Gou Zai Punishment Division

Last night, a screw came loose, and this morning, as soon as I turned on the exhaust motor, the pipes started vibrating.

The low-frequency rumble traveled along the moldy cement floor and into the archives room.

Chen Mo raised his stiff neck.

Through his soaked gray uniform, he touched the old train ticket in the hidden pocket, while pressing hard on the dried scab on the pad of his thumb.

A slight stinging sensation.

This slight pain made him barely feel that he was still alive and could still control his body.

But this feeling was too light, as light as a sheet of paper, and I didn't know if it would still be there in the next second.

Deep in the corridor, the rough grinding of rusty iron shafts mingled with the heavy clatter of military boots.

Three people wrapped in heavy dark green hazmat suits pushed a metal cart and stopped at the entrance of the archives room like street sweepers.

A strong smell of disinfectant wafted in, but there was a faint odor of decay coming from underneath.

The leading logistics officer casually tapped on the iron gate with a metal clamp.

"Chen Mo, you're pretty lucky! Did you wet your pants last night?"

The clerk chuckled, his tone revealing a morbid familiarity.

"Same old rules, come out and go through security. If you haven't been tainted by any evil spirits, then we'll settle the matter. Don't spread the disease of poverty to us."

The iron gate was violently pushed open.

Before Chen Mo could figure out what the "old rules" meant, he had already knelt down.

His knees slammed precisely into the blackened puddle, his hands clutched his head, and his back arched.

The entire set of movements was incredibly smooth, even the trembling was perfectly timed.

Chen Mo felt a chill run down his spine.

How many times must this body have repeated this posture to etch it into its very bones, without the slightest hesitation?

Two people in hazmat suits disgustedly grabbed his arms and dragged him out, as if he were carrying a bag of stinking garbage.

Chen Mo closed his eyes, letting his leather shoes drag through the puddles.

But as he passed the third corner of the corridor, his feet involuntarily rose two inches, just in time to avoid a protruding, sharp piece of metal.

Even though his eyes were closed, he clearly knew the location of the sheet metal and even remembered the curve of its upturned edge.

At the end of the corridor was a brass security gate welded from cast iron.

The faded bronze plaque bears yellowed lettering:

"Spiritual energy filtering; violators will be destroyed on the spot."

Chen Mo was staggered and pushed into the brass frame.

Without any verbal commands, his feet automatically stepped into two badly worn grooves in the floor tiles.

With both hands outstretched, palms facing outwards, the movement was so precise it looked like it had been calibrated repeatedly.

The clerk next to him snorted with satisfaction: "You're smart to be sensible today."

A stark white searchlight crashed down on them.

Chen Mo closed his eyes.

—But he still saw it.

The light didn't come from outside; it swept across his eyelids and the inside of his skin.

The companion spirit "Zero" on the sole of the foot silently contracted inward, sealing all the abnormal aura of the underworld within the sole of the shoe.

Just as the probe wave was about to sweep across his entire body—

A sharp, clicking sound suddenly came from inside the brass frame.

Last night, the air pressure in the ventilation ducts changed, drawing a large amount of rusty dust deep into the pipeline network.

Now, this dust, carried by the airflow, has precisely gotten stuck in the heat dissipation gears of the old air hazard detector.

The machine suddenly stopped with a "squeak" sound, emitted a burnt smell, and then spat out a piece of paper with garbled characters printed on it.

The lead officer used metal clips to pick up the note.

A hint of impatience peeked out from behind the goggles.

The machine is malfunctioning.

Reporting repairs truthfully means lengthy damage reports and monthly equipment maintenance performance evaluations.

Getting into trouble for such a meager salary is against the rules of survival in this system.

He hesitated for half a second, then took out his stamp and heavily stamped the back of the paper with the red seal that read "Hazardous Waste / Permitted for Release".

"Harmless things are the troublesome ones."

He swung the crumpled paper with iron clamps and slammed it heavily onto the rusty pillar.

"Throw him into the sewage elevator! Get him out of here! Seeing this penniless wretch first thing in the morning is bad luck!"

Chen Mo was thrown into the grease-stained metal sedan chair.

The rusty steel cables emitted an unpleasant hissing sound, and the car was abruptly pulled upwards.

With a loud crash, the iron railing on the top floor was kicked open.

He was pushed down, tumbling and falling into the cold, puddled street.

The iron gate behind me slammed shut with a resounding clang.

The sky is bright.

The cold rain brought with it the stench of Nanming City's industrial sewers.

As the surroundings quieted down, Chen Mo's nerves, which had been tense all night, relaxed, but he felt completely drained.

He sat down against the moss-covered wall.

A cold wind blew across his neck, and he touched his face.

It was icy cold.

But he couldn't tell whether it was the temperature of the rain or that his skin had simply lost its proper response.

A strong feeling of hunger compelled him to stand up straight.

Across the street, a rusty tin cart emitted scalding white steam under the dim tungsten light.

Chen Mo dragged his heavy steps over.

The boss was kneading dough, not even looking up, when he blurted out in a hoarse voice:

"Hey, Xiao Chen, stayed up all night downstairs again? Same old deal, one meat bun, extra chili oil to ward off bad luck. Didn't you say you'd have nightmares if it wasn't spicy?"

Chen Mo froze.

He clearly didn't know this boss.

Yet, I can't quite explain where this sense of certainty comes from.

This "certainty" is so hollow that it's unsettling.

But the corners of his mouth involuntarily stretched into a tired yet ingratiating smile:

"Yeah, Uncle Li, make more. I almost died down there today."

The words fell.

His right hand had already skillfully reached into the hole at the bottom of his uniform lining.

He precisely pried out a two-yuan banknote stained with dark red blood from between two layers of fabric.

He already knew there would be money there before he even finished the action.

A fleeting, unrelated thought flashed through my mind—

The third layer of the steamer at this stall tends to accumulate water, so the meat filling is always a bit too wet.

He slapped the banknotes onto the sticky cutting board.

The shopkeeper glanced at the blood-stained money, then nonchalantly handed over a piping hot bun covered in chili oil and sauce.

Chen Mo took it with both hands and took a big bite.

It's hot.

The gravy was scalding hot, but the tip of my tongue felt cold, like chewing sawdust.

It smelled delicious, but it made me feel nauseous.

The streets were deserted in the early morning.

He stood under the dim streetlights, and his chewing motion slowly stopped.

He is indeed still alive.

But some things have already been replaced without anyone noticing.

A chill crept up my spine.

He looked down at the puddles at his feet.

The reflection in the water swayed slightly.

After he stopped moving, his shadow followed only a very brief moment later.

Like it needs to be realigned.

The companion spirit [Zero] lay silently at my feet.

The dark outline slowly writhed, its edges bulging, vaguely forming a structure resembling the filter valve of a chemical protective suit.

It looks like it's imitating something.

It's like learning how to become a part of this world.

It devoured the lingering chill and malice in the basement and is evolving silently.

At this moment, Chen Mo suddenly couldn't tell—

He's clinging to this body.

Or something else, is coming back to life through him.