Scrape Your Knees

Present [VIII]

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"I don't give a DAMN on all those people!"

"I don't give a DAMN on all those people!"

"I don't give a DAMN on all those people!--"

Zeirenne had been replaying her very own voice recording for an hour. Inside her office, Dylan stood still, watching her expression. She didn't look troubled, but there seemed to be something puzzling among her thoughts.

To her, it didn't make sense. What good would Miura Takumi get from releasing this recording? Was this some petty attack meant to irritate her?

She couldn't pinpoint what... but there was something unsettling in this incident. She felt something deep was about to get unraveled... something disturbingly surprising.

"When was this first released, Assistant Wang?"

"Earlier this morning, Miss Lin. It was posted on this sketchy-looking website. Major news agencies are yet to turn it into a scoop. This can mean that it was a tip off from an unidentified source. I'm sure they want to do some research first for credibility purposes."

Zeirenne pinched her chin while contemplating her genius.

"Then... what do you think about this recording. Does it sound like me?"

"For someone who'd memorized your voice for years, I can recognize it even when altered," Assistant Wang looked up to her, "This is your very own voice and not a lame imitation... nor a manipulated copy. I can vouch for its legitimacy, Miss Lin."

Zeirenne shook her head with a silly smile on her face, "Well, obviously, that's not a good thing. But thank you for that."

Dylan bowed with the same mischievous smirk as he mouthed a 'thank you.'

"Now getting back to the topic... how is the investigation going?"

He went back to becoming Assistant Wang, and brought out the clipboard he'd been holding behind his back. He's been waiting to bring it up but Miss Lin was preoccupying herself with her voice on repeat.

"I found everything about them," he started, "The first guy is Luisito Taberdo. Fifty-five years old. He lives with his wife and has four kids who haven't visited them in years. He owns a junkshop by the outskirts—buying and selling scrap metal for years to get on with their everyday expenses. Until his wife turned ill just a year ago. At first, he decided to expand his capabilities and provide vulcanizing services as well. But..."

Zeirenne sighed, "His blood and sweat couldn't earn him enough money so he decided to resort into doing illegal ways?"

"That is correct."

"Go ahead."

Dylan flipped the page to show the next profile.

"This is Matthew Distor. Just like everyone else, he works in Mr. Luisito's junkyard. He'd been filed with different complaints like snatching and burglary. He was the one who pulled the group into such desperate measures of earning money."

"Hmm..."

After a few minutes, Assistant Wang finished presenting all the profiles he'd sketched. He waited for Miss Lin's response.

"Should I bring them here?" he suggested.

"No need for that," Zeirenne said, "This place feels stuffy. Let's go out for a walk to the suburbs. Shall we?"

"Sure. After you, Miss..."

An hour of drive brought them to a distraught suburb.

The streets were lined with dirty water-ways that reeked of an unpleasant pungent smell. With narrower paths ahead, they had to park the car on the sidewalk before walking their way deeper into the slums.

Zeirenne looked around, the place reminded her of an unsettling childhood memory.

Most houses were patched with ply woods or tattered sacks. Worn-out tires held dozens of unsecured roofs down to barely keep them in place during storms.

They passed by numbers of neighborhood ladies on their daily gossip session. For this day's topic, these two fit their agenda perfectly. Their resentful eyes brushed Zeirenne and Dylan from head to toe—with sour lips twitching at the same time.

"The heck are these clean people doing here?" One lady said as she puffed a smoke. She had curlers on her head while looking down on her neighbors doing laundry.

"Probably looking down on us. You know what they say, those filthy rich people enjoy touring around our area so they can feel good about themselves. Rotten bastards."

"Tsk," another lady glared at them before shouting at the top of her lungs, "Well as you can see!--we are indeed drowning in crippling poverty! Does seeing our misery make you feel good about yourselves! Huh?! Have fun looking around, you rich bastards!"

This left both of them surveying their clothes. They were both wearing formal office attires.

"Had I known better, we would have changed into casual clothes," Zeirenne mumbled.

At the end of the tenth street, they were greeted by an old junkyard. There was an old, rusty and barely readable sign tilted sideways that said: Lu si o's Jun s op. The entire lot was enclosed inside a fence made of scrap galvanized roofing material.

Before they could even step inside, the pungent smell of rusting metal and the screeching sound of tins clanging into each other greeted their senses.

They caught the attention of the men working inside upon entering.

A skinny lad who was in the middle of welding two concrete bars together halted on his task to greet their potential customers. He lifted his welding goggles to assist them, "How can we help you today--" Freezing midway after recognizing a terrifyingly familiar face.

He turned his head to look at his fellowmen who were also frozen in their places.

With their jaws dropped, tongues tied... only one groggy voice broke the torrid atmosphere as it boomed with apparent distress.

From the back of the lot, Luisito emerged—coming out of the mountainous pile of junk. He was carrying a plain sheet with him—which fell to the ground with a loud crashing sound when he lost his grip from shock.

"W-what are you doing here?"

Zeirenne smiled, sending shivers down their spines, "I'm glad you remember me--"

Before she could even finish a sentence, the four able-bodied men fell to their knees. They crouched down, ready to beg for her forgiveness.

For days, these young men had been bombarded by what they've done. They had lots of regrets and what ifs. And at this moment, the weight of these burdensome baggage weighed their shoulders down upon seeing Zhi Lin's presence.

The way she stood with confidence made them sure... she did not come to negotiate. But still, they scraped their knees to test their chances.

"P-please... p-please forgive us..." they begged, "Please don't send us into custody."

Zeirenne smirked.

"Not a chance."

. . .