Custom Services and the Deranged Doctor
A massive double-pane glass partition separates two worlds. On one side is the clean observation room where K is located, and on the other side is the operating room under the shadowless lamps.
As Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming were wheeled into the operating room, the moment the heavy, airtight door slid open, an even stronger smell of disinfectant wafted out, accompanied by a certain... excitement.
The expressions of the two "fellow Daoists" in the observation room— the Skinny and the man with High Cheekbones —became somewhat subtle. The Skinny rubbed his hands together, leaned closer to K, and said in a strange tone, a mixture of pride and unease, "Dude, this place... isn't quite what you imagined, is it?"
K's gaze didn't leave the other side of the glass; he merely tilted his head slightly to indicate that he was listening.
"We here," the man with the High Cheekbones interjected, his voice low as if he were discussing something confidential, "Mainly do... 'customized services'."
"Customized?" K spoke for the first time, his voice steady.
"Yes." The Skinny nodded, his eyes lighting up. "It's not the kind of rough work where you just pick and sell whatever you want. We take on 'special needs.'" He gestured. "For example, a big boss needs a heart, but the donor must be blood type O, under thirty, have no smoking history, and... well, have a certain physique. Or, someone needs a pair of corneas, but the original donor's vision must be 2.0 or better."
He paused, then continued, "These requests are transmitted to us through encrypted channels. We then use the dark web to 'match' suitable sources." He pointed to the operating room, "So we've spent a lot of money on this place. Sterile environment, imported equipment, the best consumables... After all, the big bosses we serve are very picky. If an organ is contaminated during the retrieval process or improperly preserved, it becomes worthless—more importantly, we can't afford the responsibility if the transplant fails."
K listened in silence. His gaze fell on the operating room, where the doctor—or rather, the surgeon—wearing surgical scrubs, a mask, and a cap, was walking toward the two people who had just been strapped to the operating table.
The man's actions were initially quite professional: he checked the restraints on the stretcher, confirming that Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming were securely fastened. But what happened next made the atmosphere in the observation room strange.
The doctor bent down, first bringing his nose close to Wei Guangyuan's neck and taking a deep breath—the action didn't seem like checking vital signs, but more like... smelling. His head slowly moved, smelling from Wei Guangyuan's shoulder to his chest, then he turned his face, almost pressing his nose against Qian Zhiming's cheek, and took a deep breath as well. The eyes peeking out from above the mask, reflected by the operating lights, shone with an unsettling, almost obsessive light.
That wasn't an inspection. That was a tasting.
The Skinny and the guy with the High Cheekbones looked visibly embarrassed. The Skinny coughed, scratched his cheek, and looked away.
K looked at the strangely behaving doctor across the glass and calmly asked, "Who is this pervert?"
The question was asked directly, and though the voice wasn't loud, it was exceptionally clear in the quiet observation room.
The Skinny and the man with the High Cheekbones both stiffened for a moment. They exchanged a glance, seemingly engaging in some silent buck-passing. Finally, the Skinny steeled himself and said in an even lower, almost Whisper voice, "Uh... well... he's our boss."
K's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly by about a millimeter. This reaction was, to him, a sign of surprise. He hadn't expected that the leader of this organization was a doctor who personally performed surgeries—and a doctor whose behavior was clearly eccentric.
But he quickly regained his composure, simply nodding to indicate that he understood. There was no comment, no further questioning, as if he had accepted a perfectly ordinary fact.
Inside the operating room, the doctor had completed his "sniffing ritual." He straightened up, picked up two pre-prepared syringes from the instrument table, and skillfully located the veins in Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming's arms, injecting the medication. It was a mixture of muscle relaxant and analgesic—the dosage had been precisely calculated.
Just as the doctor was administering the injection, the Skinny in the observation room suddenly remembered something and turned to K, saying, "By the way, buddy, that request you made before... there's really no need to worry about it."
K looked at him.
"Our boss," the Skinny pointed across the glass, "Has a habit." He licked his lips, seemingly choosing his words carefully, "He likes... to chat with the person being dissected during surgery."
The man with the High Cheekbones added, his tone strangely nonchalant. "So he controls the dosage of the anesthetic perfectly. Just enough to relax the other person's muscles, rendering them immobile, yet ensuring they remain conscious. Even..." He paused, "... enough to make them speak."
The Skinny nodded. "Yes. The boss said that this way we can 'understand the donor's feelings' and make the whole process 'more meaningful'." When he said this, there was no sarcastic expression on his face, as if he were stating an objective work process.
After listening, K remained silent for two seconds, then nodded again.
At this moment, he had already reached a clear conclusion in his mind: the boss of this organization, the doctor who personally performed the surgery—was an out-and-out psychopath with a professional background and sophisticated equipment.
Not the kind of "psychopath" used as an insult, but a literal, pathological individual with a psychological structure different from that of ordinary people. He has the ability to build and operate such a sophisticated and cruel "customized service" network, yet at the same time maintains such bizarre and personalized "habits." This combination makes this character both dangerous and... predictable.
Inside the operating room, the doctor had finished the injection. He stepped back, glanced at the data on the monitor, seemingly waiting for the drug to take full effect. Then, he looked up through the huge glass wall towards the observation room.
His gaze met K's gaze through the double-pane glass in mid-air.
The doctor raised his hand and waved gently. The gesture wasn't so much a greeting as a ceremonial signal—the performance was about to begin.
In the observation room, the Skinny and the High Cheekbones instinctively straightened their bodies, their expressions becoming respectful and tense.
K remained calmly seated in his chair, just like a genuine, paid audience member.
On the operating table under the operating lights, Wei Guangyuan and Qian Zhiming's fingers began to tremble slightly and uncontrollably—a sign that the muscle relaxants were starting to take effect. Their eyelids were twitching, as if trying to open, but the strength was rapidly fading.
The doctor turned around and picked up a scalpel from the instrument table.
The blade reflected a cold, precise glint under the light.