Prologue [Nightmare Machine]

Downing Street is located in Westminster, London, the capital of the United Kingdom.

For the past two centuries, it has served as the official residence of cabinet officials, the prime minister, and the finance minister.

Its name comes from George Tang Ning, a ruthless and ambitious tycoon who amassed a fortune quickly by building houses in prime London locations before betraying the Commonwealth and re-establishing the United Kingdom with the exiled British monarchy.

It can be said that without Downing Street, there would be no Queen of England.

But these historical connections meant nothing to Uncle Winston, who kept pigeons in St. James's Park.

A year ago, the whole world seemed to be caught in a strange predicament.

The weather became strange, and the political situation began to deteriorate.

People get sick, recover, and then get sick again.

The sun is rarely seen throughout the year, and there are fewer and fewer tourists, but more and more pigeons.

To put it politely, Winston was forced to resign, moving himself from the bench in St. James's Park and shamelessly taking a job as a designated driver.

His favorite thing to do on weekdays is to watch the dignitaries and officials coming and going like a flowing stream across the street. Whenever someone from the Guardian asks about this nameless pigeon breeder in the park, he's ready to launch into a long, eloquent, and self-satisfied speech, pontificating about the state of the country.

Often in front of the camera, Uncle Winston could, in just a few dozen seconds, fluently recount his experiences outside Downing Street to reporters in a distinctly British London aristocratic tone, using the most vicious speculations, the most chilling and sinister gossip, and the most scandalous tidbits, all presented in a grand and dignified manner, vividly describing everything without missing a single detail.

Just recalling these things caused a few drops of sweet dew to well up again from the dried-up spring in Winston's heart.

Now he was in dire straits, wearing an old jacket and a cheap turtleneck sweater that made his neck skin itch. He could feel that the soft skin on his collar, which had been exposed to rain, wind and scorching sun, had long since grown a thick layer of keratinous scales.

His gaunt face and gloomy eyes were enough to frighten any woman or child on the road, even a man carrying a cane and preparing to deal with criminals, would not want to say a word to this strange middle-aged man.

Winston thought so--

This is the worst, the absolute worst time.

Six months of continuous rain drove away the pigeons, and several years of plague drove away the tourists.

This forced this old nobleman of the Plain White Banner, who lived right under the nose of the capital, to be reduced to standing on the street, by the porch of a hotel, discussing current affairs and politics with ignorant, fearless, and uncouth doormen who knew nothing of gentlemanly etiquette.

In this age of moral decay, few distinguished guests could see the noble soul beneath Winston's impoverished exterior.

The eerie, chilling weather had persisted for over three months, as if the sun had abandoned this land, and the sun of the British Empire had set forever.

Even when Uncle Winston occasionally returns to his hometown and takes a few more glances at Downing Street, hoping to get a clear look at the solemn and majestic buildings and the fashionable ladies in the passenger seats of dignitaries, things don't always turn out as well as they usually do.

Just what he's seen in the last few months--

--Thirty-three key ministers have already resigned from the cabinet.

It seemed that something terrible had happened. Like Uncle Winston, these glamorous figures entered Downing Street with great joy and left Downing Street, as if something very important in their lives, as if a part of their souls had been left behind on this ancient street forever.

The harsh winter is like a monstrous hand infested with bone maggots, tightly strangling spring by the throat.

One phone call dispelled all of Winston's concerns and fantasies.

Life must go on, and even the most distinguished gentleman must bow his head to earn enough to eat and wear.

He had no wife or children; his parents had long since become two tombstones.

Nowadays, people can live quite well on welfare in rented rooms if they want to support themselves.

But Winston wasn't one to sit idle.

--After all, he was an old nobleman who had seen great people and grand occasions.

Even when working as a designated driver, one must recount medieval royal scandals to a drunken customer, like rummaging through the folds of skin after a liposuction procedure, bringing up the dirtiest and most bizarre tidbits—that's the style of [Old Money].

On the other end of the phone, a young man's voice came through, muffled and incoherent.

Winston, adopting a tone favored by young people—comparing himself to the elegant and spirited Alfred, Batman's butler—offered a perfect chauffeur service request.

"Young Master! Hello! Please send your location to my phone, I'll be there right away!"

It was February, and cold rain and snow began to fall from the sky.

Winston's shrewd and cunning expression made the doorman stick out his tongue in disdain.

After clarifying the route with the customer and agreeing on the price, the doorman made a disgusting face at Winston's outrageous demands.

Winston dismissed it dismissively, yet he insisted on using his haughty demeanor to explain the intricacies of the exorbitant price.

"Young man! Sooner or later you will understand that our sincere service is not for a penny or two—we should be our guests' spiritual mentors. Beyond just manual labor, we want to share our experiences with our guests on this journey, become partners, or even life-and-death friends."

The young doorman simply responded, remembering the few cigarettes Uncle Winston usually brought him, without offering any sarcastic rebuttal.

Yes! You're right.

Hearing the doorman's agreement, Winston became even more excited.

"The friendship between Sherlock Holmes and Watson, as described by Conan Doyle, perhaps began on a train journey, right? You hold umbrellas for guests, stop the car to hand them towels, order food, guide them, and pull their luggage, yet you have a shy expression that makes you hesitant to speak—that's such a pity! I know many important people! But I never consider myself outstanding or excellent. Why do you think I have achieved what I have today?"

The doorman finally couldn't hold back any longer. "Uncle Winston, what are your achievements?"

Winston was momentarily speechless, so he skipped the topic altogether. "Because getting to know people isn't about making them know me, it's about making them remember me! That's very important! If they remember me, no matter what means they use, that counts as getting to know me."

Having said all this, Winston walked down the steps with satisfaction, opened a black umbrella, and waved goodbye to the doorman in a pretentious manner. His thick skin showed no embarrassment or guilt for having just revealed his bluff—he was simply thinking that he had learned another lesson from the young man today, which was a very good thing.

It feels like reciting a spell and casting a magic spell.

The sense of pride that welled up inside me could wash away all the nightmares that had been plaguing me lately.

Yes -- Uncle Winston's sleep quality has been getting worse lately.

The rainy weather made his 46-year-old arms and legs feel like they were about to rust. Despite being a vigorous and energetic man, he could feel the call of Death God at every moment.

The old rental room started to get moldy and smelly. The wooden floorboards, due to the temperature difference between the coal stove, underfloor heating, and the outside, would make a cracking sound in the middle of the night. If you were awakened by such strange noises, it would be difficult to fall back asleep. If you did manage to drift off to sleep, these strange sounds would probably turn into gunshots in your dreams.

He thought to himself, "Thank goodness for this magical spell, otherwise I would have gone mad."

Within a distance of only about 500 meters, the streets and alleys were covered in icy snowmelt, and occasionally children could be seen grabbing at the sharp icicles on the railings. Winston immediately shouted, "Be careful! Don't hurt yourselves!"

The children were stunned into silence by the terrifying uncle.

Winston and the children's parents, who arrived late, forced smiles.

"You don't want anything to happen to your baby, right?"

This was quite a surprise; even the parents were stunned and hurriedly left with their children.

"Not even a thank you, how ill-mannered!" Uncle Winston sighed. "People's hearts have changed; London is no longer London."

He seemed to be taking a cursory look around, dawdling before finally reaching the car of the chauffeur.

The guest was leaning against the railing, vomiting violently, as if he had drunk the water of life at 96 degrees Celsius and wanted to vomit all the bile in his stomach into the Thames River.

Winston immediately raised his eyebrows in triumph, remaining silent and performing the proper etiquette and rituals, like a quiet old butler, holding an umbrella for the guest while observing the guest's demeanor and ethnicity.

He was a young man in his mid-twenties with very handsome blond hair. The smell of alcohol emanating from his breath carried the aromas of beef tongue and lobster. Judging from the swearing tone of the other customer, he was probably a local from South Wales.

When Uncle Winston learned of this, he immediately checked the brand and value of the vehicles. His heart raced, and he began to regret his actions.

The reason my heart was racing was because this car was extremely expensive; it was Rolls-Royce Ghost -wheelbase version.

The reason for his regret was that the driver's fee might be less. If he encountered such a customer again, he would think twice before agreeing to the service and would only discuss the money after seeing the car and the driver.

"The key. Here's the key." The guest finally finished vomiting, swaying as he opened the back door and shoved the key into Winston.

Winston held up an umbrella and helped the passenger into the car, responding softly.

"Okay, we'll be back in your warm and cozy home soon."

The passenger didn't answer, but leaned against the car window and started snoring.

This made Winston a little uncomfortable, after all, he had a lot to say and a lot to brag about.

If he could have met this promising young man, or his father, such a promising young talent, Winston's nomadic life could have ended, and he could have lived a peaceful and stable life. That would have been wonderful.

Back to work--

He stroked the steering wheel of the luxury car, enjoying the fragrance of the car's air conditioning and the warmth of the heater.

There's also the slight vibration and low rumble of the car body when the engine is started.

Winston's soul was practically leaving his body—this was the life he wanted.

He gently pressed the accelerator, and a sharp, piercing sound rang out, immediately startling him.

The guest was startled awake and yelled, "Idiot! Didn't you release the handbrake?!"

Winston: "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry."

This absurd farce lasted only ten seconds or so. Winston's heart was pounding, and the guest, in a drunken stupor, asked questions in a fuzzy, angry voice before falling into a deep sleep. Even now, the young man's ramblings could still be heard.

It was a painful wail, a desperate plea with tears streaming down its face.

Winston looked thoughtfully at the young man's face.

He didn't know what had happened to this stranger, but it seemed that there was a nightmare-making machine in this city, constantly disturbing people's dreams.

For safety reasons, Winston decided to get out of the car and check its condition.

He crouched low in the wind and snow, and touched a small, dark red stain on the tea-green paint of the car, which looked a lot like blood.

The stain was no bigger than the palm of my hand, and it smelled like damp, musty stuff.

Winston didn't think much of it; perhaps it was the mud on the road, or the moldy oil stains he picked up while passing under the bridge.

He immediately got back into the car and prepared to hit the road.

The vehicle followed the navigation instructions and drove towards the western suburbs of the city. The destination was a villa near Dark Park, right next to HB406.

As they passed through Kennington's bustling downtown area, several bar girls flirted with Uncle Winston. This pleased him internally, but he cursed them aloud.

"A bunch of unfaithful sluts! They only recognize this car, but they don't recognize me!"

Before he could finish speaking, a girl with bright red hair and revealing clothes rode up on a bicycle and weaved in front of Winston's car.

Winston was dazzled by the sight of the hot pants and black-stockinged thighs swaying from side to side. He could only follow behind the bicycle with a wronged expression, feeling annoyed but unable to look away.

Those were the most beautiful legs and buttocks that the old lecher had ever seen.

If you honk the horn to drive them away, this beautiful body will probably leave immediately.

But over time, Winston would also feel a sharp, terrifying stinging sensation, like steel needles pricking his fragile nerves.

It's as if beneath that hot girl's skin lie countless steel wires, like a soulless puppet mechanically pressing the pedals, deliberately behaving recklessly in front of the Ghost.

When Winston finally understood these things, alarm bells rang in his mind, and he repeatedly told himself—

--You are an old gentleman. You have an agreement with your employer that you must not cause any trouble on the way and must escort him home safely, like a knight.

Despite Uncle Winston being extremely careful.

He was convinced that the voluptuous and beautiful body was not something he could have; it was a rose with thorns, like a wandering Gypsy woman, only good for swindling money from fortune-telling customers.

Perhaps if Winston had just driven a little faster and honked the horn, the redhead would have collapsed, and the employer would have faced a huge settlement.

He has been extremely careful, very cautious.

I swerved off the shoulder, stepped onto the sidewalk, and sped past the strange redhead.

Uncle Winston finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking to himself that providing chauffeured service to these wealthy clients felt like an adventure.

He drove toward his destination, but he couldn't forget that bright red hair and that graceful, swaying figure.

Winston was very curious--

What did that girl's face look like?

He looked up at the rearview mirror.

Then he saw a bicycle wobbling along the road.

The pedestrians on both sides were looking down and hurrying along, unaware of this strange phenomenon.

Winston's mind went blank for a moment; he was unable to think.

Just a second ago, he was thinking that this passionate girl was a charming and seductive vixen who could ride her bike in the freezing cold of Kennington Bar Street with half her buttocks showing.

The next second, I saw in the rearview mirror the lonely steel frame and handlebars of the bicycle, its constantly spinning pedals and steel wheels, crawling crookedly and twisting along the road.

But what about the person on the bicycle's triangular seat?

Where is that woman?

She's gone?

Where did they go?

Winston slowly pressed the brake, fearing he would never be able to take his eyes off the rearview mirror again; for safety's sake, he needed to stop the car and get a clear look.

But no matter how hard he strained his eyes, as if he were staring into his eye sockets, the bicycle in the rearview mirror only wobbled and snaked, but didn't fall over, as if someone were really riding it.

With a "bang--",

Uncle Winster finally woke up, a huge sense of terror washing over him.

He slowly turned around and suddenly noticed a small bloodstain on the rear window.

The hot girl who was just posing seductively on the bicycle, heavily made up and dressed provocatively, is now leaning against the rear window of the bike, her eyes gloomy, her lips slightly pouting, complaining unreasonably.

"Hey, uncle, why did you suddenly stop the car?"

Winston was breathing heavily; his neck was starting to ache, and it was very uncomfortable to keep his head turned.

The hot girl held up her fractured, deformed wrist and pressed it tightly against the cracked rear window. "You can hear me, right? I broke my bones, you have to pay me back! Pay me back, pay me back!"

Winston didn't answer; he just looked ahead.

There was nothing in the rearview mirror except for a faintly cracked rear window.

This bizarre scene left Winston speechless; almost instinctively, he stepped on the gas, trying to escape.

"Hey! Hey!!! You son of a bitch!"

Amidst the chaos, Winston could only hear shouts and curses, along with agonizing screams.

"Now you're going to lose even more money! Even more!"

"I'm holding onto your exhaust pipe! It hurts, it really hurts!"

As the Rolls-Royce drove onto the suburban highway, the sound was like a vengeful ghost relentlessly chasing Winston.

He occasionally glanced in the side mirror and saw that in addition to tire tracks, there was also a bright red trail of blood on the road.

"Five hundred thousand pounds? Or one million five hundred thousand pounds? You mean my leg, and half my body? They were mangled and bloody on the asphalt road, how much do you think they're worth?"

Why aren't you saying anything?

"Winston Spencer?"

I saw your driver's license.

"It hurts so much, it really hurts!"

The mournful call came from the back of the car, as if something had already climbed onto it.

Winston had only one thought on his mind—to escape.

Following the rear window, a bright red, supple connective tissue, carrying a round eyeball, moved to the front side window.

It was observing Winston from outside the window—

--It can see it.

Winston, however, dared not look at it. At this moment, all that remained in the eyes of this middle-aged man was the wide road, the simple road markings, and the damp, cold pavement.

"You bastard! Why won't you speak! I demand you pay me back! Pay me back!"

"You think you can get away from me by shutting your mouth and pretending not to see me?"

A sorrowful yet fierce threat emanated from the trunk.

Winston didn't answer. He found the green belt in the emergency lane and suddenly pulled the side window towards the lush bushes.

Immediately afterwards, a piercing scream was heard.

"Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! My eyes! My eyes!"

Winston's eyes were bloodshot. Hearing the inexplicable monster howling, he suddenly burst into laughter, his rapid breathing and hysterical laughter carrying a cruel and insane undertone.

Our destination is not far away.

The passengers in the back row were still struggling in their dreams.

The blond young man slept very soundly, without moving at all.