The Beast

Everyone had a beast hidden in their heart.

Most people built a cage out of iron bars called morality, family, reason, and civilization, locking the beast inside so it couldn't get out.

When two of those bars snapped under some outside force, the beast inside the cage came out.

But Lin An was different from ordinary people. There was no cage in his heart, no shackles. The beast ran free.

Now the beast named Lin An smelled blood... blood that was about to be shed.

Lin An emerged from the narrow alley and stood in the street, his hands in his coat pockets.

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

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

The two roller doors, which had been tightly shut, were now open. Broken snatches of conversation drifted out from behind them.

Lin An couldn't make out what the people inside were saying, but he knew they weren't good people. That was enough.

"'At the beginning, human nature is good.' Do you know what that means?"

Lin An murmured to himself.

"It means people are good by nature when they're born. So can I say that if you're not good, you're not human...?"

[Why are you suddenly reciting that?]

[Is the streamer coming up with a theoretical justification for killing and setting fires?]

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

"How many people are inside?"

Lin An asked.

[Five. One's standing behind the main door, two are moving around the factory, and the other two are looking for something to weigh down a big green box.]

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

Lin An paid no attention to the Bullet Screen going wild.

He simply watched the open roller door in silence, his expression calm—almost gentle. A smile rested on his lips, like a young man listening to music in the distance on a lazy afternoon, perfectly content.

The beast roared and snarled, urging Lin An to go inside.

But he couldn't just walk in like that.

Lin An glanced around, then reached into his coat, took out a bag of small buns, and held it high.

The white plastic bag reflected a small patch of light, standing out against the street. A crow cawed at once.

Then a dark shape plunged down from a nearby rooftop like an eagle. Its talons caught the bag with precision, and then it took off. In a flash, it was gone.

After that crow took the buns, the sound of wings beating the air rang out. Five more crows landed in the street, two or three meters in front of him. Five pairs of round, shining black eyes tilted at different angles to watch him.

"Could five of you help me out? Gangsters always leave someone on lookout when they're working. Help me check if anyone else is nearby."

Lin An said.

[Here we go, here we go.]

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

[I want the one on the right. Charge, brothers!]

[Wait, do you need points to possess a crow? How do you do it again?]

[Just move your Bullet Screen over the crow's head. It'll automatically open a live-stream split screen. Ten points an hour—not expensive.]

Soon, the five crows with Bullet Screens above their heads took off one after another, flying in different directions.

Lin An looked down at the factory. The five people inside were still working at a leisurely pace, unaware that someone had arrived outside.

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

The driver's window was halfway down. An arm rested on the sill, its skin dark brown, a hexagram tattooed on the forearm. A cigarette was held between its fingers, its ash long and ready to fall.

The man in the van was named Tyrell. He wasn't important in the Crips, so his main job was to keep watch—to watch the street corner and honk if anyone came.

It was simple, and boring.

He'd been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes, and there wasn't even a dog on the street.

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

They came from behind the van, unhurried, as if someone were out for a stroll.

Tyrell froze mid-drag and glanced at the rearview mirror. It showed the abandoned gas station canopy, a few rusty pillars, broken glass and dead leaves scattered on the ground. There was no one in sight.

Had he imagined it?

He waited a few seconds. Just as he was about to take another drag, the footsteps sounded again. Clack, clack, clack. They were getting closer.

He quickly put the cigarette in his mouth to free up his hands, then pulled a pistol from beneath the jacket on the passenger seat. The muzzle pointed down, his finger resting outside the trigger guard. He slowly leaned his head out of the window and looked behind him.

There was still nothing behind the van.

The canopy's shadow stretched across the ground in gray-black stripes. The shadows of several pillars overlapped like prison bars. The space was empty.

The footsteps stopped.

Tyrell pulled his head back in, closed the window, and took several deep breaths.

Then the footsteps sounded again. It seemed someone was standing beside the wall behind the van, deliberately stamping once. Thump.

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

"Fuck you!!!"

Tyrell swore. Terrified, he kicked the door open, jumped out as fast as he could, and charged toward the rear of the van with his gun raised.

Tyrell was ready to fight his enemy to the death. He planned to charge around the van and shoot the moment he saw someone, engaging the bastard at close range and seeing who could draw faster.

But when Tyrell rushed past the rear of the van, he saw nothing.

There was a brick wall behind it, with a faded piece of graffiti sprayed across it. A few clumps of dead grass grew at its base, beside several scattered beer cans and a battered sneaker.

No one. No footsteps. Nothing.

Tyrell let out a breath. He figured he'd been too tense. This place was so remote; who would come here for a walk? It had to be the wind blowing something around, or that old sneaker falling off the wall.

Still reassuring himself, Tyrell turned around and prepared to get back into the driver's seat.

A hand reached out from behind him.

It clamped over his mouth, turning Tyrell's startled cry into a muffled whimper that only he could hear.

His body instinctively tried to struggle, but then his chest went cold, and all his strength vanished.

Tyrell looked down without thinking. A knife tip had stabbed through his clothes, and red was rapidly spreading across the white fabric like a flower opening.

The knife tip had grown out of his body.

Tyrell tried to say something, but all he could manage was a sound like water flowing through a pipe.

The hand released him. Tyrell pitched forward, face-first into the van's rear bumper, then slid down and landed on his side on the concrete.

The gun fell from his hand and slid half a meter away.

"A Taurus Pistol?"

[Poor Man's Beretta.]

[PT-92. Nice.]

[Quick, quick, get to the System Store. My wallet's starving.]

[Check the van. There are more magazines inside.]

[I have an idea... Do you think the streamer can toss this van into the Live Stream Store?]

Lamont, crouching behind the roller door, felt his legs going numb. He instinctively stood up to stretch them.

"Caw."

Lamont looked up. There was nothing on the beam above the roller door. The gray daylight cut in through the entrance, illuminating dust floating in the air.

He lowered his head again and continued watching the empty street outside.

"Caw!"

"Huh!?"

This time he heard it clearly. The sound had come from inside. He turned and looked deeper into the factory.

In the dim light, iron barrels were piled into a small mountain, scrap wood leaned against the wall, and a rusted planer crouched in the corner like a huge, dead insect.

Among all the junk, Lamont spotted a crow perched on an abandoned metal cabinet less than ten meters away.

The crow tilted its head, its round, shining eyes fixed on him. It made Lamont uncomfortable.

He patted his numbed leg and looked around. There was a piece of broken brick by his foot, about half the size of his fist. He bent down to pick it up.

Then he saw a pair of feet.

A meter away stood a pair of shoes dusted with rust-colored grime, gray trouser legs, and the hem of a coat.

"???"

Lamont's breath caught for half a second. Then he jerked upright... It was the fastest movement he'd ever made in his life.

But he was still too late, and the timing couldn't have been worse. A knife was already waiting for him.

The instant Lamont straightened up, his chest struck the knife tip.

His knees went weak at once. He pitched forward, but a hand caught his shoulder and gently, silently lowered him to the ground without making a sound.

He lay on the concrete, eyes still open, watching the gray daylight cut through the roller door above him.

The crow was still perched on the cabinet, head tilted as it watched him with one glossy black eye.

"Caw..."

The crow let out an excited caw.

"Where'd that crow come from... Wait, something's wrong."

Marcus, who was busy hiding things in a room, suddenly sensed something amiss. He quickly stood up and blew a sharp whistle toward the door.

The whistle was the signal he used to confirm his companions' positions.

Marcus stepped out into the second-floor hallway and waited three seconds.

One whistle, two, three... Where was the fourth? Why hadn't anyone answered?

Marcus realized something was wrong. Something had happened.

"Jerome."

He called out.

"I'm here, boss."

"Drake, Sean."

"Here." / "I'm here."

"Lamont!"

There was no answer. That much was obvious.

"Come together, now. We've got an enemy!"

Marcus shouted the order.

Hurried footsteps sounded from the other end of the hallway and below the metal staircase. Soon, Jerome, Drake, and Sean ran over from those two directions and joined Marcus.

"Lamont's missing."

Marcus said.

The three exchanged glances. Jerome took out his phone, dialed a number, and listened for five seconds before shaking his head.

"He's not answering."

"Maybe he went out for a smoke."

Sean said, sounding uncertain.

"Unless he wants to die."

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

"I whistled twice and called his name. No answer."

All three men's expressions changed. In this Crips branch, ignoring the boss's whistle was worse than not paying up.

"Move."

Marcus headed down the stairs. The metal staircase creaked.

"We go down together. Don't split up."

The three of them made it down without incident. No one shot at them as they descended at a leisurely pace.

"Lamont."

Marcus called out again. Still no answer, so he turned and gave the three men an order.

"Head for the exit. I'll take the lead..."

"Bang!"

Jerome, right in front of Marcus, was hit. He lurched forward two steps as if someone had shoved him from behind, then fell face-down, the gun in his hand sliding far away.

Marcus instinctively ducked and charged forward. Once he found cover, he and the others immediately fired toward the back.

Gunshots exploded through the factory, but there was nothing there. The bullets flew uselessly into the load-bearing walls and piles of junk, crackling against them.

"Stop!"

Marcus roared.

Drake was still firing, muzzle flashes flickering across his face. Marcus hurried over in a crouch, grabbed his arm, and forced it down.

"Stop! You can't see anyone!"

Only then did Drake stop.

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, sweat covering his forehead.

The factory suddenly fell silent, leaving only Jerome's labored breathing, which was growing weaker.

"Wait, where's Sean?"

Marcus stood up and looked around.

"He's here, boss... He's over here!"

Drake's voice trembled as he called out. Marcus turned and followed his gaze to Sean. He was lying behind a pile of lumber, convulsing.

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

Sean's eyes were still open. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His chest was covered in blood. No one knew when he'd been shot, or whether it had been an enemy or friendly fire.

Marcus watched him for two seconds, then stood up without trying to help him.

"They're both dead. Let's change magazines."

He turned to Drake, his voice trembling slightly.

Drake's hands were shaking. The magazine was jammed, and he couldn't pull it out.

He looked down at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. Marcus snatched the gun from him, pulled out the magazine, fished a fresh one from his pocket and slapped it in, racked the slide, then shoved the gun back into Drake's hands. His movements were quick and practiced, but he still hadn't changed his own magazine.

Marcus had just ejected the magazine from his gun when a sound came from the side.

"Bang! Bang!"

The first shot hit Drake. He'd been watching the area ahead when his whole body seemed to fold in half. He staggered backward, doubled over, then fell to the ground. The gun in his hand fired a hole in the ceiling.

The second shot was aimed at Marcus.

Before the gunshot rang out, Marcus moved tactically, throwing himself to the ground. The instant his back hit the floor, the bullet flew past above his ear, and the magazine in his hand went flying.

"Motherfucker!"

He rolled behind a pile of metal barrels and waited for the enemy to fire.

But Marcus waited in vain. At some point, the gunfire had stopped.

Crouched behind the barrels, he panted heavily. This time, his hands were shaking too.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!"

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

Click.

The sound brought another sheen of sweat to Marcus's forehead.

Damn it, why couldn't this piece of shit gun be quieter when it chambered a round?!

"Drake!!!"

Marcus shouted, but got no answer. He could only risk peeking out.

Drake lay on the concrete floor five meters away, curled up with a hand clamped to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers.

"Shit!"

Marcus cursed. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide as he scanned the area.

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

No one answered Marcus's near-hysterical shouts. Only two crows flapped over and perched on the overhead crane fixed to the ceiling of the Furniture Factory, cawing loudly.

Panicked and terrified, Marcus instinctively raised his gun and pulled the trigger repeatedly at the crows. Gunshots rang out again, sparks flew, but he hit nothing. He watched helplessly as the two crows cawed and flew away.

"Click..."

Only when the pistol's empty-magazine lock sounded did Marcus snap out of it and realize what he was doing. He quickly swung the gun, ejecting the spent magazine, and reached into his pocket for a fresh one.

Just then, a shadow appeared silently behind him.

"Bang!"