[Attention! I'm warning you in advance that there are many graphically described scenes of violence and numerous other atrocities here. For those who want less gore and hate flashbacks, the main story begins with Chapter 1.]
...
A wet sound of meat being cleaved, squelching under the blade, like an overripe fruit bursting from the slightest pressure. Blood. It didn't just flow—it gushed out in pulsating rivulets, thick and warm, flooding everything around: his hands, the boy's black T-shirt, the concrete floor, soaking into the cracks like poisonous dew. Splatters. They flew to the sides, settling on the walls, on the ceiling, on his face—tiny scarlet stars, freezing for an instant before merging into a single mess.
The sixteen-year-old boy was sitting astride her. No, not her—on what had once been her. Now it was just a lifeless body, mutilated. His black hair, usually falling softly just below his nose, was now matted with blood, heavy and sticky as if smeared in jam. His forehead, cheeks, the corners of his lips—everything was drenched in a dark, almost black in the dim twilight, liquid. It dripped from his chin, onto the girl's chest—or rather, onto the mutilated flesh and fluids oozing from it.
His hand was clutching a kitchen knife with a black handle. The blade glistened, not from cleanliness—from moisture, from blood, from grease, from bits of skin stuck to the metal. He plunged it in again and again, methodically, almost mechanically, as if butchering a carcass. Chest. Neck. Face.
The face…
Almost nothing remained of it. The blade had sliced off the skin like a thin film, exposing the meat, tendons, shreds of muscle. The nose was split in half, the lips had turned into bloody shreds, teeth jutted from the torn flesh like shards of white marble. An eye… one eye still remained in its socket, bulging, glazed over, but the second—the second was crushed, smeared across the cheek, turned into a gelatinous mass.
And then—a fly.
It landed on a shred of meat next to what was once an eye. Black, shiny, brazen. Its legs sank into the bloody mush as if into sweet syrup.
The boy froze for a moment, watching. Then he abruptly stabbed the knife into the eyeball.
Squelch.
The fly soared into the air, frightened, but didn't fly far—the smell was too tempting.
"W-why are you doing this?"
A voice was heard. Male, but hollow, emotionless, as if coming from the depths of his own consciousness.
The boy smirked with the exact same voice.
"Me? Heh-heh, it's you. It's You, Ming You."
His fingers, sticky with congealed blood, tightened their grip on the knife's handle, and the blade sank into the flesh once more—this time into the thigh, right into the soft tissue of the inner thigh. The skin split with a barely audible pshk, revealing layers of subcutaneous fat—pale yellow, laced with thin red threads of capillaries. Dark blood, thick, almost black, immediately gushed from the cut, mixing with the already congealed puddles on the floor.
"But this is… what about love?" the voice continued, as if trying to convince itself. "I didn't think it would end like this…"
"No, you knew it would end exactly like this."
The blade jerked sharply upward, tearing the flesh further. Now the wound gaped like a mouth, oozing scarlet foam.
"Who do you think killed his own family before her, huh?"
He pulled out the knife and immediately plunged it in again—lower, closer to the knee. The tendons crunched like a severed rubber band.
"Who said he was ready to do anything for victory, huh?"
"Victory…" the voice in his head trembled, grew quieter, as if receding deep into his consciousness. "A dream since I was ten… a childhood dream…"
Ming You froze for a moment.
The knife remained stuck in the thigh, its handle swaying slightly from the last convulsive muscle contractions. He raised his eyes to the horizon, where the sun, like molten metal, was slowly sinking into a sea of concrete ruins.
…
Late night.
The apartment, flooded with the cold light of a single lamp, seemed lifeless. White wallpaper, smooth surfaces, a lack of extraneous details—everything here breathed minimalism, an almost sterile emptiness. Nothing gave away the presence of a human, except for the lone figure at the table.
Ten-year-old Ming You, with black hair falling just below his forehead, sat motionless, his fingers slowly tracing the rim of a glass in which water was sloshing. The ice had already melted, leaving only murky droplets on the glass. He wasn't drinking—he was just watching how the light refracted in the liquid.
The silence was broken by the creak of a door. A man entered the kitchen—tall, sturdy, with a body that defied the years. He was over seventy, but his shoulders were broad, and his arms were covered with sinewy muscles, as if carved from stone. On his neck, like a mark from a blow of fate, stretched a long scar, pale and uneven. An old sniper rifle was slung over his shoulder, its wooden stock worn, the metal dull from time. On his head was a battered khaki-colored cap.
He didn't say a word. He just threw the rifle onto the sofa, tossed off an empty beige bag, then took off his shirt—a red plaid one, worn out at the elbows. Under it was a gray tank top, tightly fitting his torso, which was covered with small scars. The man heavily lowered himself onto a chair away from Ming You, sighed, and ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away the fatigue.
"Aren't you going to ask how the hunt went?" His voice was low, slightly hoarse, but it carried a habit of command.
Ming You didn't even raise his eyes. His fingers continued to trace the rim of his glass.
"Judging by everything, unsuccessfully, since you didn't bring anything back."
The old man snorted but didn't laugh. Instead, he reached for the table, picked up a folded newspaper, and unfolded it with practiced ease.
"Always so straightforward, son." He shook his head, and a strained liveliness suddenly appeared in his voice, as if he were feigning emotions he didn't feel. "I've always told you, learn to play along. It's not that difficult."
Ming You slowly raised his gaze. His face remained smooth, like a mask. But after a second's pause, he stretched a smile across his face—unnatural, mechanical, as if someone had pulled on invisible strings at the corners of his lips.
The old man did not comment on this eerie gesture. Instead, he unfolded the newspaper, and his eyes skimmed over the headlines.
Missing children in the forest. One found with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.
Something twitched in his face. A moment—and the newspaper crumpled in his hand, the paper crinkled, the headlines turning into meaningless folds.
Just at that moment, a woman froze in the kitchen doorway—tall, with long black hair falling onto her shoulders like a heavy silk curtain. Her face, once soft and warm, was now etched with wrinkles of fatigue. Her eyes, deep and dark, like two bottomless chasms, betrayed a despair she could no longer conceal. She stood, swaying slightly, as if every movement required incredible effort.
"Dear…" Her voice trembled, like a thin thread ready to snap at any moment. "We can't afford to pay off these debts."
The man looked up at her. A cold, appraising look, without a hint of regret.
"It's not 'us' anymore, it's you. Consider that I've already filed for divorce. Tomorrow, I won't be here. Deal with your debts yourself."
The woman froze, her lips quivering slightly. She slowly turned her head towards Ming You, as if seeking support, but his face remained stony. He didn't even look up, continuing to stare into the glass, where the water now seemed murky and lifeless.
"But what about Ming You?" Her voice broke into a scream, hoarse and fractured. "You can't just abandon him like that!"
The father smirked, but there wasn't a drop of mirth in his laughter.
"He's not at an age where he needs such care anymore." He rose from the chair, and the wood creaked under his weight. "So I'll leave the two of you to it."
He slowly picked up the heavy rifle, feeling the cold metal under his fingers, then bent down for the worn-out bag, its strap digging into his palm. Straightening up, he turned sharply and left the kitchen.
A moment later, the creak of an opening cabinet came from a distant room—the old hinges groaned pitifully under his hand. Then came the dull thud of a bag being thrown to the floor, which made even the dusty curtains in the hallway shudder.
"But how…" Ming You's mother's voice turned into a whisper, and then broke off completely.
Tears, long held back, finally streamed down her cheeks, leaving shiny trails on her pale skin. She didn't wipe them away—she just stood there, hunched over, as if an invisible weight were pressing down on her shoulders.
Ming You slowly stood up. His movements were fluid, almost mechanical. He walked over to his mother, paused for a second with his gaze on her trembling shoulders, then patted her on the back—once, twice. The gesture was formal, devoid of warmth, as if performed according to some forgotten instruction.