The blade plunged into the thigh with a wet, squelching sound, slicing through the muscle fibers like overripe fruit flesh. The skin had long lost its integrity, giving way under the knife like boiled pigskin. The meat—dark red, with veins of fat and thin white threads of connective tissue—peeled away from the bone with resistance, as if unwilling to leave its rightful place. But Ming You persistently pried it off, slicing it away in layers, exposing the femoral bone—smooth, yellowish, already slightly scratched by the blade.
"Is this your justification? And who is this old man?"
The inner voice sounded detached, as if coming from another dimension, while Ming You's fingers, sticky with blood and fat, continued methodically separating meat from bone.
"I don't remember him either, but I know that the woman who gave birth to me worked all day long for numbers made up by people on pieces of paper."
He struck the bone with the knife.
Tink-tink-tink.
The blade bounced off, leaving small notches on the surface of the femoral bone. Tiny fragments of bone tissue mixed with blood, turning into a pinkish paste.
"She is my mother, and those pieces of paper are very valuable."
The voice inside him sounded almost mechanical, like a memorized phrase hammered into his head.
"You don't care about her either, admit it."
After his cold reply, Ming You pressed down harder on the knife, and finally, the thigh separated from the pelvis with a dull, juicy sound.
Click.
Fluids gushed from the tear—not just blood, but something thicker, darker, with yellowish streaks. Synovial fluid, lymph, remnants of urine from the ruptured bladder—all of it mixed into a vile slurry, streaming down the girl's legs and dripping onto the concrete floor.
"H-how... She paid for my elementary school... it was then that I found a reason not to kill myself..."
Ming You sighed, yet his hands remained steady.
He lifted the severed thigh, examining it as a butcher inspects his goods. The muscles hung in tatters, exposing whitish tendons that still held on, as if unwilling to let go.
One sharp swing—and he threw the thigh aside.
It slapped against the wall, leaving a greasy, bloody smear on the graffiti before falling into the dust.
The flies were already swarming. They buzzed, landing on the edges of the wounds, on the exposed bones, on the sticky puddles.
Ming You watched them, then shifted his gaze to what remained of the girl.
…
Ten-year-old Ming You stood in front of the school, clutching a list of after-school clubs he could attend. The sun was beating down mercilessly, but the boy didn't even flinch—he was simply analyzing the options.
First, he headed to the soccer field, where a practice session was already in full swing. Children were running after the ball, shouting, laughing—a typical scene for a school sports club.
"Hey, newbie!" the team captain shouted, noticing Ming You. "You wanna play?"
Ming You silently stepped onto the field.
The ball rolled towards him, and he tried to kick it. But instead of a powerful pass, it was an awkward poke, and the projectile barely rolled a couple of meters.
"Ha! You can't even play!" someone from the guys laughed.
Ming You frowned. He didn't feel offended, but he understood: his skills were insufficient. He tried again, but the result didn't change.
"Thank you for the opportunity," he said evenly and walked off the field.
No anger, no sadness—just a statement of fact.
His next stop was the gym, where a volleyball practice was taking place.
"Are you new?" the coach asked upon seeing him.
"Yes. I want to try," Ming You replied.
Ming You received the ball and listened carefully to the explanation of the rules, trying to memorize every detail. His face remained impassive, but inside he was concentratedly analyzing how to perform the serve correctly.
His first attempt was unsuccessful—the ball hit the net sharply and fell on his side of the court. He blinked, quickly picked up the ball, and prepared for a second serve, mechanically repeating the movements he had just been shown.
The second attempt was slightly better—the ball barely made it over the net, but its trajectory was too high and inaccurate. The guys on the other side barely managed to react.
Ming You felt he should say something or react in some way, but instead, he only frowned slightly, trying to understand what he had done wrong. He saw the other players smiling, encouraging each other, and hesitantly tried to mimic something similar, but his facial expression remained almost emotionless, and the gesture seemed unnatural.
"Don't worry, no one gets it right the first time!" the coach said encouragingly.
But Ming You wasn't "worried." He simply saw that his movements were uncoordinated, his reaction not fast enough.
"Thank you," he said after the fifth failed attempt. "I don't think this is for me."
Ming You turned around and slowly walked out of the echoing gym, where the din of voices and the ringing of the ball against the floor continued to pursue him long after the door closed behind him. The school corridor was almost deserted—only the distant footsteps of the teacher on duty and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum broke the silence.
He walked, mechanically counting the squares of the tiles under his feet, when a sharp turn around a corner led him to an unexpected obstacle: a matte door with a sign that read "Chess Club" was right in front of him.
Stopping at the threshold, Ming You looked inside. The contrast with the bustling gym was striking: here, a concentrated silence reigned, interrupted only by the occasional clack of moved pieces or the rustle of pages—someone was leafing through a textbook on openings.
Sunlight streaming through the tall windows fell on the chessboards in even squares, illuminating the pieces. Students sat at the tables, bent over in silent struggle; some were biting their lips, others were almost imperceptibly shaking a leg under the table.
The instructor—a lean man in his thirties with dark hair combed to one side—looked up from the demonstration board. His glasses in thin metal frames glinted coldly as he held his gaze on Ming You for a second:
"A newcomer?"
"Yes. I'd like to try."
"Sit down," the instructor pointed to an empty seat. "Do you know how to play?"
"I've read the rules."
A boy his age with short, neatly trimmed black bangs, sharply defined above his eyebrows, sat down opposite him. He arranged the pieces with practiced dexterity, and his fingers lightly tapped the edge of the board.
"You start," he said, leaning back in his chair.
Ming You silently moved a pawn. His face remained completely impassive, but inside, he was already building a chain of possible variations. He felt neither excitement nor fear—only cold, methodical logic. Every move of his opponent was instantly analyzed, every weakness in the piece formation was immediately exploited.
Within just a few minutes, the boy's confidence began to crack. He fidgeted in his chair, then frowned, peering intently at the board. His fingers, which had been drumming on the table just moments before, now froze in indecision. A couple more moves—and his king was trapped.
"Checkmate," Ming You said quietly, without even changing his intonation.
"You... are you really playing for the first time?" the boy asked in surprise.
Ming You shrugged.
"I got lucky."
The instructor, tilting his head to the side, watched the game with interest.
"Shall we play?" he suggested, moving a chessboard towards himself.
Ming You tilted his head almost imperceptibly. From the very first moves, it became clear—the game was more difficult than he had anticipated. The instructor easily figured out his simple tactics, responding to each move with tried-and-tested combinations.
But Ming You did not give up. He analyzed the board intently, trying to anticipate the opponent's next moves.
In the end, he lost—his king was in a hopeless position. However, for the first time that day, something new flickered in his usually empty eyes.
"You have potential," the instructor said. "Will you sign up for the club?"
Ming You thought for a moment. The first defeat left a strange aftertaste—he wasn't upset, but his confidence was shaken. Yet, something clicked inside.
"Yes. I'll sign up."
When he left the school, the sun was already setting, coloring the sky in warm shades of orange and pink. Long shadows from the trees stretched across the asphalt, and a light breeze rustled the leaves, creating a soft whisper. Ming You walked slowly along the familiar road, mechanically noting the usual details: a crack in the curb and the old bench by the gate.
His path led past an outdoor basketball court, which was always lively after school. Today, a group of boys his age had gathered there—they were talking loudly, laughing, their sneakers squeaking on the asphalt as they sharply changed direction.
Ming You stopped for a moment, watching them dribble the ball, make quick passes, and shout things to each other. Their movements were sharp yet precise, and their faces showed excitement—that very emotion he himself understood so poorly.
He didn't plan to linger, but at that moment, one of the players made an unsuccessful shot—the ball hit the rim with a loud thud and bounced straight towards Ming You. His reaction was automatic: his hands reached forward on their own, and he caught the ball before he even had time to think about it.
A brief pause fell over the court. The guys exchanged glances, and one of them, a tall boy in a red jersey, shouted:
"Hey, don't you want to join our basketball club? You have pretty good reflexes!"
"Alright!" he said with an uncertain smile, throwing his backpack onto the bench.