The Backstreets have a strict hierarchy.
The exact rules aren't identical from alley to alley—especially in freakish places like Alley Twenty-Three, even by City standards.
But no matter where you go, from the filthiest street corner to the widest road, you'll always find rats.
At the very bottom, only huddling together for warmth gives you any chance of surviving.
Under normal circumstances, anything belonging to the Head Chef would never have been on their "menu"…
…
Ke Ming's right hand was tied to a pillar, his whole body hoisted high off the ground.
His oversized prosthetic arm hung at his side, the tips of its fingers resting on the floor.
Am I going to die…?
These bottom-feeders of Alley Twenty-Three were no saints. Most of the missing-person cold cases around here were probably their work—unlike chefs, they had no need to hide their tracks. Chefs tended to come openly.
Still, there weren't many offices willing to take commissions tied to Alley Twenty-Three, so the rats actually lived pretty well here—
compared to other alleys.
Ke Ming swayed in midair. After struggling for so long, he couldn't even open his mouth anymore.
On the floor lay several crooked, sprawled corpses. Rats were good at using every scrap—at the very least, they wouldn't let the Scavengers get it for free.
Just like Ke Ming hanging above them—food set aside to "get through winter."
"Caught one alive?"
A hoarse voice came from beyond the iron door—grating, but not hollow like a crow's caw. It carried a strange weight.
"Yeah, Pop! Alive!"
Noisy voices immediately overlapped—young men talking over each other.
"Quiet, kids. Explain it clearly."
"So… something happened around those streets near Xin Xu Yuan, right? Me and the boys figured we'd go see if there was an opportunity."
The middle-aged man paused, scratched his head.
"Then we ran into this little thing on the way. He tripped, and he passed out."
"And you picked him up and brought him back?"
"Heh-heh. Only lost a few brothers. And look how soft and tender—he's definitely—"
"Shut up."
The owner of the voice pushed the door open. The rusted iron groaned with a teeth-souring screech.
"Put him down."
"But—"
"Put him down. That's an order."
"…Fine, Pop."
…
Ke Ming opened his eyes. This time, he wasn't staring at the ceiling.
A huge, wrinkled face hovered right in front of him.
"Kid. You awake?"
He couldn't remember when he'd blacked out. Maybe this dead old bastard did it—but when you're under someone else's roof, you swallow your pride. He nodded.
From the old man's tone, acting like a well-behaved child seemed… appropriate.
"You remember me…? No—forget it. Big shots like you would never remember rats like us, hiding in corners and shadows."
The old man gave a bitter chuckle—an uglier sound than a crow.
He hobbled a couple steps, and only then did Ke Ming notice: the old man's left leg had been cut off mid-thigh. His pant leg dangled empty.
I really don't remember seeing him… but maybe I should play along…
"You're… from that day…"
Ke Ming hesitated as he sat up. The cold floor dug painfully into his back.
"Yes. Yes. Yes. It's me."
Suddenly the old man seemed possessed—eyes wide, turning in circles.
He raised both hands and waved them at the ceiling.
His lips split into a toothless grin. Saliva trailed from the corners of his mouth, hanging in strings.
A middle-aged man rushed in and gently patted his back.
"Pop—Pop!"
The old man snapped back to himself, rubbed his eyes.
"Sorry—made you laugh, hee-hee-hee." He suddenly hopped forward, shoved his face close to Ke Ming's, and tilted his head. "Not bad. Really not bad!"
Then he whipped his head around and grinned at the man:
"Pretty good kid. How do you want to eat him?"
Ke Ming clenched his teeth as the withered old creep pawed at his head.
A sour sweat-stench mixed with rot kept forcing its way into his nose.
Compared to the Chef's storeroom, the smell here was even harder to endure—at least after you got used to blood, it almost tasted… sweet.
"Ugh…"
The disgusting odor made Ke Ming lightheaded. It was hard to focus.
The old man was skin and bone, his eyeballs bulging.
He pinched Ke Ming's ear hard and tugged at it like it was nothing.
"Good meat. Tender. Such a good kid."
He glanced at Ke Ming's pupils, widened in anger, and laughed darkly.
"You call him… Pop?"
Ke Ming forced the words out through clenched teeth, doing his best to calm down.
Clearly, the Xin Xu Yuan uniform hadn't intimidated them at all—these rats were desperadoes dancing on knife-edges. Their life's dream was to eat one decent meal.
To them, dying full was still a profit.
"Good boy. Tsk-tsk-tsk."
Like teasing a puppy, the old man pinched Ke Ming's cheek and poked his nose.
Ke Ming fought down the urge to punch him. He forced a stupid grin.
"Heh… heh…"
He shut his eyes and held his breath, refusing to acknowledge the pedophile old freak in front of him.
My body hasn't fully recovered. My right hand's been tied too long—I can't feel it.
There are too many people outside. I can't handle it alone. I have to endure.
…
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A crisp knocking suddenly sounded.
Something hard scraped against the iron door, producing a piercing squeal.
"Pop… there's an enemy outside."
"…Meat delivering itself."
The old man paused, shaking his head.
"Good boy. Pop will handle it and come right back."
Ke Ming was hoisted back into the air again—like a slab of meat waiting to be butchered.
The rats scattered. In moments, only Ke Ming remained inside the room.
The corpses on the floor had already rotted, crawling with maggots. It wasn't that the rats had refined tastes and liked trash—
it was simply that scavenging was all they could do.
Ke Ming didn't know who their "enemy" was. If it was chefs hunting for ingredients, odds were this would turn into another mantis-and-cicada story—
and he'd be the "bonus cicada."
I have to hide—fast.
A short hidden blade popped from the middle section of his prosthetic. Ke Ming labored to move his oversized left arm, trying to lift it.
Normally, a mechanical arm wouldn't fatigue. If it broke, you replaced it.
But the one the Chef had gotten him used some kind of advanced tech—its neural link was incredibly precise.
Too precise.
He focused and forced the left arm to cut at the rope. His brows drew tight.
Outside, the commotion was small—only faint human groans reached him.
Weird.
In Alley Twenty-Three, killing people was routine. There was no need for secrecy.
Silent assassination wasn't the local style.
The sharp sleeve-blade severed the rope. The weightlessness vanished instantly, and Ke Ming landed steadily on the corpses—
crushing a few maggots.
He shuddered and flicked his hand, then looked toward the door.
Creeeak…
Squeeeal…
The door opened halfway—then stopped.
Ke Ming held his breath and crouched carefully behind it.
No sound.
No sound at all.
Outside was quiet.
Except—on the ground—were headless bodies laid out in neat rows. Nothing else.
Heads piled together, stacked into a small mound.
And the old man called "Pop" was there too—placed in the most conspicuous spot.
His eyes were wide. His mouth hung open, showing only a few remaining yellow teeth crusted with grime.
Only a head.
Nothing more.
....
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