The Package

"Sizzle..."

Bright red strips of meat were wrapped in golden oil, releasing a distinctive, rich aroma that made the stomachs of the diners seated nearby begin to growl.

This Japanese-style eatery had no chairs or tables, only a U-shaped counter. From beneath the counter, diners could directly watch the chef inside prepare every dish.

"It smells so good!"

Several people stared at the fresh, plump chunks of meat on the griddle and could not help swallowing.

Two slightly curved blades crossed and scraped against each other, producing a "swish, swish, swish..." sound.

The diners at the counter immediately focused their eyes on the young man before them, who looked to be around twenty-five or twenty-six.

His spotless white chef's apron and close-cropped hair made him look sharp and capable. At that moment, a glint of coldness flashed through the corner of his eye as he reached into a wooden bucket beside him.

Splash!

The young man lifted a slender, round-bodied autumn fish with a blue back from the bucket. With a sweep of his blade, he sliced through its scales, opened its belly, removed the bones, and cut it into slices.

Three cuts and two flicks later, fish bones, entrails, flesh, and even the scraped-off scales had been arranged on the counter in three neat rows.

His expression was focused, his movements meticulous, and his technique practiced. Yet in this young man's hands, it became something miraculous, transformed into a different kind of art.

Precise. Perfect. From every tiny fish scale to the fish's internal organs, his flawless technique turned dissection into a swift and exact surgery.

The entire process kept the diners at the counter utterly captivated. They silently praised themselves for coming; this was a private kitchen, and simply getting a reservation meant waiting until next spring.

What was more bizarre was that the restaurant only opened at midnight, and its prices were steep. There was no menu at all; everything depended entirely on the ingredients the chef had purchased that day. Even so, the place was wildly popular.

The pan-seared meat from the griddle was swiftly wrapped in the freshly sliced raw fish, brushed with a little white vinegar, placed in an exquisite dish, and garnished with a mint leaf.

"Fish Sea Pan-Fried."

The bright red meat was golden on both sides, wrapped within flawless, jade-white Pacific saury slices. The contrast of red and white gave off a uniquely tempting allure.

"Mmm!"

One diner took a gentle bite, and his eyes immediately lit up. He tried his best to suppress the delight on his face. The pale, smooth raw fish had none of the expected fishiness; instead, it melted in his mouth. With a light bite, the diced red meat within offered a completely different chewiness—fragrant and tender enough to make him want to swallow his own tongue.

Even the female diners, who normally carried themselves with restraint, struggled to control their emotions after eating it. The flavor was simply too unforgettable. Layer upon layer of taste erupted across their taste buds almost at once, creating a sensation beyond imagination.

"May I ask what kind of meat this is?" someone finally asked curiously. That piece of red meat was far too chewy and delicious, yet it did not seem like beef, lamb, or pork.

"It's beef tongue!"

Without turning around, the young man carefully wiped clean the steel knife he had used to cut the fish, wrapped its blade in tape, and casually tossed it into a separate trash bin nearby.

He then pulled open a drawer beside him. Inside, brand-new blades were lined up in perfect order, each reflecting a cold gleam and bearing distinct patterns. A full set of knives like these would never come cheap on the market.

After wiping down a fresh knife, Zhao Ke began handling the other ingredients.

The tape was meant to keep the garbage collector from accidentally cutting their hands.

Some people could not understand why he threw away such high-quality knives. Shouldn't every chef cherish his knives even more?

But Zhao Ke did not see it that way. No—or rather, he simply could not tolerate the fishy smell that clung to a blade, even though that smell no longer existed after careful washing.

According to his psychiatrist, it was a form of obsessive disorder brought on by his psychological illness.

Was that really the case?

Perhaps...

The gathering lasted only two hours. Several diners rose and left, satisfied. Each wore a different expression, but they all had one thing in common: after their meal, they immediately booked a reservation for next year.

He casually placed the used dishes neatly into a wooden bucket nearby. Someone would come early the next morning to collect and dispose of them.

"Rumble..."

The rain outside was growing heavier. It pattered against the clay roof tiles with a chaotic yet emotional rhythm, a kind of atmosphere that could never be heard in a great city.

Standing by the window, Zhao Ke untied his chef's apron and gently wiped the dust from the silver cross hanging against his chest.

Listening to the rain, he slowly closed his eyes. He enjoyed the pattering sound, as though he were listening to a concert.

Of course, there was another reason. Heavy rain washed away everything covered by dust—whether traces or smells. It cleansed everything completely, leaving not the slightest mark after the storm passed.

He took a silver cigarette case from his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and held it beneath his nose to smell it.

"Ding-a-ling..."

At that moment, Zhao Ke's ears twitched. A ringing sound came from the doorway. It was the bell hanging outside the door, which only rang when the door was opened. Yet strangely, the door had not opened.

"Broken?"

The bell was still ringing, but not with its usual gentle chime. It rang frantically, as if someone were deliberately shaking it. The rapid peals made him deeply uneasy.

Zhao Ke frowned. He casually tucked a fruit knife into his hand and strode toward the door. Pressing himself against the wall beside it, he gently pulled the door open a crack with his fingers.

He glanced upward and saw that the bell above the door had already stopped ringing, hanging silently as though it had never made a sound.

"The wind?"

Puzzled, Zhao Ke swept his gaze around the area. Suddenly, his expression darkened. At some point, a box had appeared at his feet. It resembled a delivery package, except there was no shipping label on it—only a stamp.

"A package?"

Looking at the box before him, his brow tightened and his gaze grew solemn.

He had never shopped online. Although he ran a restaurant, aside from diners who only knew the restaurant's name, there were very few people who knew his real name.

Zhao Ke carefully picked up the package. It was very light. He gave it two gentle shakes, and it did not seem as though there was anything inside. Looking closer, he found the stamp strange as well.

It was a seven-cent stamp with antique bronze edging. At first glance, its design seemed dense and complicated, but on closer inspection, one could make out the finely engraved patterns. The image on the stamp was an abstract eye, yet no matter what angle one looked from, that eye seemed to be silently watching.

Staring at the stamp, the intricate, delicate patterns made his chest feel tight, and he could not help letting out a long breath. Yet in the instant he lowered his head, the single eye on the stamp actually blinked at him.

A chill crawled up Zhao Ke's back like a centipede, making him shudder violently. He shook his head and looked again, only to find that the eye on the stamp remained exactly as it had been.

"Did I see that wrong?" Zhao Ke shook his head and could not help mocking himself. What, have I done too many guilty things? Since when did I become so jumpy?

He put away the package and casually pulled open the door, intending to take it inside and open it to see what was in it.

Yet the instant he opened the door, a rotten face appeared before him from inside.

Its eyes, sewn shut with needle and thread, slowly opened. The thread tore through its eyelids, exposing hollow eye sockets. It opened its mouth, pointed at its empty oral cavity, and said, "Where is my tongue?"