Halloween's Icy Rain (Part 1)

October 31, 2025, Seattle, evening.

The rain wasn't falling, it was drifting down—the kind of fine, icy rain that could seep into every crevice of a collar and cuff. The temperature was only 10 degrees Celsius, but the near-saturated 99% humidity, combined with the chilly wind blowing in from Puget Sound, made the perceived temperature feel almost zero.

The low-lying areas of the street were already flooded, and the murky water reflected the gray sky and the pumpkin lanterns and neon signs that had lit up early in the rain and mist, their lights blurring into a hazy ball of light. The air was damp and heavy, and breathing it in carried a rusty chill.

"This damn weather..." Kong Xiang muttered into the Mike, his voice processed by a voice changer into a slightly hoarse and helpless middle-aged man's voice. He adjusted the angle of the high-definition camera fixed above the computer screen, pointing at the door and the desktop, making sure it could capture the pile of things at the door and on the table, but definitely not the shadowy area where he was.

He was currently at a friend's house in a middle-class neighborhood in Seattle —more precisely, the house of a partner in "Uncle's" company. The owner was on vacation in Hawaii and had lent him the house for the night, which fit his "ordinary Chinese family" livestream background. The house was comfortable, with warm yellow lights, a virtual electronic flame flickering in the fireplace, and the sweet aroma of hot chocolate and baked cookies filling the air. But he felt a little heavy-hearted.

"Today is Halloween, a day when kids should be out trick-or-treating," Kong Xiang said to the camera, the background showing a front door decorated with paper bats and spiderwebs. "I've prepared something here too," he moved the camera, scanning a huge pumpkin-shaped plastic bucket filled with various chocolates, gummies, and individually wrapped cookies beside the door. "But look at this rain... it's like ice crystals, cutting like knives when it hits you. What adult would let their child out in this weather?"

As he spoke, he picked up a half-eaten McDonald's's Big Mac from the table and took a bite. The camera faithfully captured the burger's thick patty, melting cheese, and fresh vegetables. This was his dinner, and also one of the "background props" for the live stream.

The number of online viewers showed over two thousand, and it was still slowly growing. Since he started streaming irregularly, telling stories about the "Kill Line" in that stern tone, his follower count has steadily increased, and he gets some regular viewers every time he goes live. Today is a holiday, so there are more viewers than usual. Most of the comments are casually chatting about the weather, complaining about Seattle's rainy season, or sharing their Halloween preparations.

"I have a feeling," Kong Xiang, chewing on his hamburger, his voice muffled but clearly audible through the voice changer, "That on a day like today, the kids asking for candy probably aren't here for the candy."

Comments floated by:

Why is Prisoner A being so sentimental today?

"The rain was a bit heavy, but kids will go to great lengths for candy."

"Waiting for the brat to come knocking, let's see if we have enough candy in Prisoner A."

"The streamer is eating all by himself! Share a bite of your burger with me!"

Kong Xiang ignored the comments on the screen. He put down his hamburger, wiped his hands, and glanced intermittently at the rain-washed, blurred street outside the window. A strange unease lingered in his mind. He thought of the stories he had told, of the families struggling in poverty and despair. Halloween, for many children, is the most anticipated day of the year—the day to "legally" obtain large amounts of free candy. But what about for other children?

It was nearly 8:30 p. m., and the rain showed no signs of letting up.

"Ding-dong--"

The crisp sound of the doorbell rang through the well-made door, particularly clear in the quiet living room.

"I'm here." Kong Xiang said into the Mike, stood up, straightened his clothes (which wouldn't be on camera at all), and walked to the door. He didn't open the door immediately, but first looked out through the peephole.

The camera was pointed at the entrance. The number of online viewers had unknowingly risen to over five thousand.

Kong Xiang opened the door.

A cold, damp breeze, carrying the metallic scent of rain, instantly flooded the warm entryway. Three small figures stood in the doorway.

Two boys and one girl, who appeared to be about five to seven years old, were dressed in inexpensive, synthetic Halloween costumes.

One was draped in a plastic-looking black Batman cape, the other in a Spider-Man bodysuit that was clearly a size too big, with the chest pattern almost worn away, and the girl wore a thin pink dress with a clumsy princess print. They weren't wearing makeup, or rather, the poor-looking face paint had been washed away by the cold rain, mixed with mud, leaving comical and pitiful marks on their frostbitten, blue faces.

Their clothes were completely soaked, clinging to their thin bodies, water dripping incessantly and quickly forming a puddle on the doormat. All three children were shivering uncontrollably, their teeth chattering softly, their lips a deep purple. The boy's wet hair clung to his forehead, and the girl's braids were disheveled, water dripping from the ends.

According to Halloween "traditions," they should be shouting in unison, "Trick or Treat!"

But they didn't.

The three children, with six eyes, looked past Kong Xiang the moment the door opened and stared intently at the giant hamburger on the entryway cabinet—the one Kong Xiang had just half-eaten, still radiating the warm, oily, and cheesy aroma.

That wasn't the look of curiosity or longing in a child's eyes when looking at snacks.

Those were the eyes of hunger. A primal, desperate, and nakedly ravenous desire for food. Their pupils dilated slightly, their nostrils flared, and their throats swallowed involuntarily. The youngest boy even unconsciously took a small step toward the hamburger, his wet shoes squeaking softly on the floor.

Time seemed to stand still. Only the cold sound of rain came from outside the door, and the live stream chat suddenly became sparse.

Kong Xiang stood frozen at the doorway. He had a premonition that children would come in the rain, perhaps disheveled, perhaps cold. But he hadn't expected this look in their eyes. He had seen this look on the faces of dying homeless people, on the eyes of those who would sell anything for food. But it shouldn't be in a middle-class neighborhood in Seattle, on Halloween, on the faces of children who should be innocent and carefree.

In those few deathly seconds of silence, the slightly older boy, about seven years old (wearing Batman cape), seemed to snap out of his daze. He tugged hard at his younger sister, who was staring blankly at the hamburger, then nudged the little boy who was taking a step forward with his shoulder. His voice trembled, whether from the cold or something else, as he spoke rapidly and almost inaudibly in heavily accented English: "Don't, don't look... say 'Trick or Treat'... say it now..."

But his reminders were in vain. The children's eyes were glued to the hamburgers, unable to look away. The youngest boy even licked his chapped, purple lips.

With a sudden "buzz," Kong Xiang felt a surge of heat rush to his head, only to recede instantly, leaving behind a cold numbness and a sharp, stinging sensation. All the calm, analytical terms he had used in his livestream, all the theories about "Kill Line," "system exploitation," and "survival resources," were shattered in that instant, before those three pairs of hungry eyes staring intently at a cold hamburger.

All his mental preparations, all his preconceived notions, and all his calm observations crumbled at this moment.

He spoke into the Mike, his voice trembling and incredibly hoarse after being amplified by the voice changer:

"... They didn't come for candy."

He paused, each word as if pulled from ice water, hard and cold:

"They've come to beg for food."

"This isn't Halloween..."

His voice lowered, carrying a suppressed sob that sounded like he was about to collapse.

"This is like a hungry ghost coming to your door."

As soon as he finished speaking, the live stream fell into absolute silence. The chat remained blank for a full two or three seconds.

Then, it exploded with a deafening roar.