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Join the ServerShe thought of her daytime self. That gentle voice. Those warm hands. Those words: “Don’t be afraid.”
All of it was fake.
The daytime her was a lie. The nighttime her was the real one.
She was just that woman’s disguise, that woman’s mask, that woman’s shell.
The real her was the one at night.
The one who treated her like a dog. The one who put a rope around her neck.
The one who bit her ear.
Poured alcohol on her wounds.
Watched her hurt.
The one who said, “If you die, the daytime me will be sad.”
Not because she would be sad if she died.
Because the daytime her would be sad.
The daytime her was her mask. If the mask broke, she couldn’t pretend anymore.
She wasn’t sad for her.
She was sad for her mask.
Su Yutao lay on the ground, curled into a ball.
She didn’t know what she was.
Not a person, not a dog. An object.
A plaything that woman kept.
Luo Qianning said, “Let me borrow her for a while,” and that woman said, “I hate it when people touch my things.”
She was a thing.
Just a thing.
She lay on the ground, waiting for dawn.
Waiting for the daytime her to wake up. Waiting for her to call her “Xiaotao” in that gentle voice. Waiting for her to ask if she was hungry. Waiting for her to apply medicine, cover her with a blanket, say “Don’t be afraid.”
She didn’t know if it was real or fake.
She only knew she had to live.
Only by living could she go back.
She lay on the ground, hugging herself, waiting.
Waiting for dawn.
Waiting for that gentle person to return.
Or for that person’s “shell” to return…
***
Meanwhile, at the other end.
The alley had gone quiet.
The thugs were still lying on the ground. Some were moaning. Some were unconscious. Some were curled up in a corner, trembling.
Blood covered the ground, black and thick under the streetlight, like spilled ink.
The night wind blew, bringing the smell of blood and the sour stench from a distant trash can.
After about twenty minutes, footsteps came from the alley entrance.
Not one person. Several. Very steady, very light, as if trained.
The footsteps grew closer. Several figures walked into the alley from the entrance.
They were all wearing black jumpsuits and gas masks with black lenses that reflected the streetlight.
The leader carried a silver case. Two people behind him carried black body bags. The last person held an expandable baton.
The thug huddled in the corner was still conscious.
When he saw someone coming, his eyes lit up. He pushed himself up against the wall. “H-help… Someone… help me…”
His voice was hoarse and broken, like someone was strangling him.
The leader walked up to him and looked down.
The thug looked up, his face a mess of tears and snot. His mouth opened, trying to say something.
The leader pulled the baton from behind him. With a flick, *click*, it extended.
The thug’s eyes changed from hope to fear. “You… you…”
The baton came down.
A dull thud.
The thug’s voice cut off. His head lolled to the side. His body went limp, slid to the ground, and stopped moving.
The leader retracted the baton, shook off the blood, and said calmly, “This one isn’t dead. Finish it.”
Two people came over. One crouched down, checked the thug’s pulse, then pulled a syringe from his waist pouch, jabbed it into the thug’s neck, and pushed the plunger all the way.
The thug’s body convulsed once, then went still.
The other person opened a body bag. Together they lifted the man in and zipped it shut.
The leader walked around the alley, checking each thug.
The one with the broken arm was already unconscious. He bent down, checked for breath, stood up, and shook his head.
The one knocked out by the brick lay motionless. He kicked him. No response. He shook his head again.
The one whose ear was cut off was still whimpering. He crouched down, looked at the bloody face, and clicked his tongue. “This one’s still awake.”
He stood up, lifted his foot, and stomped on the thug’s neck. *Crack.*
The whimpering stopped.
He pulled his foot back, shook the blood off his shoe, and said to the others, “All done.”
“Load them up.”
Two people acknowledged and began stuffing the thugs into body bags.
One, two, three, four.
The sound of zippers closing echoed in the alley several times, like zipping up suitcases.
The leader leaned against the wall, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a drag.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and said to his colleague who was loading the last bag, “Ah, having to clean up in the middle of the night. What a pain in the ass.”
The person loading the last bag didn’t look up. He zipped it shut, patted his hands, and stood up. “Hey, don’t even mention it.”
“I heard from my uncle’s second aunt’s third cousin’s aunt that it was those two who fought.”
The leader paused. “Those two?”
The bagger hoisted the body bag onto his shoulder, walked past the leader, and lowered his voice even more:
“The ones they say.”
“And they were fighting over something. Quite a ruckus.”
“The higher-ups aren’t happy. Might investigate.”
“Forget it, forget it. Let’s not talk too much. We’re just grunts.”
“Knowing too much doesn’t do us any good.”
“Stuff like this, the less you know, the better.”
The leader curled his lip.
“Screw that. If you don’t know, just say you don’t know. No need to act all mysterious.”
They didn’t speak anymore.
They threw the body bags into the van and closed the door.
The leader tossed his cigarette butt on the ground, ground it out with his foot, opened the driver’s door, and sat down.
The bagger walked around to the passenger side and got in.
The sound of doors closing echoed once in the alley. Then the engine started. The headlights came on.
The van slowly pulled out of the alley, turned onto the main road, and disappeared into the night.
The alley was empty.
Bloodstains remained on the ground, black and shiny under the streetlight.
There were pits in the wall from the bricks, scratch marks from fingernails, and a severed ear.
The night wind blew, swept up the cigarette butt on the ground, rolled it twice, and stopped by the drain.
The alley was quiet.
As if nothing had happened.
***
The next day.
Sunlight slipped through the gaps in the curtains, falling warm on the bed.
Lin Qingxue turned over and reached out to the side.
Empty.
The blanket was thrown open. On the pillow, there was no white hair, no small figure curled into a ball.
She froze for a moment, opened her eyes, and slowly sat up.
Her head hurt a little. Her temples throbbed, like someone was pricking them with needles.
She rubbed her temples and tried to remember yesterday.
Yesterday… she had the day off. She stayed home with Xiaotao.
Xiaotao fell asleep.
Then… then Zhou Ye came?
She frowned. There was a blurry memory in her mind: Zhou Ye drinking in the living room, his face red, talking loudly.
And then?
Then she couldn’t remember.
The headache worsened, like something was clogged inside. The more she tried to remember, the more it hurt.
She shook her head and stopped thinking.
She threw off the covers and got out of bed, her feet touching the floor.
Then she saw it.
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