Chapter 200: Second Escape

2022-05-20

The two of us pressed against the wall of the sewer shaft, listening as that sound grew clearer. It was sporadic, but we knew, without a doubt, it was coming right for us. Neither of us dared to speak, even our breathing careful and quiet. I could feel Zhao Mingkun’s breath on my skin, and the warmth radiating from her body.

What kind of person was the killer, really? Why produce a child’s voice like that? And why was the killer so at home in this pitch-black, frigid sewer? He moved like a phantom hiding in the darkness, constantly changing—unpredictably elusive, his true nature impossible to grasp.

“Hehehe…”

The little girl’s laughter echoed off the sewer walls, sharp and unnerving, bouncing everywhere so it felt like it surrounded us. It was like someone was lightly scratching at your heart, leaving you with an unbearable itch.

“Shhhk…shhhk…”

That was the sound of rough fabric scraping against the gritty ground. Suddenly I realized—it was how the killer walked, dragging his feet rather than lifting them, a shuffling gait. Those “shhhk” sounds, together with the eerie giggles, were drawing closer, step by step. I could almost sense the next movement would bring the killer directly in front of us.

I fought back the urge to lunge out, fists clenched so tight my muscles were trembling. In the darkness, I could feel Zhao Mingkun’s body rising and falling with each breath, but I couldn’t make out the expression on her face.

We’d been down here a while now, eyes long since adjusted to the darkness, but we still couldn’t see more than a meter ahead. What little sunlight crept in only made everything seem gloomier.

All around us was silent except for a stray droplet now and then, water plinking off the wall into the sewer with a soft “plunk.” Our heartbeats seemed to pulse in rhythm with each drop.

It was dead silent and dark in the sewer, at the bend of a narrow intersection.

We were pressed against one side of the wall. The killer was on the other.

Barely a meter of wall separated us, but it may as well have been a world away.

Everything was eerily calm. The laughter, the shuffling footsteps—all vanished, as if it had been a trick of our ears, never there at all. But we knew the truth. Right on the other side of this wall, the killer was probably doing just as we were, listening for the slightest sign from us.

But no one moved first. In this suffocating standoff, neither Zhao Mingkun nor I dared make the first move. We didn’t know what the killer had—maybe a weapon, something deadly. The seconds ticked by, one after another, turning us into forgotten statues, left behind by time. Sweat began to bead on my forehead.

We couldn’t go on like this forever. Clearly, dragging it out only played to the killer’s strengths—he was used to darkness, more at home here than us. The longer we stalled, the worse our odds. I was about to whisper as much to Zhao Mingkun when suddenly her hand found mine.

She wrote ‘GO’ in my palm, then gently bent down three of my fingers, one at a time. I got her meaning—she was counting down. In three seconds we’d make our move. Sure, the killer might be able to see in the dark, but dealing with both of us wouldn’t be so easy.

Zhao Mingkun raised three fingers where I could see them. Carefully, one by one, she started to lower them.

Three fingers.

I strained my ears, but nothing stirred on the other side. The killer seemed even more patient than we were. Judging by his past methods—tailing victims for days, writing stories matched to their personalities—he had to be a man of immense patience. He could probably wait crouched here for three days and nights if it meant getting his chance.

Two fingers.

I drew in a deep breath, preparing to charge out the very next moment, working in tandem with Zhao Mingkun to finally catch this killer. He was only about 1.7 meters tall, slender, and every time he killed, it was by catching his victims completely off-guard. It suggested he wasn’t strong enough to fight someone head-on. That meant our odds were good.

One finger.

I shifted forward, mind blank except for one thought—how to catch him the moment that last finger dropped. I stared at that finger, ready to move as soon as it fell.

But before Zhao Mingkun’s finger fell, a rough male voice suddenly boomed out: “What are you doing here? Run!”

It was gruff, probably a man in his thirties.

The words hit me like a thunderclap. I started with fright.

He’d barely finished speaking before a little girl burst into tears, followed by the sound of footsteps running. My heart twisted—so it really was a little girl back there. And it sounded like there were more people hidden in the sewer. Could it be? Was the killer not alone, but part of a whole team?

Zhao Mingkun shot forward instantly, and I raced after her. As we rounded the corner, all we could hear were voices fading into the distance—but there was no way to spot the killer running. He wore all black, invisible in this deep darkness.

Zhao Mingkun was fast, but she hadn’t spent her life in the sewers. It was muddy and treacherous; I stumbled and slipped as I tried to keep up. Little by little, the voices ahead grew fainter.

The little girl’s sobs echoed down the tunnel, our only guide. We still had no idea where the killer actually was, but in my mind’s eye, I pictured him carrying the crying girl through the darkness, moving ahead without any hint of fear or discomfort.

As long as the girl kept crying, we wouldn’t lose track of them. We moved forward, following her weeping through the maze.

Then, the man’s voice rang out again: “Keep your sister quiet. Don’t let her cry.”

I frowned, listening to the killer’s words and realizing—it sounded like there were more of them down here. Could Xiao Liu have been right? One person couldn’t be calm and crazy, male and female, all at once—maybe it really was a team. Inside, there could be men, women, young and old, but all about 1.7 meters tall, dressed head-to-toe in black.

What sort of organization could even assemble a group with matching height and build? Why gather people like this? What was their purpose?

If it was just a club of killers, why were they all so skilled at evading the police, so professional and disciplined, never leaving evidence, never taking money from their victims? And those English letters—what did they mean?

Where in this whole twisted story had those English letters been left? The kids didn’t have them, the widow and her lover didn’t either, Old Wang was turned to blood mist in an instant. So were there more victims out there?

I ran on through the darkness, thoughts swirling, the little girl’s cries echoing ahead, faint and broken.

At that moment, a woman’s voice called out suddenly: “I’m taking my little sister and hiding. If things go south, let Yama handle them—he can deal with it.”

The man’s voice replied: “Got it. You two stay hidden and keep quiet—if they can’t find you, you’ll be fine.”

As they spoke, the little girl’s cries cut off so abruptly it left only silence. It seemed the woman had hidden away with her. Suddenly, we had no way to track the killer, but I kept sprinting down the sewer, barely able to make out Zhao Mingkun’s shadow far ahead.

I didn’t have time to think. I just kept running, fast as I could. Suddenly my foot caught on something, throwing me off balance. I hit the ground hard and looked up, but there was no one ahead—not even a silhouette.

My ankle throbbed with pain. I tried a few steps—it hurt even worse, forcing me to limp along awkwardly.

I glanced down to see what had tripped me: a teddy bear, over a meter long, tossed aside. Who knew who left it here.

Limping ahead, I kept replaying what had just happened. After the man yelled, the girl must have doubled back, and then he scooped her up and ran further away. And meanwhile, there were others in the sewer too. Letting the little girl roam so freely must mean they’d been living down here for a long time.

From that man’s words, we knew there were at least four of them in the sewer—a rough-voiced man, a little girl, an older sister, and someone called Yama, who hadn’t shown his face yet but sounded dangerous. He was the one to call out if things got serious.

Limping deeper into the branching tunnels, the silence and darkness pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. After a while, I reached a spot where several tunnels forked, and found it empty—no sign of Zhao Mingkun.

Looking more closely, I spotted some work coveralls tossed at the entrance. It seemed Zhao Mingkun had taken this way. Back in Linfen, she’d always known I was never much of a runner—sickly from childhood and quick to lag behind. In a way, it showed just how ‘thoughtful’ she was.

I picked up the coveralls and kept going. About ten minutes later, I found someone resting against the wall—it was Zhao Mingkun.

I glanced around. We were alone.

“What happened?” I called out.

“Injured,” Zhao Mingkun looked up at me.