Gou Zai Punishment Division

Section Chief's Office.

The screams behind the mahogany door were abruptly cut off, and a dull thud sounded like something heavy was rolling around inside.

Chen Mo lowered his eyes, watching the file, like a gray snake, silently slide in through the crack in the door.

The door was forced open a crack.

Only the faint hum of the emergency lights remained in the corridor.

Chen Mo stood there. His calves were cramping from the extreme tension, throbbing with pain.

He gritted his teeth and told himself that it was just because the basement was too damp.

He lowered his head and approached.

This time, the shadow "Zero" was affixed to the floor tiles in the corridor.

Instead of following him forward, it shrank back, as if trying its best to increase the distance between itself and the tip of his shoe.

This made Chen Mo's heart sink—Zero was afraid.

Or rather, it is afraid of itself in this moment.

Chen Mo didn't urge him and calmly stepped through the door.

Just as the door was about to close, "Zero" reluctantly shrank into a black line and slipped in along the furthest edge of the door crack, hiding in the corner, far away from him.

Inside, the strong smell of cigars was forcibly dispelled by the fishy odor of the river.

The section chief was kneeling on the carpet, his tie askew, frantically fiddling with the scattered fragments of files, looking like a dog scavenging for food in a garbage dump.

"Section Chief, re-sign."

Chen Mo spoke, his voice completely flat.

Seeing his usually aloof section chief in such a wretched state, a strange sense of satisfaction welled up inside him, only to be quickly overshadowed by a greater unease. This wasn't a victory in a game of strategy, but rather the exhaustion that followed dealing with a tiger for its skin.

……

The senses are disconnected in the office.

Chen Mo saw the sweat dripping from the section chief's forehead onto the ground, but he also saw a thick layer of white frost forming on the ink bottle.

His stomach tightened, and acid rushed to his throat, but he forced it down.

He forced himself not to look at the distorted anomalies around him, but instead stared at the section chief's coat and thought:

Since it's so cold, the section chief's ridiculously expensive human skin suit must have shrunk, right?

If it shrinks, will this fat old man still be able to fit into it?

This cynical thought became his only sobering agent in this crazy environment.

"Chen Mo..."

The section chief looked up, his bloodshot pupils suddenly shrinking: "You... what exactly are you?"

The section chief's voice carried an unreal warmth.

That temperature triggered a sudden hallucination of memory—

In the office, the section chief once patted him on the shoulder, kindly handed him a stack of banknotes, and urged him to settle down and start a family soon.

The lighting in the picture was warm, which even made Chen Mo feel a lump in his throat.

But the section chief in the picture has three hands. The extra hand is sticking out from under his ribs, with black fingernails.

Chen Mo's fingers tightened suddenly, his thumb nail digging precisely into the scab on his fingertip.

The pain of tearing new flesh instantly shattered that false warmth.

Even memories are trying to ensnare him in this world.

He bent down, making a standard 90-degree bow, and held the expense report out with both hands.

The black liquid dripping from the section chief almost splashed onto the paper, and Chen Mo immediately nervously shrank the form into his arms.

In his eyes, whether the world collapses or not is a matter for later.

But he has to settle this debt today.

"Section Chief, re-sign."

He repeated, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to suppress it.

The section chief stared at the expense report as if it were a death warrant.

He grabbed the pen with trembling hands, and the ink left several nervous scratches on the word "fifty," looking exactly like four scratches.

"Xiao Chen, this counts as overtime."

The section chief slammed the form on the table, his tone softening.

"No one's delivering the relief supplies to the air-raid shelter. Go make a trip there. If you deliver them, the fifty yuan will be doubled."

One hundred dollars.

Fifty meat buns.

Chen Mo took the receipt.

The moment my fingertips touched the paper, a bone-chilling cold seeped in through my fingernails.

The red stamp was clearly dry, but it felt sticky to the touch, like blood that hadn't yet congealed.

He did not refuse. In this organization, refusing to "work overtime" often has consequences more troublesome than death.

"Thank you for your guidance, Section Chief."

He turned and walked towards the door.

"Zero," who had been hiding in the corner, carefully slipped out, keeping a safe distance from Chen Mo's footsteps.

……

Underground archives.

Chen Mo returned to his desk and stiffly pulled open the metal cabinet.

He pushed open the abandoned cabinet, and the pneumatic pipes exposed on the wall emitted a corroded, acidic smell.

He stuffed the report, photos, and seaweed, all bearing the section chief's signature, into the brass tube.

Pull down the air valve.

With a "bang".

Cause and effect were projected into a deeper level.

A muffled growl and chewing sounds came from deep within the pipe, followed by an extremely faint sigh.

"Thanks."

The voice was exactly the same as his.

Chen Mo turned around and pulled off the pull cord of the tungsten filament lamp.

The archives fell into a deathly silence.

He repeatedly rubbed the folded fifty-yuan note in his pocket through the fabric.

The edge of the paper scraped against the old wound on my fingertip, causing a sharp pain.

The tightrope walk he had just taken in the office had almost exhausted him, and now that he was relaxed, his fingers were trembling violently.

But he survived.

They even used bureaucratic rules to turn the tables on the monster.

A numb feeling of exhaustion made him exhale a long breath.

He opened his tattered black umbrella, stepped into the winter rain, and walked towards the dead end known as the "air raid shelter."

He didn't look down.

In the depths of the muddy puddles, his footprints were slowly swelling and deforming.

The rain quickly masked the unusual feeling, making him seem like just another office worker struggling to make ends meet.