The Wineglass and the Surgical Light

The crystal chandelier's light was excessively bright, almost deathly white, illuminating the dark walnut paneling and the abstract oil paintings on the walls. The air was filled with the faint smokiness of cigar smoke and a distinctive smell of high-end leather mixed with disinfectant—cold, clean, and untouchable.

Xie Yunchuan stood in front of the huge curved screen, which froze the final chaotic scene—shaky camera work, exploding flames, abrupt darkness, and static. He could even "hear" the muffled groans, suppressed by silencers, or the cracking sounds of bones breaking that his elite squad members might have made before they died in that silence.

Anger, like ignited alcohol, erupted and instantly burned through the carefully maintained facade of elegance he had cultivated. It was a violent mixture of thwarted plans, challenged authority, and repeated escapes from prey. His meticulously chosen "artist" tools were crushed like garbage by his opponent.

He gripped the slender neck of the wine glass, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. The remaining top-quality Bordeaux wine, resembling congealed blood, refracted an unsettling luster under the light.

"K..." He practically spat out the name through gritted teeth.

The next second, his arm swung up suddenly!

"Clang--!"

A sharp, jarring crack echoed in the silent room. The crystal goblet slammed into the frozen black screen, shattering instantly. Dark red liquid, like bursting blood, splattered outwards, staining the black screen crimson before meandering down its smooth surface, dripping onto the expensive pure wool carpet and leaving a dark stain. Tiny crystal fragments scattered in all directions, shimmering with sharp, sparkling light under the lamplight.

The screen wasn't cracked, just had a few minor scratches, but the large patch of flowing red looked like an ugly scar, or even a silent mockery.

The assistant standing to one side of the room, responsible for communications and monitoring, was a Southeast Asia Asian man in his early thirties, wearing gold-rimmed Glasses and looking quite capable. Startled by the sudden outburst of rage, he trembled violently, his pupils behind his Glasses contracting sharply, almost as if he were suffocating. He lowered his head, staring intently at his shoes, barely breathing, yet his body trembled uncontrollably, like the last withered leaf in the cold wind. He knew his boss's temper; the silence following such rage was often the most dangerous.

Xie Yunchuan's chest heaved a few times as he slowly exhaled a hot breath. He didn't turn around immediately, but stared at the messy screen and the red wine stains flowing on it, symbols of defeat and humiliation. The anger came fiercely, but it also subsided exceptionally quickly, like the receding tide, leaving behind a colder, harder black beach.

Losing control is the behavior of the weak. He just lost his composure because of K.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, those eyes, which always carried a hint of nonchalance and artistic scrutiny, had regained that almost inhuman calm and depth. But beneath this calm, a chilling current, more terrifying than the anger that had just surged, was brewing.

He ignored his trembling subordinates behind him, and didn't even glance at the mess on the carpet. He slowly and deliberately pulled a clean white silk handkerchief from the wine cabinet next to him, and carefully wiped his wine-stained fingers, his movements as elegant as if he were creating a work of art.

Then, he walked to the large mahogany desk and picked up the specially encrypted satellite phone. His fingers paused for a moment on the cold keys, then smoothly dialed a number he knew by heart.

The call was connected.

A faint static hum came through the receiver, followed by an almost vacuum-like silence. The other person didn't speak; even their breathing was barely audible.

Xie Yunchuan remained silent.

Two people, separated by a great distance, connected by radio waves, were locked in an eerie, silent standoff. This silence itself was a confrontation, a transmission of information. Xie Yunchuan could sense that the young man on the other end of the phone, codenamed K, was calmly "observing" the call with the same cold, unwavering will.

Time seemed to stretch out. A few seconds felt like minutes. The assistant felt his heart was about to leap out of his chest, and sweat soaked the back of his shirt.

Finally, Xie Yunchuan spoke. His voice had returned to its usual gentle, pleasant tone, even carrying a perfectly balanced magnetism, as if he hadn't just smashed the wine glass. But the content of his words was chillingly cold:

"I will definitely catch you."

There was no roaring, no threats, just a simple statement, as calm as saying, "The weather is nice today." But the unwavering resolve and unquestionable determination it contained were more chilling than any hysterical outburst.

There was a silence of about half a second on the other end of the line.

Then, a young, calm, even somewhat indifferent male voice rang out, clearly penetrating Xie Yunchuan's ears:

"Okay, I'll wait."

His speech was steady and even, without any inflection, showing neither provocation nor fear, as if he were answering a trivial question. Then, the call was abruptly ended.

"Beep beep beep..."

The busy signal rang out in the quiet room, sounding particularly jarring.

Xie Yunchuan held the disconnected phone, remaining in the position of answering, and stood there for a few seconds. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were so deep that they seemed to absorb all the light around him.

Then, he gently placed the satellite phone back on the table, as delicately as if he were handling a fragile treasure.

He didn't look at the stained screen again, nor did he pay attention to his assistant who was almost collapsing. He turned and walked toward a small, inconspicuous white door covered in soft leather on the side of the room.

That was the passageway to his private space.

As he passed by his assistant, who stood frozen in place, the assistant trembled violently, like a frog caught in the sight of a venomous snake. His legs buckled, and with a thud, he knelt upright on the thick carpeted floor. He didn't even dare to raise his head, only touching the ground with his forehead, his body shaking like a candle in the wind, a suppressed, dying sob escaping his throat.

"Boss... I... I..." He stammered, trying to explain, but not knowing where to begin. The operation had failed, the live stream had been cut off, and the entire team had been wiped out... Although the decision-making and execution were unrelated to him as a mere assistant, he was responsible for communications and monitoring, and failing to issue an early warning of the anomaly was the biggest dereliction of duty. In Xie Yunchuan's "kingdom," dereliction of duty often meant losing one's value.

Xie Yunchuan didn't pause for a moment, nor did he even glance down at the man kneeling on the ground, trembling. It was as if the man was just an eyesore of trash, or a useless experimental subject about to be disposed of.

He pushed open the small white door and disappeared behind it.

The door closed silently, separating the two worlds.

The assistant, kneeling on the ground, froze upon hearing the door close, then trembled even more violently. He raised his head, his face drained of color, filled with utter terror and despair. He knew what lay behind that door, and he knew what his boss had gone to do. He tried to get up and run away, but found his limbs limp and unresponsive.

Time, stretched out to almost stand still in the face of extreme fear.

About five minutes later, or maybe longer, the small white door was silently pushed open again.

Two burly men, nearly 1.9 meters tall, wearing black tight-fitting combat vests, with muscles bulging like steel and expressionless faces, entered. Their eyes were cold, like emotionless machines. Without even glancing at the man slumped on the ground, they lifted him up from the ground, one on each side, like picking up a chick.

The assistant didn't struggle, or rather, he had lost the strength and courage to struggle. He was simply dragged along like a lump of mud, his legs unable to even support him, leaving two weak trails on the carpet. He was being dragged toward that small white door, which at that moment appeared to him as the entrance to hell.

The door closed again.

A little while later, the small white door opened for the third time.

Xie Yunchuan came out.

He had changed out of his previous well-tailored suit and wine-stained shirt. Now, he wore a light blue surgical scrub gown, loosely covered by a matching surgical isolation gown, and soft-soled operating room slippers. He wore a light blue surgical cap and a standard blue surgical mask, covering most of his face, revealing only a pair of calm, even professionally focused eyes.

This attire made him look like any surgical expert preparing to go into surgery—professional, meticulous, and rigorous.

He flexed his gloved fingers slightly, the movements light and steady. Then, he pushed open the small white door and went inside.

The door closed behind him.

This time, the door wasn't completely soundproof.

At first, there were a few muffled groans, barely suppressed but distorted by extreme fear, as if something had blocked their mouths.

Next came the crisp, cold clanging sound of metal instruments being picked up and placed on a tray.

Then...

"Ugh--!!! Heh... Heh heh..."

A low, agonizing scream, impossible to contain, suddenly pierced through the door and rang out clearly! The sheer pain and terror contained in that sound was enough to send chills down the spine and make anyone who heard it feel their blood run cold!

The screams did not continue to be loud; they seemed to be forcibly suppressed, turning into intermittent gasps and whimpers like a broken bellows.

Faintly, one could almost hear a kind of... steady and rhythmic, subtle sound, like a saw rubbing against a hard object? Or perhaps the sticky, precise sound of precision instruments operating on soft tissue?

Occasionally, Xie Yunchuan's calm, gloved movements would produce a faint, distinctive sound, and he might be whispering some kind of evaluation of the "surgery's progress" (it was hard to hear clearly), which only added to the eerie atmosphere that filled the space outside the door.

The screams gradually faded until they disappeared.

Only the cold, mechanical sounds and Xie Yunchuan's occasional, almost gentle whispers echoed softly in the silent air.

The stark white light from the ceiling lamp shone on the red wine stain on the dark carpet, and also on the tightly closed, pristine white door that seemed capable of swallowing everything.