Beast

Everyone hides a beast within their heart.

Most people use a cage made of iron bars—named morality, kinship, reason, and civilization—to lock this beast inside and keep it from coming out.

When two of these bars snap due to external force, the beast in the cage will emerge.

But Lin An is different from ordinary people; there is no cage in his heart, nor are there any shackles. The beast runs free.

[Writing this far, I hope readers remember our domain, Taiwan Novel Network, to relieve boredom, ₮₩₭₳₦.₵Ø₥, super reliable.]

Now, the beast named Lin An has smelled the scent of blood... the blood that is about to come.

Lin An walked out of the narrow alley and stood on the street, his hands tucked into his coat pockets.

The March wind poured in from the street corner, carrying the lingering diesel smell of a garbage truck and the sweet, cloying scent from a bakery in the distance.

The factory building stood there like a dead beast crouching on the ground.

The two rolling shutter doors, which had been tightly shut, had already been opened by someone, and fragmented words drifted out from behind them.

Lin An could not hear clearly what the people inside were saying, but he knew the guys inside were not good people, and that was enough.

"At birth, human nature is good; do you know what this sentence means?"

Lin An muttered to himself.

"It means that when a person is born, their nature is inherently good. So, can I assume that those who are not good... are not human?"

[Why are you suddenly reciting this?]

[Is the streamer trying to find a theoretical basis for his own murder and arson?]

[Do Not Take Out of Context—excerpted from Do Not Take Out of Context]

"How many people are inside?"

Lin An asked.

[Five. One is standing behind the main gate, two are walking around the factory, and two are looking for something to pry open a large green box.]

[Kill them, streamer. I want to see rivers of blood.]

Lin An ignored the boiling chat.

He just watched the open rolling shutter door quietly. His expression was calm, even gentle, and a smile hung on the corners of his mouth, like a young man on a lazy afternoon, listening to music from afar and feeling content.

The beast was roaring, howling, and urging Lin An to go in.

But he couldn't just go in like that.

Lin An looked left and right, then reached into his coat, took out a small bag of bread, and held it high.

The white plastic bag reflected a small patch of light, making it particularly conspicuous on the street. A crow's caw rang out immediately.

Then, a black shadow swooped down from a nearby roof like a hawk. Its claws accurately grabbed the bag, and then it took off, flying away in a flash.

After this crow took the bread, the sound of wings flapping against the air echoed. Five other crows landed on the street, two or three meters in front of him. Five pairs of round, black, bright eyes tilted, staring at him from different angles.

"Five brothers, come help me out. Gangsters definitely leave someone to keep watch when they're working. Help me find if there's anyone else nearby?"

Lin An said.

[It's happening, it's happening.]

[I'm possessing the one on the left! It's my bird now.]

[I want the one on the right, brothers, charge!]

[Wait, does possessing a crow cost points? How does it work again?]

[Just move your cursor over the crow's head; it will automatically open a live stream sub-camera. 10 points per hour, not expensive.]

Soon, the five crows with chat messages hovering over their heads took off one by one, flying in different directions.

Lin An looked down at the factory. The five people inside were still working slowly, unaware of what kind of person had arrived outside.

Under the canopy of an abandoned gas station, an old van was parked.

The driver's side window was rolled halfway down, and an arm rested on the window frame. The arm was dark brown, with a hexagram tattooed on the forearm. A cigarette was pinched between the fingers, its ash grown long, ready to break at any moment.

The person in the car was named Tyrell. He wasn't anyone important in the Crips, so his main job was to keep watch—that is, to look at the street corner and honk the horn if someone came.

It was very simple, and very boring.

He had been sitting here for nearly twenty minutes, but there wasn't even a dog on this street.

Just as Tyrell flicked the ash and prepared to take a drag, he heard footsteps.

The footsteps came from behind the car, unhurried, like someone out for a stroll.

Tyrell stopped his smoking motion. He glanced at the rearview mirror. In the mirror were the canopy of the abandoned gas station, a few rusty pillars, and broken glass and withered leaves scattered on the ground. There was no shadow of a person.

An illusion?

He waited a few seconds, and just as he prepared to take a drag again, the footsteps sounded once more—clack, clack, clack—getting closer and closer.

He quickly clamped the cigarette in his mouth, freed his hand, reached under the jacket on the passenger seat to grab a pistol, kept the muzzle pointed down, rested his finger outside the trigger guard, and then slowly leaned his head out the window to look back.

There was still nothing behind the vehicle.

The shadows of the canopy cast gray-black stripes across the ground, and the shadows of several pillars overlapped like the iron bars of a cage, empty and desolate.

The footsteps had vanished.

Tyrell pulled his head back, rolled up the car window, and took a few heavy, ragged breaths.

Then the footsteps sounded again; it seemed as if someone was standing right next to the wall behind the rear of the car, deliberately stomping their foot—a dull thud.

A chill crawled up from Tyrell's tailbone, tracing his spine all the way up to the back of his head.

"Fuck you!!!"

Tyrell cursed, and in his terror, he kicked the car door open with all his might, then leaped out as fast as he could, rushing toward the rear of the car with his gun raised.

Tyrell was prepared for a life-or-death struggle with the enemy; he planned to rush over, open fire the moment he saw someone, and engage in a close-quarters shootout with this damn guy, betting on who had the faster trigger finger.

However, when Tyrell rushed past the rear of the car, he saw nothing at all.

Behind the car was a brick wall with faded graffiti sprayed on it, a few tufts of withered grass growing at the base, and some scattered beer cans and a broken sneaker.

No one, no footsteps, nothing.

Tyrell let out a breath, feeling he had been too nervous; it was so remote here, how could anyone be out for a stroll? It must have been the wind blowing something over, or perhaps that broken sneaker had fallen off the wall.

Reassuring himself, Tyrell turned around, preparing to head back to the driver's seat.

A hand reached out from behind him.

That hand clamped over his mouth, turning Tyrell's exclamation into a muffled whimper that only he could hear.

His body instinctively tried to struggle, but then he felt a chill in his chest, and his strength suddenly drained away.

Tyrell looked down subconsciously; a blade tip had pierced out from inside his clothes, and at the same time, a red stain was rapidly spreading across his white shirt, like a flower in bloom.

The blade tip had grown out from within his own body.

Tyrell wanted to say something, but now, his throat could only produce one sound... the sound of water flowing through a pipe.

The hand let go, and Tyrell's body tipped forward, face-down, slamming into the rear bumper of the van before sliding down to lie on its side on the concrete floor.

The gun fell from his hand, sliding half a meter away.

"Taurus Pistol?"

[Poor Man's Beretta]

[PT-92, good stuff]

[Quick, quick, quick, get on the Live Stream Store, my wallet is already starving]

[Check the car, there are magazines inside]

[I have an idea... do you guys think the streamer can toss this car into the Live Stream Store?]

Crouched behind the rolling shutter door, Lamont felt his legs going numb, so he stood up subconsciously, wanting to relax.

"Caw."

Lamont instinctively looked up, but there was nothing on the beam above the rolling shutter; gray daylight cut in from the doorway, illuminating the dust floating in the air.

He looked down again, continuing to stare at the empty street outside.

"Caw!"

"Huh!?"

This time he heard it clearly; the sound had come from inside, and he turned his head to look into the depths of the factory.

In the dim light, iron barrels were piled into small hills, scrap wood leaned against the walls, and a rusted planer squatted in the corner like a giant, dead insect.

Among this junk, Lamont found the crow; it was standing on an abandoned metal cabinet, less than ten meters away from him.

The crow was tilting its head, its round, bright eyes fixed on him, making Lamont feel uncomfortable.

He patted his numb legs and looked around the spot; there happened to be a piece of broken brick near his feet, about the size of a fist, and he bent down to pick it up.

Then he saw a pair of feet.

A meter away, a pair of leather shoes stained with rust-colored dust, gray pant legs, and the hem of a coat.

"???"

Lamont's breathing stopped for half a second, then he jerked upright... it was the fastest movement he had ever made in his life.

But it was still too late, and ill-timed, because a blade was already waiting for him.

The moment Lamont straightened up, his chest collided with the tip of the knife.

In an instant, Lamont's knees went soft, and his body tipped forward, but a hand caught his shoulder, lowering him slowly and quietly to the ground without making a sound.

He lay on the concrete floor, eyes still open, watching the gray daylight from above cut in through the rolling shutter door.

The crow was still standing on the cabinet, tilting its head, watching him with one black, shiny eye.

"Caw..."

The crow let out an excited caw.

"Where did that crow come from... wait, something's not right."

Marcus, who was busy hiding things inside a room, suddenly felt that something was off. He stood up quickly and blew a sharp whistle toward the door.

The whistle was a secret signal he used to confirm the location of his companions.

Marcus walked out and stood in the second-floor hallway, waiting for three seconds.

One whistle, two whistles, three whistles... but where was the fourth? Why was there no response?

Marcus realized something was wrong; something had happened.

"Jerome."

He called out.

"I'm here, boss."

"Drake, Sean."

"Right here/I'm here."

"Lamont!"

There was no response, which was telling.

"Gather up, we have an enemy!"

Marcus ordered loudly.

Hasty footsteps echoed from the other side of the hallway and from below the iron staircase. Soon, Jerome, along with Drake and Sean, ran over from those directions to meet up with Marcus.

"Lamont is gone."

Marcus said.

The three men looked at each other. Jerome pulled out his phone, dialed a number, listened for five seconds, and then shook his head.

"He's not picking up."

"Maybe he went out for a smoke."

Sean said, his voice laced with uncertainty.

"Unless he wants to die."

Marcus's tone was flat, as if he were stating a fact.

"I blew the whistle twice and called his name, and there was no answer."

The expressions of the three men changed. In this Crips branch, failing to respond to the boss's whistle was more serious than failing to pay dues.

"Move."

Marcus walked down the stairs, the iron steps creaking under his weight.

"Go down together, don't split up."

The descent went smoothly; the three men moving slowly downward were not fired upon.

"Lamont."

Marcus called out again, but there was still no response. He turned back and ordered the three.

"Head toward the exit, I'll take the lead..."

"Bang!"

Jerome, who was right in front of Marcus, was hit. He lunged forward two steps as if someone had shoved him from behind, then collapsed face-first onto the ground, his gun sliding far away.

Marcus instinctively ducked his head and lunged forward, finding cover before immediately opening fire toward the rear along with the others.

Gunfire erupted throughout the factory, but there was nothing there. Bullets flew uselessly, striking load-bearing walls and debris with a crackling sound.

"Stop!"

Marcus roared.

Drake was still firing, the muzzle flashes flickering across his face. Marcus crouched and jogged over, grabbing his arm to force it down.

"Stop, there's no one to see!"

Drake finally stopped.

His breathing was heavy, his chest heaving violently, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

The factory suddenly fell silent, leaving only the sound of Jerome's increasingly faint, heavy gasps.

"Wait, where is Sean?"

Marcus stood up and looked around.

"Right here, boss... he's right here!"

Drake's report was trembling. Marcus turned to follow his gaze and found Sean lying behind a pile of lumber, twitching.

Marcus gestured for Drake to stay alert, then hurried over to check on Sean.

Sean's eyes were still open and his lips were moving, but he couldn't make a sound; his chest was soaked in blood, and it was unclear when he had been shot, or whether it was friendly fire or an enemy's bullet.

Marcus looked at him for two seconds, then stood up without attempting to help him.

"Both of them are dead, let's reload."

He turned to say this to Drake, his voice trembling slightly.

Drake's hands were shaking, and his magazine was jammed, refusing to slide out.

He stared down at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else, so Marcus snatched the gun from him, pulled out the magazine, slapped a new one in from his pocket, racked the slide, and shoved the weapon back into his hands with movements that were fast and practiced, though he hadn't even reloaded his own gun yet.

Just as Marcus ejected his own magazine, a sound came from the side.

"Bang! Bang!"

The first shot hit Drake; as he was staring ahead, his entire body seemed to buckle, and he stumbled back two steps, hunched over, before collapsing to the ground, his gun firing a hole into the ceiling as he fell.

The second shot was aimed at Marcus.

Before the shot even rang out, Marcus executed a tactical maneuver, slamming his body toward the ground; the moment his back hit the floor, the bullet whizzed past his ear, and the magazine in his hand flew away.

"Motherfucker!"

He flipped over and rolled behind a stack of steel drums, waiting for the enemy to fire again.

However, Marcus waited in vain; the gunfire had stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

He crouched behind the steel drums, gasping for air, his own hands shaking now.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!"

Cursing, Marcus fished a fresh magazine from his pocket, slammed it into his pistol, and racked the slide.

Click.

That sound made sweat bead on Marcus's forehead once more.

Damn it, why couldn't the sound of this piece-of-shit gun chambering a round be quieter!

"Drake!!!"

Marcus shouted, but there was no response, leaving him no choice but to risk peeking out.

Drake lay on the concrete floor five meters away, his body curled up, hands pressed against his ribs as blood seeped through his fingers.

"Shit!"

Marcus cursed, swallowing hard, his wide, bulging eyes darting around.

"Where the fuck are you? Come out, come out!"

No one answered Marcus's near-hysterical shouting; only two crows flapped their wings and landed on the overhead crane fixed to the ceiling of the Furniture Factory, cawing loudly.

In his state of terror and agitation, Marcus instinctively raised his gun and pulled the trigger repeatedly at the crows; gunfire erupted again, sparks flying everywhere, but he hit nothing, watching helplessly as the two crows cawed and flew away.

"Click..."

When the sound of the slide locking back on an empty chamber echoed, Marcus finally snapped out of it, realizing what he had been doing; he hurriedly flicked his wrist to eject the empty magazine and reached into his pocket to grab a new one.

And at that very moment, a Shadow appeared silently behind him.

"Bang!"