BLOOD AND FIRE

Vanhai City at 2:00 AM never sleeps. It groans under a torrential downpour, its skeletal remains hidden within the rotting corners of abandoned docks. At Pier 7, the stench of rusting containers mingles with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the damp, suffocating musk of concrete that hasn't seen the light of day in years. Crack! A brutal slap sends the man tied to the wooden chair crashing to the floor. He coughs up a mouthful of blood and two broken teeth. His breath comes in ragged, desperate gasps, a pathetic whimper like a dying beast: "I... I truly don't know... Please..." "Shh." The sound was soft, yet so bone-chilling it turned the humid cellar air into a tomb of silence. From the darkness, the rhythmic click of leather boots on concrete echoed - steady, dry, and terrifying. Step... step... step... Shen Weiyen stepped into the flickering light. He didn't wear the polished suit of a typical tycoon. Instead, he was draped in a knee-length black leather trench coat, his long, sinewy hands encased in tight-fitting leather gloves. Under the flickering fluorescent bulb, Weiyen’s face was as pale as a corpse. His eyes were hollow, two lightless pits of obsidian that swallowed any reflection. He stopped before the trembling man, tilting his head slightly to the right - his only functioning ear- listening to the frantic, erratic drum of his prey’s heart. "You say you don't know?" Weiyen’s voice was a low vibration, echoing as if from the depths of an abyss. He slowly peeled off his gloves, revealing alabaster knuckles and a jagged scar trailing from his wrist into his sleeve. From his coat, he produced a gleaming steel kit. Inside lay surgical scalpels, slender and razor-sharp. He selected one, tilting the blade under the light, watching the cold glint mirror the void in his eyes. "Do you know why I prefer these tiny blades?" Weiyen leaned in close. The edge of the scalpel grazed the man’s ear so slowly he could feel the very layers of his skin being parted. "Because they can strip away every individual nerve without killing you instantly. I have all night for your memory to return." "No! Please! Mr. Shen... please!" Weiyen didn’t blink. His gaze was unmoving, his cruelty absolute. Without warning, he drove the scalpel through the man’s hand, pinning it to the rotting wooden table with a sickening thud. Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh!!! A soul-shredding scream ripped through the cellar, bouncing off the iron walls before drowning in the roar of the rain outside. Weiyen remained tranquil. He didn’t pull back; instead, he pressed his left ear - the side that was stone deaf - directly against the man’s screaming mouth. He closed his eyes, his face contorted into a twisted sense of bliss, as if he were savoring the vibration of the agony rather than the sound itself. To him, the suffering of his enemies was the only proof that he was still alive. "Does it hurt?" Weiyen began to slowly twist the hilt of the blade. The sound of tearing flesh and metal grinding against wood was nauseating. "This pain... is but a ten-thousandth of what I endured ten years ago, when half of my world fell into eternal silence." With his left hand, he pulled out a phone and dialed. The line crackled with static. "A-Sam. Bring 'it' in." The heavy iron door groaned on rusted hinges. A subordinate dragged in a metal bucket filled with ice and coarse rock salt. Weiyen took a large handful, calmly raining the salt over the gushing wound on the man's hand. He didn't stop there; he used his thumb to grind the salt deep into the raw muscle. The man convulsed violently, his eyes rolling back as his body arched like a bowstring about to snap. Weiyen watched with chilling detachment. He was in no rush; he savored the collapse of a life like a connoisseur tasting a vintage wine infused with blood. "Speak. Where is the black box?" "At... at... the East Warehouse... code... 0... 9..." The man’s head slumped, his breath reduced to a wet, rattling wheeze. His will was ash. Weiyen withdrew the blade, wiping the warm blood onto the dying man's collar. He stood, buttoning his coat, his demeanor returning to that of a refined, high-ranking gentleman - yet the aura of death around him was so thick his men dared not breathe. "Clean it up. Don't leave a single trace," he commanded with a cold wave of his hand. Weiyen walked out of the dark cellar. The torrential rain hammered down, washing away the scent of blood and the grime of his sins. Standing beside a gleaming black Rolls-Royce, he lit a cigarette. The flickering flame reflected the raw malice and vendetta in his eyes. He stared toward the East Warehouse, a shadow in the rain. This game was only beginning. Every single soul responsible for the explosion ten years ago... he would make them beg for a death that would not come. The engine roared, tearing through the night. Inside the car, Weiyen watched the rain streaks on the window like blade marks. In the absolute silence of his left ear, he heard the voice of vengeance, screaming to be fed with the blood of his enemies.