The first streak of morning sunlight slipped through the window, drawing a pale line across the floor—if there had been any sunlight at all.
Unfortunately, this was Twenty-Third Alley. The sky here always wore a scowl.
What woke Ke Ming wasn't warmth or light.
It was the cold glint of a knife in the Head Chef's hand.
"Brat. We're going out."
"Huh…?"
Like grabbing a chicken, the man hooked Ke Ming by his left hand and yanked him up, his legs dragging across the floor.
The last scraps of sleep were blasted out of Ke Ming by pain. His injured hand was wrenched again—salt poured into an open wound.
He twisted hard, catching a gap when the cook shoved the door open, and his feet finally found the ground.
"Ss… hhh…"
After a moment, he shook off the man's half-grip. A clear red welt cinched his wrist, and the white bandage on his hand was already seeping—whatever had started to heal had been torn open again.
"What are you standing there for? Move." The Head Chef, already on the stairs, barked down at him with a snarl.
Ke Ming hurried after him at a small run, pulling the door shut behind them on instinct.
"Head Chef—the door…"
"What door?" The Head Chef rolled his shoulder impatiently; cartilage ground with a sharp click. "I'm the only one living in this building."
Then he rattled off the layout like it was nothing.
"Restaurant on the first floor. Storage on the second. Living space on the third."
Following him down to the second floor corner, Ke Ming saw stains appear on what had been clean walls. The corridor stank—rank and fishy, like old blood left too long in a warm room.
"Get in. We're processing today's ingredients."
Only then did Ke Ming notice the sack slung over the Head Chef's right shoulder—probably what he'd hauled back last night.
"Still fresh," the man said, pleased with himself. "Stored well. Lucky."
He shoved a door open.
The hallway beyond was long and narrow, sinking into shadow. At the far end, the wall around the turn was hung with tools—long saws, broad cleavers, all kinds of blades.
Along both sides were five or six doors in neat symmetry, each sealed behind iron bars.
Ke Ming got shoved forward and stumbled into the corridor. The motion-sensor light snapped on overhead, and the world inside those barred doors came into view.
People.
A warehouse that looked like a prison—packed with blood-soaked bodies missing arms and legs. If not for the occasional blink, the faint rise and fall of a chest, you'd have taken them for corpses.
Ke Ming clamped a hand over his mouth. His knees went soft and he collapsed to the floor.
The Head Chef seemed delighted by the reaction. He patted Ke Ming's head, then strode into the second door on the left and smashed the sack down with a vicious thud.
"Go grab a knife. I'll teach you how to process ingredients."
Ke Ming nodded like a puppet, eyes unfocused. He drifted toward the end of the corridor and only started to come back to himself when he reached the wall of tools.
I should've known. A butcher psycho's 'warehouse' was never going to be a normal warehouse.
It's not storage—it's a killer's jail.
He lifted his head and stared at the hanging implements: choppers, saws—dozens of them.
After a brief hesitation, he stood on tiptoe and reached for a medium-length blade.
Maybe it hadn't been hung properly. Maybe it was designed that way.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the blade didn't even wobble.
It dropped.
Ke Ming flinched back reflexively—and the blade plunged straight into the cement floor.
"Hahahahahaha!"
The Head Chef's shrill laugh echoed down the empty corridor.
"Pick it up. Come on—pick it up."
Ke Ming glanced over his shoulder at the man's crooked grin, grit his teeth, and wrapped his right hand around the hilt. He pulled.
The handle wiggled twice—out of sheer politeness.
"Two hands," the Head Chef said lazily. "That's what I left you hands for."
Then, with open contempt:
"Take the bandage off. Quit dawdling."
Whoosh—!
The Head Chef's cleaver flashed past Ke Ming's ear, slicing across the raised bandage on his left hand. A violent gust of air slapped his face.
The bandage split and spilled to the ground in strips. The cleaver's tip buried itself in the wall, adding a fresh puncture to the already battered concrete.
"Ah."
Ke Ming's blade slipped. Unable to support its weight, the handle shuddered—and the blade clattered to the floor at an angle.
"What are you staring at? Pick it back up."
Still stunned, Ke Ming scrambled forward on hands and knees, reaching for the cleaver instead.
He grabbed at it—his right hand and the three remaining fingers on his left straining together.
It didn't budge.
"Forget it," the Head Chef said with a snort. "If you can even lift the one in front of you, that's already impressive."
He stepped in, pinched the cleaver up with one hand as if it weighed nothing—two fingers hooked around the handle—and gave it a casual wag.
"Move. Customers won't wait."
Ke Ming managed to drag his own long blade up, the tip scraping along the floor as he inched forward.
"Head Chef… what am I supposed to do?"
"Watch."
The Head Chef grabbed a corner of the sack and gave it a shake.
A body tumbled out—eyes closed, soaked in blood.
Frowning, the Head Chef flipped the person over and leaned close, studying the deep dent in the back of the skull.
"Good. Still got a little breath."
The cleaver fell.
The head came off at the neck.
Then the Head Chef's arms blurred—two cuts at the shoulder and neck joint, flip the body, two more—clean, efficient, practiced.
Silver light danced in the air. Blood burst outward in bright arcs. Metal and red merged together, spattering across the Head Chef's clothes.
In moments, a living human was reduced to pieces.
Ke Ming fought down the urge to vomit. He couldn't take it anymore—he squeezed his eyes shut.
"Open them. Watch closely."
A light kick to his leg.
It wasn't hard, but it didn't need to be.
"Can't do it? That's normal," the Head Chef said, almost conversational. "Just do something simple to that pile over there."
Ke Ming opened his eyes.
The meat and skin had already been separated. The skin lay in a soft heap, limp and folded, reeking of fresh blood.
He looked to the side—at what the Head Chef had just called "ingredients."
As expected.
A living person.
A boy—teenage, maybe. The kind of age that should've been in school. Now he lay half-dead in this butcher's prison, waiting on a chopping block.
"Come on," the Head Chef said, impatient. "One cut. Just put it into the throat."
Ke Ming shook his head hard.
That was a human life.
He couldn't kill someone just because the Head Chef told him to.
A scream ripped out of him.
His left pinky was severed clean at the root.
"You don't want to do it?" the Head Chef said lightly. "Fine. Then you switch places with him."
"I'll do it!" Ke Ming blurted, voice cracking.
Clenching through the pain, he dragged the blade to the boy.
I can't. I can't take someone's life just to save myself.
He raised the blade with both hands. The tip shook uncontrollably.
Veins stood out at his temple. Sweat poured down his face.
"…Ha."
He let go.
The blade crashed to the floor with a heavy clang.
"Made your choice?" The Head Chef stopped what he was doing and turned his head.
Ke Ming swallowed, forcing words out through a trembling throat.
"The knife… it's too heavy. I can't lift it."
The Head Chef stared at him with a smile that wasn't a smile.
"Middle and ring finger still have some strength," he said softly. "Lose one more…"
He leaned in.
"You'll be worth the same as an ingredient."
His blood-smeared face hovered inches away. The cleaver rested on Ke Ming's shoulder like a casual hand.
"I… I…"
"Head Chef!" Ke Ming choked out. "Give me one more chance—please!"
His whole body shook. His back was already soaked through with sweat.
Pain from the severed finger shoved at his consciousness. The heaps of meat around him filled his vision and made his stomach lurch.
His eyes were bloodshot. A raw, primal dread crawled up his spine.
I'll die if I don't do it.
I'll really die.
And still—he couldn't swing the blade.
The Head Chef spoke, almost thoughtfully.
"Meat might not taste great. But if you carve the limbs apart one by one, peel the skin and fascia layer by layer… the fear and pain make wonderful seasoning."
He means it.
He'll kill me.
Ke Ming squeezed his eyes shut.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…
A wet shhk.
The blade's sharp tip punched into the boy's windpipe. Bloody bubbles foamed out of the wound.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—please…
The tip sank deeper.
The boy's throat worked reflexively, a choking sound leaking out—
and then nothing.
Ke Ming dropped the blade and collapsed onto the floor.
Blood ran down the edge of the knife, winding across the concrete in a thin, crawling line, until it reached the toe of Ke Ming's shoe.
It stopped there.
He raised a trembling hand.
I…
I killed someone?
…
This was daily life in Twenty-Third Alley.
-------
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