where I touched it suddenly started burning hot. I yanked my hand away. Looking at my palm, the area where I'd touched the door was red, like a burn, throbbing with pain.
After the pain slowly faded, color began to show through the skin under that spot. Same as the back of my hand—gray-green, thin, spreading in a patch.
I clenched my fist. My knuckles *cracked* twice. The skin on the back of my hand was tight, harder than normal. I touched my face.
My face was still soft. But my jaw felt different, the bone seemed wider than last month.
I didn't go back to the break room. I walked around the corridor to the pool. Several young crocodiles floated on the surface, didn't even move when they saw me.
I squatted down by the pool and stuck my hand in the water. It was warm, slightly murky. It felt comfortable soaking there. So comfortable I shivered.
I squatted there soaking my hand, looking at my reflection in the water—blurred, couldn't make out the features clearly.
But the outline looked familiar. Wide jaw, thick eyelids, neck thicker than normal. That was Old Zhang's face.
Old Zhang's face after his jaw had gradually widened. The face I'd seen in the locker room, the face I'd known for ten years.
I pulled my hand out, shook it, and stood up to walk back. Passing the back isolation room, I stopped again. This time I didn't lean in to listen.
I just stood half a meter away from the iron door, stood there quietly.
There was movement inside the iron door. Water sounds, crawling sounds, the *rustle* of a tail sweeping across the cement floor. Then the sound stopped. Something pressed against the inside of the iron door—I felt a faint vibration through the metal.
Then I heard it. Muffled, like a person with a completely hoarse throat forcing out their last bit of air, seeping through the iron door.
"Next... one..."
The gray-green shell on the back of my hand throbbed with heat. I stood there without moving. I even stepped forward half a pace, pressing my forehead against the cold iron door.
The thing inside went silent. Then I heard a low, wet laugh.
That laugh was too familiar. I laughed that way every morning when brushing my teeth. I laughed that way when greeting new interns. That was my laugh.
That was Li Ming's voice coming from inside the iron door.
I stepped back. Turned and walked toward the break room, pace unhurried. Passing the locker room, I took off my work jacket and hung it up.
The yellow silk talisman was still on my right wrist. Sandalwood faint, lingering in the damp air. I glanced at it but didn't take it off.
I still had to work tomorrow. Brother Wang would still come. Those young crocodiles in the pool still needed to be fed.
The yellow silk pouch swayed on my wrist. Seven days had long passed. I thought about it and still didn't remove it. I'd keep it—at least it was a memento.
Whatever's inside that thing, whether it's been seven years or ten, someone needs to remember what it once held.
But tomorrow when I feed, I'll have to be careful. Won't stretch my hand too far. Won't let that thing below touch me.
As for how far that shell on my hand will grow, when the fishy smell in my throat becomes unbearable—we'll just deal with that when it comes.
The water circulation still hummed. I pushed open the break room door. The light was still on. The yellowed printout on the wall, where rule #3 was underlined in red—staring at it for long enough, it wasn't so glaring anymore.
The iron door at the end of the corridor was tightly shut. When I passed it, my footsteps paused briefly. Nothing came from inside the iron door. It was quiet.
But I knew it was waiting. Just like that first day I reported for work, the yellowish eyes in the corner of the pool—quietly waiting, waiting for the next person to reach their hand in.