Chapter 28: The Confrontation

"To the door, get to the door!"

"No, I can't make it—turn left! There's a supply room, it's safe in there!"

"Hurry, hurry! It’s catching up!"

Greyhound handed his arm to the underling who had rescued him, holding the flashlight steady to light their way as they stumbled along. He could feel the underling’s strain and hear the heavy, labored breathing; the man was surely injured as well.

Even in such a dire situation, though he couldn't find the words to express his gratitude, Greyhound’s eyes welled with tears. To risk one's life for a rescue in such a desperate plight—what kind of bond was this? This was a true brother.

He felt a pang of intense regret for having abandoned the man earlier, loathing himself for his own selfishness. If he made it out alive, he would surely etch this kindness into his heart. From now on, even if he only had one bite of food left, he would never let this man go hungry.

The underling pried the door to the supply room open, and Greyhound lunged inside, scrambling to the furthest corner. Without needing a reminder, the underling slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place.

The terrifying sound of the pursuit reached the door just a second later, then abruptly stopped, as if the pursuer had vanished into thin air.

Greyhound climbed onto a pile of debris, finding a stable spot to sit, his body still trembling uncontrollably from fear. *Try to strangle me? Not in this lifetime!*

Even if they couldn't get out, as long as they hid here until dawn, the people at the base would surely come looking for them once they realized they hadn't returned. Then... well, he would worry about that later. Brother Qiang was dead, too; he wondered if that position would be left to him, given how well he knew the smuggling business...

The prospect of surviving the ordeal cleared Greyhound’s mind. Numb with pain, he wiped his face, shaking off sweat, grime, and rainwater. Shivering from the chill of the supply room, he eagerly began to make promises.

"Brother, brother... I owe you my life! I swear, from now on, as long as I—"

"Where is she?"

"What?"

His "good brother" suddenly lunged at him. "What did you do to her? Where is she?"

In the faint light at the edge of the flashlight's beam, Greyhound realized that the person before him was not his underling at all.

The man reeked of a pile of corpses. His face was caked in mud, and his eyes—burning with an intensity that seemed to spit fire—stared out like someone crawling back from the grave. The stranger tried to grab his throat, but his legs gave out, and he slipped on the pile of debris.

Greyhound reacted instantly, using all his strength to shove the seemingly powerful, yet utterly exhausted stranger to the ground. He reached for his waist, drew his pistol, and leveled it at the man.

"So you’re that rat! Did you lead that monster here? I’ll finish you off!"

Facing the threat, Shi Rang showed no fear. He propped himself up, one hand reaching toward the door of the supply room. When Greyhound saw his hand hovering over the bolt, he felt a jolt of horror—the man had only latched it halfway; it would fly open with a single pull.

Compared to this mysterious stranger, the terrifying monster outside was far more chilling to Greyhound. He could shoot this guy, but who knew if the man’s hand would pull the bolt down as he fell?

The monster was right outside, waiting, eager to replicate the strangulation it had displayed earlier on Greyhound. Why hadn't it killed this rat?

"I know the thing outside wants to tear you to pieces, but you can't die yet. I'm not here to kill you; I just need to know where she is!"

"Who the hell knows who you're talking about?"

"April 14th, 1662. You stole a girl's bag at Central Park in Yunling City!"

"I've stolen tons of things! How the hell should I remember something from two years ago?"

"She went missing!"

"None of my damn business! I'm just a thief!"

Greyhound was at his limit. As the adrenaline faded, the pain in his broken leg brought sweat to his brow, and his body shook so violently he could barely hold the gun.

Two years ago, he had been a small-time hood, not involved in any serious business, just doing petty thefts all day. There was little profit, and he was constantly getting beaten up at the station. Eventually, he had joined the organization’s "legitimate" business under Brother Qiang.

This guy had tracked him from Yunling City all the way to Pingyuan City, broken into the factory, and saved him from a monster, all for this nonsense? The man was a lunatic, a complete madman!

"It was you, I know it was you, it had to be you..."

Seeing the man muttering to himself, clearly ready to open the door and perish alongside him, Greyhound panicked. With the gun in his hand, he was the one who felt vulnerable.

"Wait, wait! Let's talk this out!" Greyhound hurried to say. "That girl you mentioned... what did she look like? Maybe I can remember!"

"When you were running away with her bag, you passed by the lake in Central Park. You startled a flock of birds, got swarmed, and ended up in the hospital—"

"Bullshit! I never had anything like that happen! There are plenty of thieves in Yunling City, don't pin this crap on me!"

"Then where did the scars on your body come from?"

Greyhound instinctively glanced at his arm.

The flashlight barely lit the room, allowing them to see some details as their eyes adjusted to the dark. It was true: Greyhound’s arms, face, and head, which were exposed, were covered in short, jagged scars—and under his clothes, he was covered in them as well. Even though he always bragged to others that he got them shielding Brother Qiang from blades or fighting others, he knew deep down that knife wounds couldn't be this numerous or this short.

So, where did these scars come from?

"...Right, I remember now. It wasn't any bird pecking. I got knocked out in the park that day, and when I woke up, I was already at the station. It must have been the cops poking me with something. I didn't even steal anything that day!"

"Impossible!"

"What do you want? Did you come here just to die with me? If you want to die, don't drag me down with you. Get out, or I'll shoot you! Get out!"

Greyhound nervously pointed the gun at him, though his aim was terrible, and his mind was clouded by pain and shaking arms. He even doubted he could hit a target five meters away.

If he couldn't hit his target, he couldn't afford to fire; once it was revealed he missed, he was a dead man.

However, when he looked into the man’s eyes, he realized the stranger wasn't afraid of the gun. Those eyes were filled with resentment and an unshakable obsession. Faced with such resolve, the gun was nothing more than a stick. If the man decided Greyhound was his enemy, he would fight to the bitter end, even if it meant mutual destruction.

This was a man who didn't care about his own life.

Greyhound trembled in the silence. When the madman suddenly raised his hand, Greyhound nearly fell off the debris pile in fright.

Yet, as if remembering something, the man’s spirit suddenly collapsed. The light in his eyes faded, and he simply opened the door and walked out.

There was no one outside, and the footsteps soon faded into the distance.

Watching the door swing shut on its own, Greyhound finally relaxed, his heart slowing. Groaning in pain, he sat on the pile of debris, panting until he regained his composure.

This still wasn't safe.

Before the man could have another episode and return, Greyhound slid off the debris pile, intending to bolt the door properly.

During their shouting match, the omen of impending death had lessened—Greyhound had learned enough to know this meant the thing had moved away. If he didn't bolt the door now, when would he?

He was going to hide here until dawn!

Greyhound didn't want to crawl, as that would drag his injured leg. He braced himself against a rack, using all his strength to stand.

Just as he reached out with his other hand to steady himself, his palm landed in a pool of standing water.

He had changed out of his wet clothes a while ago. Did this drip off that madman?

Looking closer, he realized the entire floor of the supply room was covered in water. He remembered stumbling when he first entered; he had touched the water then, too.

A cold breeze licked Greyhound’s ankle. The omen of death returned instantly, tightening around his throat.

How could there be a breeze inside?

*Scritch, scritch...*

Greyhound turned his head slowly, movement by movement.

In the corner of the supply room, a large crate piled with debris was shifting inward. Behind it, a hand was visible, along with a hollowed-out gap in the wall leading to the outside—and a face identical to Greyhound’s own.

That spot had once been a ventilation shaft. But after all these years, the vent had long since been blocked off.

It turned out this wasn't an enclosed space.

And it was about to crawl inside.