Meanwhile, in the basement.
"Gunshots?!" flashed through Ming You's mind. "Well, I'll have to speed up. Judging by the echo, it's somewhere close, if not in this very building!"
"But right now, I need to continue separating the arm from the torso… I'll definitely be finished by morning…"
Ming You grunted, driving the cleaver into the armpit. The blade cut through the deltoid and pectoral muscles, meeting the humerus. He pressed harder—the bone creaked but didn't give way. Then he swung and struck with all his might—crunch!—the humerus snapped like an over-dried branch. The head of the humerus slipped out of the glenoid cavity of the scapula, and the arm finally separated, falling to the floor with a wet slap.
He did the same with the second arm, only faster—the body no longer resisted, the muscles had lost their elasticity. When the last piece of flesh fell away, all that remained before him was a truncated torso with a head, thrown back unnaturally. Hee Rak's eyes, half-covered by eyelids, stared at the ceiling, as if asking, "What's next?"
Ming You reached for the kitchen knife with the same indifference with which a person picks up a fork during a meal. The blade gleamed dully, as if tired. He pressed the corpse's head with his palm, his fingers sinking into the cold skin, and without any extra effort, plunged the knife into the base of the skull, right behind the ear.
The blade went in smoothly—first through the skin, then through the layer of subcutaneous fat, encountering dense bundles of muscles. He guided the knife forward, cutting the sternocleidomastoid muscle, and immediately felt the blade slide along the rough surface of the cervical vertebrae.
There was little blood—the carotid artery and jugular vein had already been emptied from the earlier wounds, and now only a thick, dark-burgundy mass, more like jelly, oozed from the incision. Dried rivulets on the neck crumbled under the blade like old paint.
Then he set the knife aside and picked up the cleaver.
First strike—the blade entered the groove left by the knife, shattering the cartilage between the vertebrae. A sound resembling the crunch of breaking celery filled the air, only louder, duller.
Second strike—the cleaver drove deeper, severing the spinal cord. A yellowish-white pulp oozed from the fissure, mixing with the dried blood.
Third strike—the head tilted back, now holding on only by a flap of skin and a few surviving muscles. Ming You grabbed it by the hair, pulled it towards himself—and with a wet snap, the head separated from the body.
He held it in his hand, examining it. The eyes, half-closed, looked through him, pupils dilated, cloudy. The mouth was slightly ajar, as if the last, unspoken word had frozen within. Shreds of the trachea, like frayed tubes, hung from the incision on the neck.
Without the slightest tremor, he placed the head next to the other parts, wiped his hands on his pants, and reached for Hee Rak's genitals.
Ming You pressed the cleaver against the base of the penis, feeling the spongy tissue beneath the blade. One sharp blow—and the organ separated with a wet thwack, leaving behind a ragged wound from which thick, dark blood mixed with lymph oozed. The testicles, resembling shriveled sacs, he cut out separately, severing the spermatic cords with a crunch like cut rubber bands. Without any extra emotion, without disgust, as if even enjoying it, he tossed them aside.
Ming You turned the bloodied knife in his hand and without hesitation plunged it into the corpse's distended abdomen. The skin and subcutaneous fat yielded with a wet, squelching sound, exposing the shiny, serous membrane of the peritoneum. He drew the blade downward, from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone, and the entrails, previously compressed within the tight cavity, spilled out with a warm, pulsating movement.
The abdomen smelled of a sweetish-putrid stench of torn intestines, which mixed with the sharp reek of semi-digested food and bile. The air became thick, sticky, as if you could chew it. But Ming You merely leaned closer, methodically pulling out organ after organ.
The liver—dark burgundy, still warm, with an oily sheen—he cut it away along with the gallbladder. Bile leaked out in a caustic trickle, corroding the edges of the cut. The stomach—full, heavy, with bluish streaks of blood vessels. When he cut it open, semi-digested pieces of food fell into the puddle of blood, emitting a sour, fermenting smell. He pulled out the intestines loop by loop, as if unwinding an endless, slippery rope. They were warm, greasy to the touch, shimmering with a bluish-pink hue.
Taking the intestines with both hands, he stretched them taut, like a butcher pulling casings for sausage, and began to cut.
Each cut—squelch—released a brownish-black slurry. Fecal matter, mixed with blood and mucus, flowed out in thick waves, bubbling and stretching into strings. The smell hit with renewed force, but Ming You didn't even flinch; he kept cutting.
The small intestine tore under the knife like an overripe fruit, spilling its semi-liquid contents. The large intestine burst with a dull gurgle, releasing gases that smelled like an open sewer in the summer heat.
Blood, feces, mucus—it all mixed into one vile, quivering mass on the polyethylene.
But he didn't stop.
The smaller organs were much easier. Ming You simply took them and chopped them as finely as if he were preparing meat porridge or going to make sausages.
The heart, dark crimson, with fatty deposits of connective tissue, he crushed in his fist before cutting it. Congealed blood squelched, bursting from the ventricles, and stretched into threads between his fingers and the blade. Each cut was accompanied by a dull, smacking sound—as if cutting an overripe fruit filled with mucus.
The lungs, porous and flabby, fell apart under the knife into shreds, making a sound like the tearing of wet newspaper. A pinkish, foamy fluid seeped from the alveoli, bubbling on the steel.
The liver, fatty and grainy, smeared across the table like pâté. The gallbladder burst under pressure, splashing out caustic green bile which immediately began to corrode the pieces of flesh, leaving behind yellow, burned edges.
The spleen ruptured under the blade like a rotten tomato, releasing dark, almost black blood, thick as tar.
Ming You worked methodically, without pauses. Pieces of meat, cartilage, and fat stuck to his hands, lodged under his fingernails. From time to time he would shake them off, and then tiny pieces of flesh would fall to the floor, sticking to the polyethylene already covered in a layer of dried blood, hair, and bits of skin.
The air became thick, heavy. The smell—dense, tangible. It soaked into his clothes, his skin, his hair. It wasn't just the smell of death—it was the smell of decomposition, digestive juices, excrement, and something else, indescribable, that made jaws clench and hearts pound wildly, demanding to run, to run before it was too late.
But Ming You did not run. He simply kept cutting.
Finely.
Methodically.
Without stopping, until all the organs had turned into mincemeat.
The polyethylene film on the floor rustled under his feet, sticky with congealed blood and bits of flesh. Ming You stood over the pile of dissected organs—or rather, over what remained of them. Intestines, liver, heart—everything was chopped into a bloody pulp, a formless mass mixed with gelatinous clots. He methodically scooped it up with his hands, squeezing it between his fingers, feeling the slippery pieces seep through them, and slapped it into the black garbage bag.
Each organ had already lost its structure, turning into a mess of fibers and sinews, but here and there still recognizable fragments could be found—shreds of mucosa, pieces of cartilage, flaps of tissue. The bag filled heavily, with a gurgling sound.
Having finished dismembering the organs and placing them into garbage bags, Ming You moved on to the next stage. His fingers, sticky with fat and ichor, dug into the cold chunks of flesh, picking out the remaining scraps of meat from the severed legs, arms, and torso.
Every centimeter had to be cleaned down to the bone. He stripped away the muscle fibers, scraped out the tendons with a knife, pulled out the sinews, leaving behind only bloody tatters. The feet and hands, once flexible and mobile, were now just formless lumps from which broken joints protruded. The butchering took the most time—the meat resisted, clinging to the bones, he had to cut it away again and again, until only the slippery, shiny surface remained.
The bones were the next challenge. The cleaver bit into the hard tissue with a ringing crack, but the first blow rarely managed to split them completely. He had to strike again, with fury, until the bone broke with a wet crunch, shattering into fragments. The polyethylene caught most of the fragments, but fine bone dust settled on his hands, his clothes, his face—it couldn't be washed off, it ingrained itself into the skin like ash.
Finally—the head.
His fingers pressed into the eyeballs, and they burst with a soft, squelching sound, releasing a viscous fluid. The tongue, pulled out, was cut into several parts—the muscle tissue tore easily, leaving behind bloody threads. The teeth were crushed by the cleaver one after another, crumbling like glass, mixing with saliva and blood.
The skull didn't give in immediately. The first blow only left a crack. The second—split it in half. The brain, quivering and gray, tumbled out, and Ming You methodically kneaded it with his fingers, tearing it into pieces, until nothing remained but a murky slurry. The ears were cut off last—the cartilage crunched like insects under a boot.
When he finished, all that remained of the head was a formless mass—a mixture of bone, meat, hair, and brain matter. The polyethylene beneath it was soaked through, and the air in the basement became thick, sweetish, and putrid.
Next, Ming You proceeded to methodically collect the bloody pulp, scooping it up with his hands, from which mucus and pieces of pulverized flesh dripped. Each lump of sticky mass slapped onto the bottom of the black garbage bag, leaving greasy, shiny streaks on its walls. Bone fragments, shreds of skin, and bloody clots—everything disappeared into the depths of the polyethylene abyss.
Collecting the brain slurry was especially difficult—it oozed between his fingers, dripped onto the floor, mixing with the dust from the crushed bones. He had to scrape it up with his palm, like thick jelly, and hurl it into the bag. The skull fragments, sticky with tissue residue, he threw in as well, and they thudded dully against the already filled bottom.
When the last pieces had been scraped up, Ming You tied the bag, squeezing out the air along with the smell of decomposing flesh. The polyethylene stretched, sagging under the weight of the formless mass inside. He placed it next to the others—just as taut, heavy, oozing a pinkish fluid at the seams.
Ming You checked the floor ten times over, searching for the slightest traces—tiny fragments, droplets of fat, scraps of flesh stuck to the folds of the polyethylene. Even the bone dust could give him away, so he methodically collected every particle. Only when he was sure he had missed nothing, did he roll up the bloodied polyethylene and seal it inside the garbage bags.
Ming You, his face remaining impassive, methodically removed the blood-stained sweatshirt and pants. Then he took off a clean black t-shirt and used it to wipe his face, cleaning the dark streaks from his eyelashes and chin, then ran it through his hair, wiping off the dried stains.
After that, he took out a clean school uniform and put it on unhurriedly, straightening the collar and buttoning it up one button at a time. His fingers didn't tremble, his breathing remained even. The dirty clothes—the black hooded sweatshirt, the khaki pants, the medical mask, and the gloves—he neatly folded into the garbage bag where Hee Rak's remains already lay.
He tied the bag with a tight knot, without looking inside.
Having finished cleaning, he opened the basement door, and the cold morning air hit his face. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in pale hues. Ming You carried out six heavy bags, distributing them so as not to attract attention. On the way to school, he stopped at different garbage bins, discarding them one by one, pausing between each.
"Right now, it was more important to prepare Yoshido team for the next game," Ming You thought calmly to himself.