The Dockside Deal and the Ultimate Fate

A few days later, late at night.

Far from the city's hustle and bustle, the abandoned docks are swept by a salty, damp sea breeze carrying the smells of rust and decay, howling through the empty storage yards and the dilapidated shipwrecks. There are no streetlights, only a sliver of moon occasionally peeking through the thick clouds, casting a faint, pale glow that barely outlines the distorted and eerie contours of the surroundings.

A black SUV without license plates slid silently into the depths of the dock like Ghost, finally stopping in the shadow of an abandoned gantry crane. The door opened, and K got out first. He was still wearing that inconspicuous dark coat, his face expressionless, his eyes appearing particularly cold and sharp in the dim light, like two sophisticated scanners, quickly assessing the surrounding environment.

Soon, two figures emerged unsteadily from behind a pile of rusty containers. In the dim moonlight, it was clear they were two thin, Bamboo Pole- like men, dressed in stained clothes whose original colors were indistinguishable. Their faces were an unhealthy, deathly pale white, their eyes sunken, their pupils cloudy and bloodshot, and fine beads of sweat constantly seeped from their foreheads. Even in the cool sea breeze, they yawned incessantly, and snot occasionally dripped uncontrollably from their noses. They walked unsteadily, their steps unsteady—typical characteristics of long-term drug addicts.

The two stopped a few steps away from K. The man with high cheekbones and a persistent sniffling voice asked in a hoarse tone with a heavy nasal tone and a hint of impatience:

"Did you bring the stuff?" His gaze involuntarily drifted towards the trunk of the SUV, his hands rubbing together unconsciously, a mixture of the restlessness of drug withdrawal and the longing for the "goods."

K didn't speak, but simply nodded silently. He turned around, walked to the back of the car, and pressed the button.

With a soft "click," the trunk lid slowly popped open.

Inside, two men lay tightly bound with thick hemp rope, their mouths taped shut! They were Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming, who had been missing for several days! They appeared to have been injected with some kind of drug and were unconscious, though their chests were still rising and falling slightly. Wei Guangyuan's expensive suit was wrinkled and covered in dust; Qian Zhiming was ashen-faced, with dark water stains faintly visible on his crotch, clearly indicating he had experienced extreme fear before losing consciousness.

The two "fellow Daoists" stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and carefully examined him by the moonlight. Their brows immediately furrowed, and their faces showed obvious dissatisfaction and disgust.

The man with High Cheekbones gestured with his chin towards the two men in the trunk, his tone laced with complaint. "Bro... what's going on? Why are there two old men like this?" He pointed to Wei Guangyuan's graying hair and Qian Zhiming's sagging skin, "Look at their condition, they're obviously no good! Their kidneys... they're probably atrophied, what good are they? Their livers are probably soaked in alcohol and women! Tsk tsk... I think only their corneas might be worth a little bit of money."

His companion, a Skinny whose eyes kept darting around, chimed in with a shrill voice, "Exactly! After all that effort, you only got these two? This... this isn't up to par, man!"

K listened quietly to their complaints, his face remaining impassive. Only after they finished speaking did he slowly open his mouth, his voice calm and even, yet carrying a chilling undercurrent:

"I don't want money."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the unconscious Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming like two cold scalpels.

"These two men are my enemies." He stated it as if it were a statement unrelated to himself. "Money, or how much those parts they're worth, I don't care at all."

His voice was lowered, but it reached the ears of the two people opposite him even more clearly:

"My only request, and the reason I came to you, is that I want to see them, while they are still alive and conscious, being... dismembered, their bones torn apart."

He uttered those words without any emotional fluctuation, as if he were saying "cutting bread" as casually as he would.

"As for how to make people 'fully experience' this process," K raised his eyelids and looked at the two "fellow Daoists," "I believe you are professionals."

Upon hearing this, the man with the High Cheekbones and the Skinny were taken aback at first. Then, they exchanged a glance, and the expressions on their faces, which had been distorted by addiction and discontent, instantly relaxed, replaced by smiles that were a mixture of morbid pride and cruel excitement. It was as if K's words were the highest recognition of their "professional skills."

"Of course!" The man with the High Cheekbones pounded his chest, a bloodthirsty glint in his cloudy eyes. "Dude, you've come to the right place! When it comes to this, we're the professionals! We guarantee you... no, we mean they'll... have a 'memorable impression'!"

The Skinny man grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotten, yellowish-black teeth, and chuckled. His laughter sounded particularly eerie on the quiet dock.

K looked at the proud yet cruel smiles on their faces, nodded slightly, seemingly acknowledging their attitude. He then made more specific demands, his tone still flat:

"In that case, I hope you can use as little anesthetic as possible during the procedure."

He emphasized this point.

"All we need to do is relax their muscles and render them unable to resist. But..." His gaze fell again on the two unconscious people in the trunk, and he said, word by word, "Their consciousness must remain. They must be able to hear, see, and feel... that's ideal."

These inhuman, devilish demands sounded like the most beautiful music to the ears of the two organ traffickers who had long since lost their humanity.

The man with the High Cheekbones and the Skinny laughed almost simultaneously; it was the kind of joyful smile one gets when seeing a "kindred spirit" or meeting someone who "knows the ropes."

"Hahaha! Brother, you know your stuff!" The man with the High Cheekbones laughed so hard he almost fell over, wiping away tears of laughter. "To tell you the truth, that stuff (anesthetic) is really expensive! We don't use it much normally, just enough is fine! Who would actually give them general anesthesia? That would be such a waste!"

The Skinny nodded repeatedly, his face beaming with the joy of finding a Zhiyin: "Yes, yes, yes! Just enough to have some effect! The key is to tie them up securely! Make sure they are clearly 'participating' in the whole process!"

K's face remained expressionless upon hearing this, but a faint flicker of satisfaction seemed to flash in his cold eyes. He nodded slightly.

"Very good."

The deal is done.

The trunk of the black SUV slowly closed, isolating the two worlds. Soon, a dilapidated van reeking of fish and engine oil drove out from the shadows. Several men with similarly sleazy appearances and nimble movements jumped out of the van and, together with the two "fellow Daoists," transferred Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming, who were still unconscious but about to face their final fate, from the SUV trunk to the ominous van, just like loading cargo.