Ming You flipped his aunt onto her back, and her limp body sprawled helplessly on the cold tiles. Her eyes, cloudy and glassy, were frozen in a motionless gaze, fixed on the ceiling, as if recording the last thing she had seen. Her mouth, slightly agape in a soundless scream, exposed clenched teeth and a tongue, moist with saliva, already beginning to dry at the edges.
He drew the blade along the inside of her thigh, feeling the skin first resist and then part under the pressure of the steel. The cut was clean—first a thin white line, then the parting of the tissue, revealing yellowish subcutaneous fat, and beneath it—dark red muscle fibers. The femoral artery, already almost empty, only pulsed weakly, releasing thick, slow trickles of blood that spread over the pale skin, mixing with sweat and mucus.
Later, he moved on to the limbs. The blade plunged into the soft tissue behind the knee, probing for the tendons. At the first pressure, there was a quiet but distinct crunch—like someone breaking a green branch. The joint did not give way immediately; he had to pry with the knife and twist with effort until a dull click sounded, and the leg fell away, hanging by the last fibers of connective tissue.
The same with the elbows and shoulders. Each time the bone slipped out of the joint socket, a wet, squelching sound was heard, as if someone were pulling a foot out of thick mud. The blood no longer gushed, but only oozed, thick and dark, saturating everything around—the floor, his hands, his clothes.
Ming You tossed the severed body parts into the shower stall and plunged the knife slightly below the ribs and drew it downward, toward the pubis. The skin parted easily, but further on the blade met a dense layer of muscle—he had to saw, feeling the steel slide between the fibers.
When the peritoneum burst, the entrails, warm and gleaming with mucus, spilled out with a quiet, squelching sound. The first to slip out was a loop of intestine—grayish-pink, iridescent under the light, laced with thin blood vessels.
It was followed by the stomach, filled with half-digested food—it tumbled out with a wet, slapping sound, flattening on the tile, and immediately began to decompose before his eyes, releasing a thick, suffocating smell of rotting meat mixed with the acid of gastric juice. The liver, dark burgundy, with a greasy, almost black sheen, separated with a soft, whistling sound—the knife entered it as if into softened lard, and warm, almost black blood immediately gushed from the incision, mixing with bile. He carefully, almost tenderly, laid the organs out in the shower stall, where they, still pulsating with residual spasms, slowly slid into the corner near the drain, leaving behind sticky, trailing streaks of blood and mucus.
When everything was laid out, Ming You grabbed the intestine—slippery, bluish-gray, still warm—and, squeezing it in his fists like a wet rag, crawled to the toilet. Choking on the stench, he began to squeeze out of the intestines the semi-digested mass, thick, with chunks of fecal matter, clots of blood, and something else, black and liquid, that flowed out in thin, viscous threads. The intestine resisted, pulsated in his hands as if alive, and when it was finally empty, Ming You threw it into the shower, where it slapped against the wall and hung there like a disgusting, bloodied hose.
But then his body shuddered—his stomach was gripped by a spasm, his throat filled with a acrid, hot wave. He barely managed to run to the toilet before he vomited—first just food, then bile, thick and greenish. Tears blurred his vision, saliva and vomit dripped onto his chin, and the burning smell of stomach acid filled his nose.
When the spasm finally subsided, Ming You wiped his mouth with his wrist, leaving a smudged trail of saliva and food residue on the fabric, and, breathing heavily, crawled toward his aunt's head. It lay where he had left it—the glassy, cloudy eyes wide open, the mouth half-open in a silent scream, and from the slashed throat, a dark, almost black liquid still seeped, slowly spreading across the tiles.
Ming You grabbed her by the hair and drew the knife under her chin, making a small incision. He sharply pulled the skin away from the forehead and the scalp separated with a nasty, squelching sound, exposing the pale bone covered with a thin film.
The face was now a shapeless mass—the nose cut away to the cartilage of the septum, the lips slashed so that the teeth were exposed in a grotesque grin. The eyeballs burst under the pressure of the blade, releasing vitreous fluid mixed with blood.
The skull shuddered under the blows of the knife handle—first the parietal bone cracked, then the frontal, and, finally, the brain was exposed, pinkish-gray, covered in convolutions, laced with a fine web of blood vessels.
After her, Ming You moved over to his uncle. It was easier with him—he was no longer breathing.
Ming You repeated the procedure: dismembered the body into ten parts, slit open the abdominal cavity, pulled out the intestines, winding them around his arm like a scarf. Kidneys, spleen, lungs—all carefully placed in the shower.
But then a new impulse seized him.
Ming You took his uncle's severed arm and began to cut the meat from the bones. The muscles separated in layers, the tendons stretched like rubber. He sliced them into neat pieces, as if preparing mince.
When it was all finished, he slowly set the knife down, placing it on the tile with a dull thud. The blade, still warm from the work, glinted dully under the light, leaving a thin, pinkish smear on the tile.
The blood on his hands had already dried, turning his skin into a hard, cracked crust, and his face was speckled with dark splatters, as if someone had flamboyantly thrown a handful of rusty dirt at him. His t-shirt, soaked with sweat and crimson, clung to his body, outlining the contours of tense muscles—every breath was an effort, as if his lungs were also clogged with this sticky heaviness.
He took a deep breath, walked over to the cabinet under the mirror, and swung it open—inside, neatly arranged, one next to the other, were rolls of trash bags. Ten of them. Ming You took the first one, unfolded it with a quiet rustle, and began packing the remains of the bodies—the intestines in one bag, the limbs in another, the heads separately. Each knot was tied tightly, without unnecessary thought.
When he finished tying the trash bags, pulling the knots tight so the contents wouldn't spill out, he set them by the bathroom threshold, leaving a wet trail from his soiled hands on the tiled floor. Then Ming You, without even removing the bloodied t-shirt, in which the fabric had already hardened into heavy crusts, and his pants, soaked with dark slime, stepped into the shower, yanking the faucet handle sharply.
The water rushed out with a hiss, first ice-cold but quickly growing warmer. The hot streams scalded his skin, washing away the caked blood—it came off in layers, swelled, turned into pinkish foam, streamed down his arms, legs, and back, leaving dark streaks for a moment before disappearing down the drain.
Then, bending over, Ming You grabbed the shower head and blasted the remains under the sink with a powerful jet—shreds of meat stuck to the porcelain trembled, tore off, and, swirling in a whirlpool, vanished into the black opening. The water gurgled, dragging the last traces with it.
Ming You dried himself with a towel, dragging the rough fabric over his face, neck, and arms, leaving smeared, rusty stains on the white cotton. Then he abruptly rolled it into a ball, clenched it in his fist, and threw it into the half-empty trash bag, where the towel flopped into the sticky mush of organs, settling formlessly between the slippery shreds of flesh.
His fingers, still damp, grabbed the kitchen knife—the blade dull, with dried smears. He held it under the stream of water, scraping his thumb along the edge, washing away the dark flakes until the metal once again gleamed with a cold luster.
Then, leaving the knife on the edge of the sink, he squatted down, opened the cupboard under it, and pulled out rubber gloves, a roll of black trash bags, a bottle of alcohol, and a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He gathered all this into an armful, stood up, and, stepping over the bathroom threshold, carefully laid it out on thhe floor of the corridor, next to the door.
Ming You stepped out of the bathroom, leaving behind the moist steam that carried a scent mixed with something metallic. In the hallway, he paused for a second, letting his gaze sweep over the space, then stepped sharply towards the water cooler standing by the wall. There, on the handle of the kitchen door, hung a translucent plastic supermarket bag.
He tore it off with a single motion; the bag rustled in his fingers as he walked to his room. He closed the bedroom door behind him, even though there was no one else in the apartment. The room was almost empty—just a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk.
Without further thought, he pulled off his wet t-shirt and pants, throwing them into the bag. The fabric landed with a soft thud, settling heavily at the bottom. Then he took out fresh clothes from the dresser—black sweatpants with an elastic waistband and an equally black t-shirt with a narrow collar.
Ming You walked over to the wardrobe and swung the door open. Neat stacks of clothes lay on the shelves—everything as always. His fingers slid over the fabrics, selecting what was necessary: several black and white t-shirts, a white shirt with a spread collar, a black sweatshirt, and khaki pants.
He carried all of this to the bed, laid it out, checked the pockets, then began to fold everything—neatly, compactly, so that more would fit. The black backpack was under the bed. He pulled it out by the strap, dusted it off, and unzipped the main compartment. The clothes went in tightly, with almost no creases.
He slung the backpack over one shoulder, clutching the bag with the wet clothes in his other hand. Then, after taking one last look around the room, Ming You picked up his phone from the nightstand and stuffed it into his pocket. Crossing the threshold, he headed to his uncle and aunt's room. The door there was slightly ajar, and Ming You froze on the threshold of the bedroom.
His gaze slid over the bed with its rumpled linens, the nightstands with framed family photos, the wardrobe with mirrored doors. The air here was stale, saturated with a mixture of his aunt's perfume and the tobacco smoke from his uncle's cigarettes.
He moved towards the nightstands, yanking the top drawer open. Loose change jingled, rolling into the corner. His fingers quickly sorted through the contents: lighters, a cased pair of glasses, an unopened pack of condoms. In the next drawer—documents, notepads with notes, a set of keys. He pushed all of it aside.
The wardrobe creaked as he swung the doors open. On the top shelf lay an old leather suitcase, covered in a layer of dust. Ming You took it down, dusted it off, and clicked the locks open—empty inside, except for a yellowed piece of paper with a flight itinerary from ten years ago.
Nearby hung backpacks—a hiking one with multiple pockets and a black urban one, as well as his aunt's boutique logo tote bag. Ming You dumped all of this onto the bed.
He worked methodically: first, he tackled the clothes—his uncle's suits, his aunt's dresses, even the underwear and socks were carefully taken off the hangers and placed into the suitcase. Particularly valuable items—a silk robe with embroidery, a pair of leather gloves—Ming You folded more meticulously, as if afraid of damaging the expensive fabric.
His aunt's cosmetics became the next target. Perfume bottles, creams in elegant jars, lipsticks—he swept all of it into her favorite tote bag.
Finally, documents and money. The wallets lay on the dresser, as if they had just been placed there. Ming You quickly opened each one, pulled out the cash—a thick wad of bills—and stuffed it into the pocket of his pants. The empty wallets, along with credit cards and IDs, flew into the suitcase.
Having finished packing the things, Ming You froze for a moment in the middle of the bedroom, his gaze sliding over the emptied wardrobes and the neatly made bed. He adjusted the bedding, smoothed out the wrinkles on the bedspread with his palm, then tightly closed all the cabinet doors, as if preparing the room for someone's return. With the suitcase in one hand and the backpacks and bags slung over his shoulder in the other, he walked out into the hallway.
He arranged the items by the entrance door with pedantic care—he stood the suitcase upright, placed the backpacks and bags in a row. Then he returned to the bathroom threshold, where the items prepared earlier lay. A kitchen knife, gloves, a roll of trash bags, bottles of alcohol and peroxide—he methodically packed all of this into the front pocket of his black backpack, checking that nothing would rattle or fall out.
Six trash bags, tightly stuffed and tied, stood in the corner of the bathroom. Ming You took them one by one, carrying them to the entrance door. He placed each bag carefully, making sure the plastic wouldn't tear. For the last time, he cast an intent gaze over the bathroom—checked the shower drain, the sink, the floor, the mirror. Everything was clean, without a trace.
The keys, as he remembered, were in the bottom drawer of the nightstand by the shoe rack. The metal glinted coldly in his palm as he picked up the keychain. One last indifferent breath—and Ming You swung the front door open.
The stairwell was cool and quiet. He quickly carried out the items first, then the bags, arranging everything in a specific order. The door slammed shut behind him with a dull click as he turned the key in the lock.
Ming You stepped outside, burdened by the load. His black backpack hung on his front, like a shield, while the bulkier hiking backpack pressed down on his back. His aunt's tote bag dangled from his shoulder, bumping against his ribs with every step. In the taut gloves, his fingers dug into the knots of the trash bags—three in his right hand, two and the suitcase in his left.
He moved in the direction of the dumpsters, but not directly, instead weaving through the neighboring blocks. In the first alley, after looking around, he threw two bags into an overflowing bin. The polyethylene hit the rotting food waste with a dull thud. In the second block, near the park, he got rid of two more, carefully placing them on top of other bags. The last bag flew into a garbage truck that had stopped by the roadside—the workers didn't even turn their heads.
Now it was the turn of the personal items. Unzipping the suitcase, he left it slightly open so he could quickly pull out the contents. Trash cans along the way became his destinations: his uncle's gold watch drowned in cigarette butts by a bus stop, his aunt's expensive perfume shattered at the bottom of a bin near a supermarket, a velvet jewelry box disappeared into a container for separate waste collection.
Ming You worked quickly but without haste—he pulled out items during moments when the sidewalk was empty, or when passersby turned away. Sweaters and trousers flew into different containers scattered around the district. He finally left the empty suitcase near a dumpster by a new apartment building.
When the backpacks and the tote bag were empty, Ming You pulled off the gloves, rolled them into a tight ball, and stuffed them into his pocket. Not a single muscle twitched on his face as he adjusted his backpack and strode towards the nearest bus station, dissolving into the evening flow of people.