The weight of the beast dragged behind him had long since numbed his arms into something that no longer quite belonged to him, and as the alley stretched onward in that suffocating blend of dim light and clotted air, Li Chen felt the faint tremor of vibration against his thigh, subtle at first, almost ignorable, yet persistent in the way small irritations often were, until at last he exhaled through his nose, slow and weary, loosening one blood-stiffened hand from the carcass to reach into his pocket, his fingers clumsy not from hesitation but from exhaustion, and when he pulled the phone free, the cracked screen flickered weakly, casting a pale glow against the grime on his skin, as though even the device itself resented being forced to function in a world like this.
His thumb hovered for a moment.
Not because he expected anything good.
But because hope, that stubborn and ridiculous thing, had a way of lingering even when reason had long since abandoned the field.
The notification blinked.
Bank alert.
He tapped it.
And there it was.
Balance: 2 yuan.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Not his expression.
Not his breath.
Not even the faint tightening of his shoulders.
Then, slowly, something shifted—not outwardly dramatic, not the kind of reaction that demanded attention, but a subtle cracking at the edges, as if whatever fragile structure held him together had just been tested once more and found… barely sufficient.
A sound left him.
A laugh.
Low.
Dry.
Utterly without warmth.
"Hah… figures," he murmured, the words slipping out with a tired sort of inevitability, his lips curling not in amusement but in something sharper, something edged with a quiet disdain directed not at the world—no, that would have been too large a target—but at himself, at the absurdity of expecting anything different, and he tilted his head slightly, staring at the number as if it might change out of sheer embarrassment, then scoffed under his breath, "Two yuan… holy shit… that won't even buy a decent meal, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?" his tone carried a faint bite, not loud enough to draw attention, yet heavy enough to reveal the frustration beneath.
Tang Bo leaned closer, wiping his hands on his already filthy trousers, squinting at the screen with a frown that deepened into something almost comical, though there was no humor in it, "Two?" he echoed, blinking twice as if his eyes had betrayed him, then let out a short, incredulous breath, "That's… that's not even enough for noodles, damn it," he scratched his head, fingers dragging through tangled hair, and forced a crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Guess we're fasting tonight, huh?" the attempt at lightness faltered midway, collapsing under the weight of reality.
Li Chen locked the screen.
Slid the phone back.
His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary.
As if letting go required effort.
"It was never going to be more," he said quietly, his voice steady in that way that suggested not calm, but resignation sharpened into something almost solid, and he bent again, gripping the beast's tail, ignoring the sting as dried blood cracked anew, "We get paid last, if at all… you know that," his shoulders shifted, muscles tightening as he pulled, the corpse scraping forward with a dull, grating sound.
Tang Bo clicked his tongue, "Tsk… yeah, yeah, I know," he muttered, though his expression darkened, the earlier attempt at humor fading completely now, replaced by something heavier, something closer to anger, "Still… it's bullshit," he kicked a loose chunk of brick, sending it skittering across the ground, "We do the dirtiest work, risk getting torn apart, and what do we get? Two damn yuan and a kick in the ass," his lips pressed thin, and he glanced sideways at Li Chen, "Doesn't that piss you off?"
Li Chen did not answer.
Not immediately.
His gaze remained forward.
Unmoving.
Then, after a moment, he spoke.
"It used to."
And that was all.
Yet the way he said it—flat, stripped of excess—carried more weight than any rant could have, because it implied something worse than anger.
It implied that anger had already burned itself out.
The alley seemed quieter after that.
Or perhaps it only felt that way.
Because within Li Chen's mind, something stirred—not new, not sudden, but drawn forth by that simple number on a cracked screen, by the quiet confirmation of what he already knew, and as he walked, as he dragged, as the world pressed in with its usual indifference, a memory rose unbidden, sharp and unwelcome, cutting through the present with the clarity of something long etched into bone.
A different place.
A different time.
Yet the same suffocating air.
His father's voice had always been cold.
Not loud.
Not raging.
But cold in the way winter seeped into walls, into skin, into marrow, until warmth became a distant concept rather than a present reality.
"Weak blood shouldn't dream."
The words came back exactly as they had been spoken—measured, precise, devoid of hesitation—and Li Chen's hands tightened unconsciously around the beast's tail, his grip faltering for the briefest instant before he steadied it again, though the tremor did not entirely leave, instead lingering in the subtle quiver of muscle beneath skin.
He could see it.
That moment.
Standing there, younger, smaller, yet already carrying that same stubborn set to his jaw, while the man before him—his father—regarded him not with anger, not even with disappointment, but with a kind of distant dismissal that had cut deeper than any blow.
"You think effort matters?" that voice had continued, calm to the point of cruelty, "You think grit changes what you are?" a faint, almost imperceptible shake of the head had followed, as if correcting a simple mistake, "No… strength is decided long before you understand the word."
Li Chen's breath hitched.
Just slightly.
Barely noticeable.
Yet enough.
His fingers curled tighter.
Knuckles whitening beneath grime.
"Stop… thinking about it," he muttered under his breath, the words directed inward, a quiet command rather than a plea, his brow furrowing as if physically resisting the memory, "It's done… it's past," his jaw clenched, teeth grinding faintly, "Doesn't matter… doesn't matter anymore," though the repetition carried a faint edge, as if the statement required reinforcement to hold.
Tang Bo noticed.
Of course he did.
He always noticed more than he let on.
"Hey…" he said cautiously, his voice softer now, lacking its usual roughness, "You good?" he leaned slightly closer, peering at Li Chen's face, his expression shifting into something uncertain, "You look like you just swallowed something rotten… what's going on?"
Li Chen shook his head once.
Sharp.
Dismissive.
"Nothing," he said, though the word came out tighter than intended, and he exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to relax just enough to stop the tremor, "Just… tired," he added after a moment, the lie not entirely false, yet far from complete.
Tang Bo studied him for a second longer.
Then sighed.
"Yeah… no shit," he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands, dragging them down as if trying to wipe away the day itself, "We're all tired… this whole place is tired," he let out a short, humorless chuckle, "Hell, even the damn monsters look exhausted before they die."
A faint snort escaped Li Chen.
Unintended.
Brief.
Yet real.
And for a moment—just a moment—the heaviness eased.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But lighter.
Tang Bo caught it.
Grinned faintly.
"There it is," he said, nudging Li Chen lightly with his elbow, "Thought you forgot how to react," his tone carried a teasing edge, though gentler than before, "Careful… keep that up and people might think you're human."
Li Chen huffed quietly.
"Don't push it," he replied, his voice dry, though not entirely devoid of warmth, and he adjusted his stance, shifting the weight of the carcass, "You're still annoying."
"Annoying?" Tang Bo scoffed, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense, "The hell, man… I'm your only friend in this shit hole," he tilted his head back slightly, grinning despite everything, "Show some respect."
Li Chen glanced at him.
Briefly.
Then looked away again.
"Debatable," he said.
Yet the corner of his mouth twitched.
Barely.
And then—
As quickly as it had come—
It faded.
Because reality did not allow such moments to linger.
Tang Bo stretched his arms, joints popping audibly, then let them drop with a groan, "Ugh… my whole body feels like it's been chewed up and spat out," he rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly, then forced another grin, weaker this time, "But hey… tomorrow's better, right?" his tone lifted artificially, as if trying to convince not just Li Chen, but himself, "We get an easier zone, maybe less corpses, maybe—hell—maybe we even get paid on time," he chuckled, though it sounded hollow, "Could happen… right?"
Li Chen slowed.
Just a fraction.
The question hung there.
Fragile.
Hopeful.
And utterly misplaced.
He exhaled.
Long.
Quiet.
Then spoke.
"It never is."
The words fell without emphasis.
Without cruelty.
Yet they carried a weight that crushed the fragile optimism Tang Bo had tried to build, and the latter's grin faltered, cracking at the edges before fading entirely, his shoulders dropping slightly as he looked away, scratching the back of his neck again.
"Yeah…" Tang Bo muttered after a moment, voice quieter, "Yeah, I figured you'd say that," he kicked at the ground again, less forcefully this time, "Still… had to try."
Li Chen did not respond.
Because there was nothing to say.
Because some truths did not need repeating.
Because hope, in a place like this, was not a light—
It was a liability.
And then—
The world changed.
It began with a sound.
A siren.
But not the distant, weary wail from before.
No.
This one tore through the air like something alive, sharp and urgent and wrong, rising in pitch until it seemed to vibrate through bone itself, and both men froze instinctively, their bodies reacting before their minds could catch up.
"What the hell…?" Tang Bo breathed, his earlier fatigue replaced instantly by tension, his eyes darting toward the far end of the alley where the sound originated, his stance shifting, uncertain, ready to run yet unsure where.
Li Chen straightened.
Slowly.
His gaze fixed ahead.
And then he saw it.
Light.
Blue.
Not the soft blue of calm skies or distant oceans, but a harsh, unnatural glow that pulsed like a wound in reality itself, spreading outward in jagged lines that distorted the air around it, as if the world were being forced apart.
A Gate.
Forming.
Right there.
In front of them.
"Shit…" Tang Bo whispered, taking an involuntary step back, his breath quickening, "No… no, no, no… this isn't our zone… this isn't supposed to happen here," his voice rose slightly, panic creeping in despite his attempts to contain it, "What the fuck is going on?"
The ground trembled beneath their feet with a low, unsettling vibration that seemed to rise not merely from the earth but from something deeper and far more ancient, and as the blue light intensified into a blinding surge that clawed at the edges of vision, that tearing space before them twisted and split wider with a sound like reality itself being dragged apart, and from within that fracture something moved—not fully visible, not yet formed, yet present enough to thicken the air until each breath felt heavy and wrong, enough to make instinct rise like a scream trapped in the chest—and Li Chen's fingers tightened, not around a weapon, not around anything tangible, but simply tightened as if gripping an unseen force, his gaze locked unflinchingly onto that rupture in existence, and for the first time there was no exhaustion weighing him down, no dull resignation chaining his thoughts, but something else flickering awake within him—something sharp, something dangerous, something that felt less like fear and more like recognition—as the blue light surged violently and the siren screamed without restraint, and as a shadow began to step through that broken space, slow and deliberate, the world that had ignored Li Chen for so long finally turned its gaze upon him, and in that moment it became clear that what followed would not begin with survival but with a choice, and in a world like this, every choice—no matter how small, no matter how desperate—always demanded a price.