The men of S

**Chapter 9: The Bloody Spotlight (2016)**

The abortion footage played on a loop across Times Square’s billboards, Yutong’s nineteen-year-old screams syncing perfectly with Zaixun’s voice saying *“I’ll come back.”* Tourists snapped selfies with the viral shame, their flashbulbs popping like gunfire.

“It’s not the abortion,” Yutong’s crisis manager shouted over FaceTime, as she barricaded herself in a Tokyo love hotel. “It’s that you’re *crying*. The world can handle a slut, not a victim.”

Her reflection flickered in the cracked TV screen. Zaixun’s Walkman lay dismembered on the tatami, its guts spilling corroded tape. The clinic form fluttered from her purse—yellowed and bloodstained at the creases.

**@InvestorWang:** Turns out the Devil Mentor’s just a used tampon!

**@HotpotLover666:** Lu Yaqin’s chain stock up 15% since leak!

The room’s *kokeshi* dolls grinned from their shelf. Yutong smashed them one by one, their hollow heads cracking open to reveal microcameras.

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Seoul’s subway tunnels dripped with bioluminescent fungus, glowing toxic green. Zaixun pressed his bleeding ear to the tracks, listening for Lu Yaqin’s death squad. His brother’s ghost whispered coordinates: *Line 3, 200 meters, junction box.*

The USB drive’s true payload wasn’t the abortion tape, but schematics of Lu’s underground spice warehouses—labyrinths of Sichuan peppercorns masking heroin shipments. He’d missed it before, distracted by Yutong’s frozen scream on the clinic footage.

“Looking for this?” A spotlight blinded him. Lu Yaqin’s hitman stood atop a stalled train car, dangling a detonator shaped like a jade phoenix. “Your girlfriend’s live on Pornhub.”

Zaixun’s switchblade found the man’s femoral artery as the first explosion rocked the tunnel. Fungal spores rained like radioactive snow, burning his “SIN/RED” knuckles raw.

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Jiang Liheng’s rebellion began with a shrimp dumpling. “Too salty,” he said, spitting it onto Lu Yaqin’s prized celadon plate.

His mother’s chopsticks froze mid-air. The private dining room’s new decor featured CCTV feeds of Yutong’s hotel meltdown, projected onto silk screens.

“You sabotaged my children’s trust fund,” Liheng said, flipping financial reports into the hotpot. “Diverted 300 million to bribe *rail inspectors*?”

Lu Yaqin ladled broth over the burning documents. “I built this empire with my uterus as collateral. You think morality feeds shareholders?”

The slap echoed off jade-inlaid walls. Liheng’s signet ring split her lip, blood dripping onto the *Three Obediences* scroll.

“You’re right, Mother.” He tossed a burner phone into the boiling pot. “Money’s the only language you understand.”

The screen lit up with Zaixun’s warehouse livestream—flames engulfing peppercorn sacks, revealing pallets stamped *PROPERTY OF DPRK*.

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Yutong’s final broadcast streamed from a Shibuya karaoke booth. She’d injected her lips with DIY hyaluronidase to dissolve years of fillers, her face sagging into unfamiliar contours.

“The baby was a girl,” she said, hoisting the clinic form toward a shaky camera. Behind her, police sirens wailed as Lu Yaqin’s goons stormed the building. “Han Zaixun named her Rose before disappearing.”

The screen glitched. Zaixun’s voice cut through the interference, singing a distorted *The Moon Represents My Heart* as subway explosions boomed in sync.

“This isn’t a confession.” Yutong smashed a champagne bottle, its shards reflecting a thousand fractured selves. “It’s a *receipt*.”

The feed died as SWAT snipers fired.