Security Check, Blindfold, and an Immaculate Operating Room
The Skinny darting eyes walked to the side, turned his back to the crowd, and lowered his voice to dial a phone. The Wind General away his intermittent, obsequious, and cautious report, making it difficult to hear clearly.
The call was short, lasting only a minute or two. He hung up and quickly walked back to the man with the High Cheekbones. The two huddled together and exchanged a few words in very low voices, their eyes occasionally glancing at K, who was quietly leaning against the car.
Soon, the two seemed to have reached an agreement. The Skinny's face returned to that smile that mixed with shrewdness and cruelty. He walked up to K, cleared his throat, and said:
"Dude, our boss agreed. You're ruthless and direct, and he appreciates that type of guy." He then changed the subject, his tone becoming formal and leaving no room for negotiation. "However, rules are rules. There are certain procedures you have to follow to get into our 'workshop'."
He held up two fingers. "First, you need to hand over your phone. Second, we need to search you. Don't worry, it's not that we don't trust you; it's just a rule we apply to all 'visitors' equally, for everyone's safety."
Almost as soon as he finished speaking, the man with High Cheekbones next to him took out a black, rather professional-looking handheld metal detector from the old van they had driven there, weighed it in his hand, and was obviously prepared.
K showed no surprise, as if it were all part of his plan, or perhaps he simply didn't care. He said nothing, but silently pulled his phone from his pocket—an ordinary-looking smartphone, the kind you see everywhere. In front of the two of them, he pressed and held the power button until the screen went completely black, confirming it was off, and then handed it over.
The Skinny took the phone, but instead of keeping it for himself, he turned and handed it to a silent accomplice with a scar on his face who had helped move the "goods" earlier.
The scarred man took the phone and, with unusually practiced movements, pulled a small tool from his pocket. In a few quick movements, he removed the phone's back cover and battery, taking out the SIM card. Then, he took out a small, completely light-proof sealed bag, put the SIM card inside, carefully sealed it, and put it in his inner pocket.
After doing all that, the scarred man nodded to the Skinny, turned around without a word, walked to another inconspicuous car next to him, started the engine, and the car quickly disappeared into the darkness deeper into the dock, obviously to deal with the card that might contain location information.
The Skinny then turned around and explained to K, still wearing that fake smile, "Don't mind me, buddy, it's all necessary procedure. We'll keep your phone for now, and return it to you exactly as it is after everything's done. As for the SIM card... it's for security too, we'll get you a new one later, and we'll cover the call charges, haha."
At this moment, the man with High Cheekbones walked up with a metal detector and gestured to K: "Brother, raise your hand, turn around, and cooperate."
K obeyed, like an emotionless statue, letting the other man operate on him. The metal detector emitted a steady, low beep. The man with High Cheekbones moved with considerable professionalism, starting from the top of K's head, scanning his torso, arms, and legs, carefully checking every nook and cranny where metal might be hidden. When the detector swept across K's lower back, it beeped – that was where the dagger was.
The High Cheekbones glanced at K, who expressionlessly drew a dagger and handed it to him. The man took it, examined it, confirmed it was just an ordinary melee weapon, placed it on the ground, and continued scanning. After that, the detector made no further unusual noises.
The man with High Cheekbones put away the detector, nodded to the Skinny, indicating that no other suspicious electronic devices or weapons had been found.
The Skinny man's smile seemed a little more genuine. He clapped his hands, as if he had accomplished an important task. Then, he pulled a thick, completely opaque black cloth blindfold from his pocket and handed it to K.
"The final step," the Skinny said with a smile, his tone carrying a "you know what I mean" connotation, "This... you can understand, right? After all, this place is a bit 'special,' and there are rules to follow."
K's gaze lingered on the blindfold for less than half a second, but he remained silent, simply nodding calmly. He reached out and took the blindfold, putting it on skillfully without asking for help, tightening the straps at the back to ensure absolute darkness, preventing even a sliver of light from entering.
Seeing K's cooperation, the Skinny and the guy with High Cheekbones exchanged a glance and both breathed a slight sigh of relief. The Skinny stepped forward and took K's arm, while the guy with High Cheekbones stood guard on the other side. The two of them led K, walking unsteadily towards the van that had been waiting for a long time.
The carriage was filled with a strange smell, a mixture of strong disinfectant, blood, and an indescribable musty odor. K was seated on the side of the road, and he could feel the carriage shaking, the engine starting, and the vehicle beginning to move.
The road appeared uneven, with a strong sense of bumpiness, and the car's speed fluctuated, clearly indicating that it was not a typical city road.
Throughout the journey, the Skinny, seemingly trying to break the silence or perhaps for some other purpose, kept hovering next to K, chattering incessantly with vulgar and utterly unfunny "cold jokes."
"Dude, do you know why a scalpel is so sharp? Because it never 'cuts' people, it only 'operates' on them! Hahaha..."
"Hey, if a person's heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys were all outside their body, wouldn't it be like they were wearing a bunch of odds and ends? It would jingle and rattle when they walked?"
"A few days ago, a guy came to our area. He was a total scaredy-cat. He peed his pants before anything even happened, and guess what? Hey, he got hydronephrosis! What a waste!"
His words were crude and garrulous, echoing in the dimly lit, bumpy carriage.
K knew this wasn't just a pointless chat. The other person was using this continuous, meaningless noise to disrupt his judgment and memory of the driving route and surrounding environmental sounds (such as the sounds of landmarks, traffic noises on specific road sections, etc.). It was a rudimentary but sometimes effective counter-surveillance tactic.
K didn't react at all. He neither echoed nor showed impatience or tried to stop them. He sat there quietly like a real stone statue, letting the vulgar words flow past his ears like noise, without the slightest ripple in his heart. He even slightly adjusted his posture, as if he were truly "appreciating" this bumpy journey.
The car drove for about forty minutes, making many turns and experiencing significant ups and downs, before finally coming to a slow stop.
K was helped off the car by the Skinny and the High Cheekbones, one on each side. The ground beneath their feet seemed to be concrete, and the smell in the air had changed. The smell of disinfectant had become stronger and more pungent, almost completely masking the salty smell of the sea breeze and the strange odor in the car.
He was led around for about a minute or two, passing through several doors (he could hear the slight "click" of the electronic locks opening and the sound of the door hinges turning), and the texture under his feet changed from rough cement to a smooth, epoxy-coated floor.
Finally, he was led into a room and made to sit in a chair that appeared to be covered in artificial leather.
"We're here, buddy," the Skinny's voice rang in my ears.
Then, K felt the straps behind the blindfold being untied, and the blindfold being gently removed.
The sudden light caused his pupils to contract slightly, but he quickly adjusted.
The sight that came into view caused a barely perceptible glint to cross his eyes, which had remained frozen for millennia.
This place was nothing like the filthy, chaotic, bloodstained black workshop or terrifying cellar he had imagined.
Before me was a room of about twenty square meters, with walls painted with spotless white latex paint and a light gray, mirror-like epoxy floor.
The room was free of any unnecessary clutter, except for the black leather chair he was sitting in, and a small stainless steel instrument cart covered with a blue sterile cloth in the corner.
The air was filled with the standard, strong smell of disinfectant found in hospital operating rooms; the ventilation system emitted a low, steady hum; and the temperature was constant and slightly cool.
The most striking feature is the wall directly opposite him in the room.
It was almost an entire, enormous, transparent double-glazed curtain wall. The glass was exceptionally clean and extremely transparent.
On the other side of the glass...
It is a standardized, sterile operating room.
The area appears slightly larger than this side, with shadowless lights hanging high. Although not all lights are on at the moment, their professional specifications are evident. The operating table, made of stainless steel, is located in the center and gleams with a cold metallic sheen.
Various monitoring instruments, anesthesia machines, and ventilators were neatly arranged nearby, with tubing in place. Several stainless steel instrument cabinets stood against the wall, their doors tightly closed. In one corner of the room, there was also a separate disinfection area and a waste disposal channel. All the equipment looked quite advanced, well-maintained, and arranged in an orderly manner, and the floor was also spotless.
The entire environment is completely unrelated to words like "crime," "bloodshed," or "underground." It's more like the core operating area of a high-end private hospital or a legitimate medical research institution. The extreme "cleanliness" and "professionalism" exude a coldness and order that is deeper and more unsettling than chaos and filth.
K's gaze slowly swept across the spotless operating room through the glass, finally settling back on the observation room where he was.
The Skinny's voice, tinged with barely perceptible smugness, rang out from the side:
"How's it going, buddy? Satisfied? We're really 'professional' here."