Cold
Translator: Cinder Translations
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Under the night sky, inside an inconspicuous black sedan by the side of the street.
"Crack—"
A burst of flame illuminated a face with a scar on its jaw.
His features were sharp and sculpted like they were carved with a knife, especially the eyes hidden in the shadows, sharp like a blade aimed at the center of his brow.
The middle-aged man struck a match, lighting the cigarette on his lips.
"Hiss—"
He took a deep drag from the cigarette, tossed the extinguished match aside, and the sound of the tobacco burning grew louder in the small space.
He leaned back in his seat, alone in the car.
In front of him was an old-fashioned black-and-white screen phone.
After the time it took to smoke one cigarette, the middle-aged man took a phone card from his inner suit pocket and inserted it into the phone.
The phone emitted a series of long-forgotten startup sounds.
There was no need to make any choices. He simply opened the contacts list, which contained only one number.
The number lay there quietly, as if it were an old, dying man he hadn't seen in many years.
Taking a deep breath, he dialed the number.
After a long period of waiting, the call finally connected.
"He agreed," the middle-aged man spoke before the other party could say anything. "I've contacted the people inside, and with them there, Miss will be safe."
"Huff— huff—"
The sound of heavy breathing came from the other end of the phone. The middle-aged man frowned slightly, feeling the coldness of the breath through the phone.
"It's been a long time since someone like that appeared," a voice finally spoke, but it was unusually cold, mixed with the sound of static electricity.
It sounded like a mechanical system-generated voice.
Flat, cold, with no discernible emotion.
"Yes," the middle-aged man replied respectfully, "According to our information, Deep Crimson is very interested in him, and they've already started trying to make contact with him in the nightmare," he paused, "More than once."
"But rest assured, we're fully prepared this time."
"Gong Zhe," the voice suddenly said.
The middle-aged man froze, instinctively sitting up straighter, like a general listening to the emperor's decree before battle.
His upper body muscles tensed slightly, stretching his suit tight.
He was more troublesome than Jiang Cheng had imagined.
"Keep an eye on this person," the cold voice continued. "At all costs, don't let him be corrupted by Deep Crimson. If necessary—"
A few seconds later, for the first time, the cold mechanical voice wavered. "You can abandon Meng Meng."
Upon hearing this, the middle-aged man named Gong Zhe's pupils suddenly contracted. He instinctively opened his mouth to say something, but the other party didn't give him a chance.
"We don't have time," the voice sighed. "We can't afford that kind of loss."
The middle-aged man lowered his gaze, nodding after a long pause. "Understood." His voice was hoarse.
Without any farewell, the call ended.
After removing the phone card, the middle-aged man's world grew silent again.
He sat alone in the car, a flood of fragmented memories and blood-streaked fragments surfacing in his mind.
He was one of the survivors of that incident, just like the person on the other end of the phone.
Only they knew how terrifying the beings they would face were.
Slowly lifting his arm, the loose sleeve with gold thread stitching slid down his wrist, revealing a huge, centipede-like scar that spread down from his wrist, nearly cutting him in half.
The small muscles in his forearm trembled slightly, and the scar seemed to come alive.
Few knew his past, just as no one knew that the scar started at his wrist and stretched all the way to his heart, almost splitting him in two.
"Voom"
"Voom"
The sound of his phone vibrating broke his thoughts.
It wasn't the black-and-white phone with the phone card removed, but the one in his pocket.
He took out the phone, and the number on the screen made him slightly moved.
As soon as he answered, before he could speak, a furious voice erupted from the other end. "Uncle Gong, where's that little bastard?"
"Get out of my way!"
It was Xia Meng's voice, but it sounded slightly distorted, likely not directed at him, but at someone else nearby.
There were also other voices in the background.
The middle-aged man couldn't help but smile bitterly. When he left, he had specifically locked Xia Meng in the car and ordered his subordinates to watch her, emphasizing that she shouldn't be let out.
But from the looks of it, the little brat had managed to trick her way out.
Of course, it was also likely that she had threatened her way out.
Her first instinct after escaping was to seek revenge on this young man named Jiang Cheng.
The middle-aged man exhaled.
"Just wait there for me," he said to her, "I'll be there soon, I have something to discuss with you."
After a brief pause, he added more seriously, "This isn't our turf. If you really cause any big trouble—"
"Slap."
The other side hung up the phone.
The middle-aged man held the phone, unsure whether to call back or put it down, feeling awkward for a moment.
Finally, the inconspicuous black sedan drove off, merging into the endless flow of cars.
Soon, even the taillights disappeared.
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"Doctor," the Fatty on the couch stretched his neck and whispered to Jiang Cheng, "Eat slower, no one's going to steal your food."
Perhaps because Jiang Cheng was about to enter the nightmare again, especially with the unknown Deep Crimson awaiting him, the Fatty prepared every meal as if it would be Jiang Cheng's last.
In his thoughts, it's better to be safe than sorry—no one should suffer for a doctor.
Jiang Cheng didn't mind and cracked open a crab leg.
Then tossed it to the Fatty.
"Doctor," the Fatty hesitated, holding the crab leg in his hand but not eating it, "You eat first, I... I'll eat later."
Jiang Cheng, chewing on a shrimp, looked up in confusion, mumbling, "Who told you to eat?"
The Fatty froze, staring at the crab leg in his hand.
"I asked you to peel it for me," Jiang Cheng replied in his usual tone, "This way I can eat faster."
The Fatty: "..."
After the meal, the Fatty simply cleaned up the dishes and kitchen, but he had no energy to tidy up the messy office.
After all, it was uncertain whether the doctor would return alive.
"Doctor," the Fatty asked while drying his hands, "Did that person contact you?"
(End of the Chapter)
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