H
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Blood.
So much blood.
It gushed from Lin Wei's slender neck like someone had kicked over a bucket of red paint. Vivid. Obscene. A grotesque flower blooming obscenely fast.
She'd always loved that color.
Said it made her skin look like fresh-peeled eggshells.
I leaned against the bridge pylon, arms crossed, watching it all with cold detachment. Watching the pulses slow from frantic spurts to sluggish oozing. Watching her legs twitch like a dying insect, then fall still.
Those sharp, scheming eyes were wide open now, filled with pure, unadulterated terror and a dazed confusion, like she couldn't quite process how it had all ended here.
The three purebred fighting dogs I'd shelled out big bucks for on the black market – starved for three days, primed for this twisted "master-servant reunion feast– didn't immediately dive in. They circled her splayed body, low rumbles of deep satisfaction vibrating in their throats, like they were humming a lullaby.
Their sleek black coats glistened with a sickly sheen in the dim light.
Gag…
A retching sound beside me.
Xiao Zhou, that kid, had crumpled to the ground like her bones had dissolved.
Her face was the color of wet plaster, hand clamped over her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks like someone had turned on a faucet. She looked at me, her expression pure horror mixed with the kind of alien shock reserved for encountering a demon in broad daylight.
I tried to twist my lips into something resembling a smile. A fitting gesture. But the muscles in my face felt frozen solid.
Tch.
Turns out, watching your enemy die a messy death isn't as satisfying as you imagine. Instead, it left a hollow ache inside me, like a chunk had been ripped out, letting cold wind whistle through the gap.
Buzz—
The phone in my pocket vibrated. Like a summons from the damned. It shattered the numb emptiness.
I pulled it out. The screen glowed. The tracking app I'd slipped into Chen Mo's phone ages ago pulsed with a tiny red dot, flickering like malevolent will-o'-the-wisp. "Emergency Mode." Tailor-made for him. Kicked in when his heart raced like a jackhammer, his blood pressure plummeted, or it caught specific keywords. Precision so sharp it could probably tell which way he farted.
The little red dot was moving across the city map at a… distinctive pace. Its path wobbled drunkenly before finally *thunking* to a stop over the icon for a ventilation shaft near the downtown subway station.
Data scrolled below:
> Heart Rate: 152(Drilling a hole in his chest?)
> Temp: 38.9°C*(Fever? Or… something else?)
The keyword capture in the notes field flashed, highlighted in angry red:
> [Wrist… cut… blood… black…]
Heh.
I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, tasting rust.
Good.
The dog couple. Finally reunited on the road to hell. Won't be lonely now.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket. One last glance down at the bridge.
Lin Wei lay sprawled like a discarded ragdoll in the spreading pool of dark crimson. The ridiculously expensive, ten-centimeter "war stilettos" she'd died in – one heel still stubbornly jammed in the rusted gap of the iron gate – looked like the most solid shackles she'd ever worn.
Back in the safe house, I'd nagged her till I was blue in the face: *Girl, it's the apocalypse! Wearing those death traps? Got a death wish?*
How'd she shoot me down?
Oh, right. She rolled her eyes, lips slick with that same scarlet poison, voice dripping with venomous scorn: *"Wanzhao, you're just jealous! Jealous I look good in anything! Not like you, wrapped up like some mountain hermit all year round. Such a tomboy!"*
Tomboy?
Fine.
Seems this "tomboy" had the tougher hide after all.
I didn't spare another glance for Xiao Zhou, trembling like a leaf behind me. I turned and started down the cold concrete steps of the overpass.
The whole damn city was losing its mind.
Sirens wailed like a chorus of mourners. Human screams. The sickening crunch of collapsing buildings. Underneath it all, a low, guttural growling that raised the hairs on your neck – all mixed into a gruesome apocalyptic stew.
I walked through it deaf and blind. The lamentations. The chaos. None of it touched me. My stage had just one scene left.
Chen Mo.
My "dear" fiancé.
You better fucking hold on.
Wait for me.
Wait for me to put the final, gloriously bloody punctuation mark on your little drama.
We still have an account to settle.
That "wedding gift" I so thoughtfully prepared for you – that extra-special Braised Chicken – you probably haven't had a chance to fully… *appreciate* it yet, have you?
Subway ventilation shaft.
Dark. Damp. Reeking of sewer sludge and decay.
Tch.
Makes a perfect little grave for you.
I could practically see his pathetic state: Cowering in some filthy duct corner, clutching that oozing, black-blood mess on his wrist, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Desperately praying for divine intervention, just like… just like that pathetic little spark of hope I'd stupidly clung to when Lin Wei shoved me into the teeth of the horde.
But here's the thing, Chen Mo.
Chen Mo.
This time?
Nobody's coming.
Not even the gods could save you now.
My hand in my pocket brushed against something cold and hard. The folding knife lifted from his bag. The metal's chill seeped through the fabric, sinking into my skin.
Weird.
That coldness actually settled my raging nerves. Just a fraction.
He'd never see it coming.
The thing he bought to look tough, to "protect" himself.
In the end.
It'd be used on its owner.
The entrance to the downtown subway station, usually a crushing tide of humanity, was eerily deserted. The turnstiles lay in mangled ruins. Shards of glass glittered amidst dark, sticky smears on the floor like a macabre abstract painting. The air hung thick and cloying – a nauseating cocktail of sweat, rust, and the cloying sweetness of fresh blood, underpinned by a deeper stench of decay. Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by a distant, rhythmic thud… thud… thud… that vibrated in your bones.
I moved like a shadow, hugging the cold, grimy tile walls. Target locked: the massive ventilation grate at Exit C. It gaped like the maw of some subterranean beast, exhaling gusts of damp, earth-smelling air. I'd crawled through it in my last life, fleeing for my life. A labyrinth of pipes. The perfect place to hide… and to despair.
About ten meters from the grate, a sound cut through the stillness. Muffled, broken. A whimper mixed with the unmistakable *chatter* of teeth knocking together.
*"Ugh… sss… hurts… goddamn… s-so… thirsty…"*
Chen Mo! His voice was thready, weak as a mosquito's whine. Laced with tears and the raw scrape of someone dehydrated from… well, let's just say that Braised Chicken packed a punch.
I didn't break stride. Slid soundlessly behind a thick support pillar. Peered around its edge.
*Well, well.*
Huddled in the deep shadow beneath the vent grate was a shivering figure. Chen Mo. No mistaking him. He was curled into a tight ball against the cold metal grating, like a boiled shrimp. His once-prissy light shirt was a crumpled, filthy mess, smeared with dark grease and ominous stains. His left hand clamped desperately over his right wrist; thick, dark, almost black blood oozed between his fingers. Wrong blood.
His face was a sickly greyish-white, lips cracked and peeling. Sweat beaded on his temples, carving dirty tracks down his cheeks. His legs were clamped tight, body jerking with involuntary spasms, each one punctuated by a low, guttural groan of pain. The "last meal" and the wrist wound were clearly tag-teaming him towards oblivion.
*"Water… water…"* he rasped, his eyes scouring the filthy ground with desperate hope.
Just then!
A half-crushed plastic water bottle rolled into view nearby. Maybe a mouthful sloshing inside.
Chen Mo's dull eyes snapped wide, suddenly blazing with the intensity of a drowning man spotting driftwood. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, stretching a grimy hand towards the bottle, dignity and caution utterly forgotten.
His filthy fingertips were mere centimeters from the plastic…
*"Tch."*
A sharp, derisive click of the tongue shattered the dead silence. Like a pebble dropped into a still pond.
Chen Mo froze. Utterly. Like someone hit pause. He remained in that ludicrous, scrabbling pose, his neck creaking as he turned his head with agonizing slowness.
When his eyes finally focused on me – leaning casually against the pillar, arms crossed, watching him with detached amusement – time seemed to stop.
The expression that flickered across his face was a masterpiece of human misery. First, wild, disbelieving relief (*a savior?*). Then, shock so profound it was almost comical (*her?*). A flash of guilty, betrayer's fear skittered through his eyes. And finally, it all collapsed into an ashen, bottomless pit of despair.
*"Wan… Wanzhao?"* His voice was a broken tremble. His bloodshot eyes bulged. *"You… how… how did you… get here?"*
I didn't move. Still leaning against the icy concrete. I tilted my head, studying him like a fascinating specimen. Slowly, deliberately, a cold smile curved my lips.
*"Me?"* I let out a soft, humorless laugh. The sound cut through the silence like shards of ice. *"I'm here to bring you some 'water,' Mo-ge."* My gaze dropped, pointedly, to the half-empty bottle lying just beyond his desperate reach.
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