Chapter 337: Bell

At the other end of the city, an old, rundown cannery was shrouded in the curtain of rain.

A refrigerated truck rolled in slowly, its tires crushing through puddles, the splashing water flecked with an uncanny oily sheen.

The cab door swung open and the driver, Old Zhang, and the loader, Xiao Wang, hopped down. Rain hammered their raincoats in a dense patter.

"Creak—"

Accompanying a shrill creak, the cabinet door slowly opened, and instantly a bone-chilling cold surged out from deep inside the cargo hold, carrying the smell of cold and deathly stillness.

The low hum of the refrigeration unit inside the cargo hold was amplified several times over, the cold air curling through the space and condensing into a thin veil of mist.

Frozen blood-frost coated the glass walls, forming eerie patterns; the two men's reflections stared back from the frosted glass, their faces instantly flooding with terror.

"Wh-what the hell is that thing?"

Xiao Wang's voice trembled as he pointed at the bloody, mangled mass pressed against the glass.

Old Zhang raised his flashlight, the beam cutting through the swirling cold.

Among that pile of frozen fish, a round, rolling thing lay quietly.

It was a human head, eyelashes and brows crusted with fine ice crystals, the back of the skull blown open into a cavity, frozen blood clinging to the remaining scalp and hair like a layer of dark-red glaze.

Even more hair-raising was that the corners of the head's mouth were slightly upturned, as though it were in the middle of an unfinished dream—or had just solved some puzzle.

Old Zhang's voice came out so dry it didn't sound like his own: "Looks like a human head."

"No… no way? Did you load this thing onto our truck?"

Xiao Wang went deathly pale, backing away while staring at Old Zhang, his eyes brimming with wariness and distrust.

Old Zhang whipped his head around, snarling: "Bullshit! Why the hell would I load something like this!?"

Old Zhang's flashlight was shaking, the beam jittering across the head: "It wasn't you who put it there, was it?"

Xiao Wang's breathing turned ragged: "Have I lost my mind? Load a human head onto the truck?"

A brief silence settled between the two men, only the hum of the refrigeration unit echoing through the cramped space.

Xiao Wang's trembling hand reached for his trouser pocket; the moment his phone's screen lit up, Old Zhang slammed a hand down on it, the force so heavy that Xiao Wang nearly dropped the phone.

"What are you doing?"

Xiao Wang froze, instinctively glaring at Old Zhang: "Report it, what else!"

"Report what?" Old Zhang's words were almost squeezed out from between his teeth.

He gripped Xiao Wang's wrist in a death hold, his gaze dark, his voice dropping another notch,

"When the constables come, can you explain it clearly? If they press us on where the rest of the body is, can we produce it?"

At those words, Xiao Wang felt a wave of numbness sweep through his whole body, as though a stone were lodged in his throat.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty, his voice smaller than a mosquito's: "Th-then what do we do?"

"Nothing!"

Old Zhang clenched his jaw, a vicious edge creeping into his voice,

"Pretend we didn't see a damn thing. Hurry up, unload the cargo, don't go looking for trouble."

Half an hour later, the workshop's assembly line began to run.

Mechanical arms fed the rock-hard "natural fresh meat" along with the synthetic frozen fish into the meat grinder; the massive gears began to turn, emitting a low, rumbling roar.

The instant the gears meshed, the muffled crunch of flesh parting from bone was completely swallowed by the machine's noise.

Crimson meat pulp flowed slowly through the pipes into the cans; beside the line, female workers in masks repeated the sealing motions with numb, downcast eyes.

Their gazes were hollow, their movements stiff; none spared a glance at what was inside the cans, as if none of it had anything to do with them.

Outside the window, the downpour continued.

Rain drummed against the tin roof in a frantic patter, like a warning—or a desperate whisper.

The workshop's cold white floodlights washed the entire factory floor in a bleak pallor; the light thrown onto the outer wall revealed a long-peeling, mottled slogan still faintly legible: "Natural Ingredients, The Healthy Choice."

Rainwater streamed down the wall, gathering into the drainage ditch outside the workshop, carrying away a few wisps of dark-red liquid that seeped into the city's vast veins—the sewer system…

In the old family quarters leaning against the cannery, Han Zheng dragged his exhausted body through puddle after puddle, water splashing onto his trouser cuffs, the chill creeping up his legs and into his heart.

He kept his head down, his suit all wrinkled, his briefcase clamped tight under his arm, the umbrella in his hand tilted at a crooked angle, yet the rain still mercilessly soaked his face and shoulders.

He looked up, taking in the surroundings so familiar they sickened him—those mottled walls, those windows on the verge of collapse, those rust-eaten iron doors—and an unspeakable irritation welled up inside him.

From childhood on, his whole family had lived under the shadow of this cannery.

Father, mother, and later he and his brother once they grew up—all became workers at the cannery. Day after day, mechanical labor.

Canned goods were a permanent fixture on the family dinner table, to the point that now the mere smell of canned food made Han Zheng want to throw up; he'd rather die than set foot inside the cannery.

After paying a certain price, he succeeded: he got into the government administration building and became a glorious temporary worker in the prison system department.

"Damned prison department, working me like a beast every day, even blacker than the cannery."

Han Zheng muttered as he walked, his grievances laced with helplessness,

"At least the cannery hands out some canned goods, but these leaders only know how to…"

Every chapter, every first release, every piece of content—right here!

His voice was drowned by the rain; the alley's stone-brick path was slick and muddy, his leather shoes squelching through the puddles with a low "squish, squish."

His suit trousers were soaked through, rainwater seeping down the legs onto his skin, cold and miserable, but he couldn't be bothered to stop and tidy up—he just wanted to get home fast and toss this wretched night out of his mind.

When he turned the third alley corner, his steps suddenly halted.

A bare electrical wire hung down across the middle of the road, like a snake lying in wait, swaying faintly in the wind, its tip occasionally spitting tiny sparks that crackled in the rainy night—dangerous as could be.

The wire wasn't all that far from the ground, and the small puddles the rain had gathered into were like traps hiding lethal intent; one careless slip and the misfortune of electrocution would strike.

Han Zheng frowned, staring at the wire, muttering:

"These power poles are always falling into disrepair—every time it rains, somebody accidentally gets electrocuted to death. And the people up top? They never lift a finger, hmph—"

He grumbled a few more resentful words, then fished out his phone, intending to call the police.

But he glanced at the screen—only 3% battery left—and finally sighed, slipping the phone back.

"Forget it, I'll just wait for someone else to call the police."

Han Zheng muttered self-deprecatingly in a low voice, shaking his head.

"It's not like it'll electrocute me to death anyway."

Just as he was preparing to step around the wire, a strange whistling sound pierced his eardrums.

The sound seemed to come from very far away, yet also as if it rang out directly inside his mind.

Han Zheng's eyelids grew heavy of their own accord, and he staggered beneath his feet.

Han Zheng jolted awake with a start, a chill of dread running through his heart.

However, it was already too late—in the very instant he struggled to steady his center of gravity, the leather shoe beneath his foot stepped on a loose stone. He lost his balance, his body pitching forward uncontrollably.

At the same time, the briefcase in his hand slipped free, tracing an arc through the air and slamming into a nearby utility pole.

The metal thermos inside the bag tumbled out, skipping across the puddle in a deadly series of stone-skips.

Han Zheng crashed heavily into the standing water, mud splattering in all directions, instantly turning his suit into a complete mess.

He tried to get up, but felt his entire body as though it had been frozen solid.

Fear seized his nerves; his pupils dilated infinitely in the gloom, reflecting that slowly rolling thermos—the stainless steel surface flashing with a cold light reflected from the electric arc.

…………

(End of Chapter)