On the other side of the city, the old canning factory was shrouded in a curtain of rain.
The cold chain truck slowly drove in, its tires rolling over puddles, spraying water that glistened with an eerie sheen.
The truck door opened, and driver Old Zhang and porter Wang jumped out. Rain hit their raincoats with a dense "pitter-patter" sound.
"Creak—"
Accompanied by an ear-piercing "creak," the cabinet door slowly opened, and a bone-chilling cold air rushed from the depths of the compartment, carrying with it the scent of cold and stillness.
The deep hum of the refrigeration unit inside the compartment was magnified several times, as the cold air lingered and condensed into a thin mist.
The glass walls were covered in frozen blood frost, forming strange patterns, with their reflections mirrored in the frosted glass, faces suddenly terrified.
"Wha... what is that?"
Wang's voice trembled, pointing at the flesh and blood pressed against the glass.
