Kind-Hearted Slaughterhouse​

​​​ Thick fog coiled on the serpentine roads above Yunjin City like a malevolent, lingering nightmare beast. Chen Mo’s knuckles stood out stark white against the grimy steering wheel of his age-ravaged Chevrolet Epica, clenched with bone-aching force. His gaze strained through the condensation-blurred windshield, attempting to pierce the swirling grey-white curtain just meters ahead where the road vanished into the haze. The fog swallowed the asphalt, his dwindling luck, and the very minutes ticking past. The dashboard clock flickered with remorseless finality: 2:45 PM. Only fifteen merciless minutes remained before the absolute registration deadline at the Hope School for Deaf and Mute Children. “Baba…” The frail whisper drifted from the back seat, gossamer-thin yet sharp as a needle piercing Chen Mo’s frayed nerves. A swift glance in the rearview mirror. His daughter, Chen Xiaoyu, was a diminutive figure huddled in the corner of the threadbare back seat, swallowed by an oversized hand-me-down coat. At six, her fragility was heartbreaking. She lay with eyes tightly shut, fine beads of sweat plastering wispy hair to her paper-white forehead. Though a violent coughing fit had subsided into stillness, the frantic flutter beneath her thin ribs and the faint, lingering cyanotic tinge around her lips screamed a silent, terrifying truth: her fragile heart was buckling. They needed a hospital. Now. Yet the accursed fog and the relentless, invisible countdown pressed down upon him like twin, suffocating mountains. Beneath the dented hood, the engine rasped a weary groan. This car, his last possession, freshly mortgaged in Taihua City to scrape together repair funds, was his solitary chariot for this desperate thousand-mile gamble. It bulged with sparse belongings. The only item of potential worth was the worn portfolio on the passenger seat, crammed with his teaching credentials and certificates—the prospective keys to a future. His art, his potential. Anxiety constricted his throat like strangling vines. His fingers drummed a nervous, unconscious rhythm on the cold gear shift, a futile interrogation of fate. Xiaoyu’s illness brooked no delay. Images flashed—his aging mother’s stooped frame, the tremor of worry in her distant voice over the phone, the promise of a decent salary, of medical insurance… The words “Hope School” became the final fraying rope suspending him over an abyss. “Xiaoyu, hold on, just a little longer…” The words grated from his parched throat, aimed at the reflection, a hollow attempt at comfort. The sentence died unfinished. From the right, within the impenetrable, clotted fog, blinding red taillights erupted. Like two drops of blood suspended in the mist, they materialized suddenly, jarringly clear, piercing the grey monotony of Chen Mo’s vision. Ice-cold dread flooded his veins, obliterating all conscious thought. “f**k!” The cry was ripped from him, raw with terror. His right foot slammed down on the brake pedal with panicked instinct. THUD! A brutal, metallic resistance surged back through the steering column, hammering his arms and chest. The decrepit car’s braking was a cruel joke against despair. Skreeeech!!!! Tires screamed a death wail. The sickening crunch of colliding metal shattered the mountain pass’s silence. WHAM! An irresistible force blasted through the vehicle’s crumpling front end, hurling Chen Mo bodily into the unforgiving steering wheel. The seatbelt tore into his ribs like a battering ram. Tortured metal shrieked and twisted. Plastic shards from the cheap center console flew like shrapnel. The world violently whirled, blurred. Warmth—blood—slicked down his temple, stinging into his eye, smearing half his vision crimson. The chaotic motion ceased as abruptly as it began. The car shuddered its final death throes and fell still. The hood reared up, grotesquely buckled under choking white steam, hiding the mangled emblem. Silence descended, profound and chilling, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic plink… plink… of liquid dripping from the wounded engine onto the asphalt—coolant, or perhaps gasoline—and the frantic drumbeat of his own terrified heart against his ribs. The gash on his forehead pulsed in sickening sync with each beat. “XIAOYU!” He wrenched his head around, his heart a frantic prisoner trying to burst from his throat. Xiaoyu was thrown forward by the impact, her tiny head striking the back of the passenger seat. She lay crumpled, unnervingly limp, horrifyingly still. Pure, petrifying horror seized him, threatening to tear his soul apart. “Xiaoyu! Xiaoyu!!” His voice was a shredded rasp. Fumbling frantically, desperate fingers scraped raw against the plastic seatbelt buckle. Oblivious to his own bleeding wound, he lunged towards the back seat, his hands hovering over her small head like it was spun glass. “Xiaoyu! Wake up! Look at Baba!” Her skin felt unnaturally cold against his touch. The terrifying lack of warmth nearly stopped his own heart. “XIAOYU—!” The desolate scream tore through the fog-bound silence of the mountainside. Then… a flicker. Against his trembling fingertips, beneath the small body, the faintest tremor. A choked, agonized whimper escaped Xiaoyu’s parted lips—the mournful sound of a wounded fawn struggling for air. “Hurts… Baba… Can’t… breathe…” Her eyelids fluttered open with immense effort. The once-bright eyes were filmed with a disturbing, ashen haze, pupils unfocused, gaze drifting weakly. Her left hand clawed unconsciously at the thin fabric over her chest, knuckles white with the strain. Every shallow, labored breath hitched painfully. Chen Mo’s heart plummeted into a deeper abyss than the crash had opened. Congestive failure. The exhausting journey, the brutal impact—it was the final, crushing blow he’d dreaded. “Don’t be afraid! Xiaoyu, don’t be afraid!” His voice shook uncontrollably, a forced bravado. “Baba’s here! Baba’s here!” He shouted the reassurances, words tumbling incoherently, torn between scooping her up and fearing any movement would worsen her plight. Sweat mingled with blood stung his eyes, painting his world a blurred, crimson haze. Calm! You must be calm! Call the police! An ambulance! His hands shook so violently he could barely grasp his phone. Blood smears rendered the touchscreen useless. He wiped his hand savagely on his stained trousers, fingers trembling violently as he swiped. The numbers swam before his eyes. 110? 120? Report the accident? Or cry for medical help? The edge of hysteria clawed at him. Just as his fractured composure threatened to shatter completely— Tap. Tap. Tap. Three distinct, deliberate knocks struck the driver’s side window. Unhurried, yet impossibly clear, the sound sliced through the desperate chaos within the car, possessing an unnerving authority. Chen Mo’s head snapped up. The abrupt motion ripped fresh pain from his temple wound. Thick, grey-white fog pressed like a physical entity against the rain and blood-smeared glass. Framed within the window’s rectangle, a woman’s face appeared. Her features were lean, cheekbones sharply defined beneath taut skin, yet dominated by an unnerving aura of absolute composure. Lips pressed into a flat, unyielding line. A nose as straight and sharp as a paper trimmer’s blade. But it was the eyes that arrested him. Deep brown, preternaturally still. Like the dark, undisturbed pools at the heart of a rain-lashed swamp. They absorbed the available light and any hint of surrounding emotion, radiating not curiosity, not sympathy, but a razor-sharp, analytical focus. That gaze pierced through the grime and his own terror, pinning him instantly. It lingered for less than a heartbeat on his bleeding temple, then dropped—a searchlight unwavering—past him, locking onto the portfolio partially spilled open on the passenger seat. Its exposed contents: a corner of a hospital discharge summary… and the unmistakable yellow envelope inscribed with “Yunjin City Hope School for Deaf and Mute Children – Interview Notification.” Her gaze held on the envelope for a microsecond. An infinitesimal pause, like the precise catch of a watch mechanism’s finest gear, then the glacial calm resumed its impassive tick. She lifted her gaze again, sweeping past Chen Mo with the detached scrutiny of a scanner. Not the shattered dashboard, not the scattered luggage. Her focus penetrated the chaos of the back seat, homing in unerringly on the small, contorted figure of Xiaoyu—pain-wracked, breathless. For the briefest fragment of an instant, the surface of those deep pools tightened, pierced by a pinpoint of coldly assessing intensity. Like a pebble vanishing instantly into bottomless depths. It was nearly imperceptible. But the focused power behind it resonated through Chen Mo’s hammering heart, causing it to stutter. Icy dread traced his spine. She saw. And the way she looked at Xiaoyu… It bore no resemblance to the concern of a good Samaritan. Tap! Tap! Before Chen Mo could react, she rapped the glass twice more with her knuckle. Harder. The sound was a command echoing in his fractured mind. “Sir. Open the window.” Her voice, muffled by the glass, was flat. Steady. Utterly devoid of warmth or urgency. Each syllable felt like a cold metal pellet striking ice against the chaos within the car. Beyond the glass, fog swirled serpentine. The woman’s face seemed suspended in the vaporous pall. Save Xiaoyu! The primal imperative overwhelmed all else. Chen Mo forced down the surge of profound wariness and chilling disquiet. Fear for his daughter crushed nascent suspicion. He fumbled for the window switch. The mechanism groaned protest, grinding open. A frigid wave, thick with the reek of petrol and burnt oil, assaulted his senses. Her face, sharp-featured, pressed closer. Rain traced glistening paths down strands of hair plastered to her temple. Up close, the terrifying “stillness” of her eyes was clearer—not calm, but like fathomless depths beneath glacial ice, vast currents absorbed beneath an unbreakable surface. Every shred of ordinary emotion was submerged, leaving only ruthless precision. “Help my daughter! She… congenital heart disease! The crash might have…” Chen Mo choked on the words, fear and instinctive distrust tangling his tongue. He gestured helplessly towards the back seat. “Critical.” The woman cut through his stammer. Her gaze, already sweeping Xiaoyu’s huddled form and cyanotic pallor, absorbed the essential detail. “Requires airway stabilization. Recumbent position. Minimize oxygen demand.” The delivery was devoid of inflection, stating immutable biological facts. Action followed instantly, without seeking permission. Hands encased in pristine black leather gloves—jarringly clean against the smeared window—grasped the exterior door handle. “You…” Chen Mo started, the question Who are you? forming. Her next words froze him mid-thought. “Driver’s door functional? Any mobility impairment? Active hemorrhage? Suspected fractures?” The questions rattled off with deliberate speed, clinical and incisive. Those dark brown eyes pinned him again, clinically assessing the bleeding temple wound, though her primary focus remained the crisis in the back. Her sheer competence offered a terrifying lifeline. “I… I’m okay!” Chen Mo nodded emphatically, struggling against the seatbelt. Pain flared through bruised ribs and the temple wound as he moved. “Bleeding… but mobile!” “Remain seated!” The command brooked no argument. She yanked the driver’s door open. Cold, damp air surged in. Ignoring Chen Mo’s bleeding head, she moved with trained efficiency, lunging towards the rear door. One hand found the unlock lever inside the front door; simultaneously, the other wrenched the rear door open. The movement was fluid, swift, leaving him no time to react. She made no attempt to shield Xiaoyu from the invading chill and fog. “You!” Shock and anger flared—was she worsening Xiaoyu’s state? But she was faster. She thrust half her body into the confined rear space, positioning herself as a barrier between the open door and Xiaoyu’s fragile form. Her substantial black wool coat rasped faintly. She didn’t immediately touch Xiaoyu; her gaze sliced over the child like a scalpel. She noted Xiaoyu’s unconscious, painful flinch towards her scant protection away from the airflow. Her breathing remained perilously weak. “Child’s name. Age. Cardiac diagnosis and timeframe. Recent episode details and intervention. Current medication regime. Allergies. Immediate rescue meds.” She fired off the medical catechism. Her unnervingly steady hands were already retrieving a compact, folded emergency kit bearing a red cross from the deep brown leather satchel she carried. She snapped it open—sterile bandages, gauze pads, a small green oxygen cylinder with mask. Tearing open packaging one-handed, she produced a strong penlight, flicked it on, gently lifted Xiaoyu’s eyelid to assess pupil reaction, even as she assembled the oxygen mask. “Focus! Time equals myocardium!” The detached warning hammered into Chen Mo. “...Chen Xiaoyu! Six!” Chen Mo forced himself into her icy rhythm, gulping air like an interrogated suspect. “Tetralogy of Fallot. Diagnosed aged one month. Palliative surgery in Taihua. Not… curative… Doctors said radical correction in a few years… if stronger… Had episodes… minor… Medication… In the backpack! Digoxin… Fast-acting cardiac pills! Emergency kit buried under luggage!” He choked on the words, raw fear entwined with paternal agony. “No! No drug allergies!” The diagnosis ‘Tetralogy of Fallot’ drew no visible reaction in her hands as she connected tubing to the cylinder. Only the barest tension, less than a millimeter, tightened the skin between her brows for a fraction of a second—a flaw swiftly erased on the glacial surface. Her left gloved hand slid firmly beneath Xiaoyu’s chin, tilting it back slightly to open the airway, the movement expert, minimal. The mask sealed over the small nose and mouth. “High flow, low velocity oxygen.” The cylinder hissed, oxygen flooding the mask. An involuntary cough, wet and weak, convulsed Xiaoyu’s fragile frame. Chen Mo flinched. “Xiaoyu!” Then—a flicker of hope. The hiss of oxygen seemed to… ease the terrifying gasps? Her breaths remained shallow, desperate, but the deathly cyanotic shade around her lips and fingertips visibly lessened! The suffocating edge of hypoxia receded, just a fraction. She’s stabilizing! The thought was a flimsy raft in his torrent of terror. “You. Chen Mo?” Her voice sliced through the moment. Chen Mo stared, bewildered. She had extracted herself partially from the back seat. One hand remained securing the mask. The other produced, seemingly from nowhere, a sterile blue gauze pad and an elastic bandage, thrusting them towards Chen Mo in the driver’s seat. A glance indicated his temple. “Apply pressure to the bleed point.” Her eyes scanned him. “Post-collision consciousness intact? Nausea? Vomiting? Sensory-motor function extremities? Cervical spine pain?” Questions. Cold. Surgical. Chen Mo automatically pressed the cold pad to his stinging temple. “Chen Mo… yes….” His mind scrambled, yet he followed orders. “No nausea… Mobile… Neck okay… Chest hurts… from wheel…” His hand trembled against the wound. A curt nod. No further questions for him. Her assessing gaze flickered—over his bloody hand, the deep exhaustion etched with fear and financial ruin on his face, the spilled portfolio, the yellow envelope visible inside, the cheap plastic bags bulging in the back, the faded backpack with rural hospital insignia hinting at children’s medication and worn toys… Abruptly, she pivoted back to him. Those abyssal eyes locked onto his. “The school’s registration deadline. Three PM?” The query sliced the air, bizarrely incongruous, devoid of inflection. The question blindsided Chen Mo. How could she possibly know that? A fissure tore through the fragile trust momentarily earned through her actions. Icy terror seized him. “You…” His voice rasped, trembling despite his efforts. His fingers pressed harder into the gauze, pain flaring. “Who are you? How do you—” WaaaOOOOoooooooo! The strident howl of sirens lacerated the fog’s muffled silence, spiraling closer from down the winding mountain road. They crescendoed rapidly, unbearably loud. Almost simultaneously, a white ambulance, emergency beacons pulsing blue, materialized from the dense fog further downhill, pulling up sharply behind the wreck. The harsh light fractured the swirling mist. Doors flew open. Attendants in white coats, expressions grave, leapt out, deploying a collapsible gurney with practiced urgency. They converged on the scene, seamlessly relieving the woman of the oxygen equipment. “Patient status?” The lead paramedic’s eyes snapped questioningly to the woman, already dissolving back into the grey backdrop. The reply was immediate—clinical, concise, chillingly devoid of superfluous detail: “Pediatric patient rear seat. Female. Age six. Post-palliative surgery for Tetralogy of Fallot. Hypoxia episode induced by rear-impact collision. Diminished consciousness. Mild cyanosis lips and digits. No vomiting. Cranial percussion reveals no open fracture. Airway secured. Administering low-velocity, high-flow supplementary oxygen. Marginal SpO2 improvement. Unstable vitals. Paternal history established. Standard meds accessible, not administered prior. No known drug allergies. Recommend critical transport. Prioritize investigation of acute congestive failure exacerbation. Vigilance required for delayed neurotrauma including cranial, cervical and spinal injury.” She gestured towards Chen Mo without missing a beat. “Front occupant male. Active hemorrhage superciliary arch region, scalp laceration. No gross fracture signs evident. Reports substernal impact pain. Alert and oriented.” The paramedics exchanged a brief, surprised glance at the level of precision. “Child first! Prep the stretcher! Stabilize head and neck! Sir, wait please!” The leader barked orders. Two paramedics expertly cradled Xiaoyu’s head and neck as the woman assisted the delicate transfer. Another paramedic swiftly turned his attention to Chen Mo’s head wound and cervical spine. The scene mutated from eerie suspension into organized chaos. Strobing lights, urgent shouts, the clatter of equipment. Chen Mo watched the swarm of white coats surround Xiaoyu on the stretcher. A fractional easing of the stranglehold on his heart allowed bone-deep exhaustion and helplessness to wash over him. He struggled to undo the seatbelt and, with a paramedic’s steadying hand, lurched onto the cold, damp asphalt. Chilling mountain wind slapped him, carrying the acrid tang of burnt rubber and coolant. A wave of dizziness hit. His eyes instinctively searched for the enigmatic woman. She wasn’t near the ambulance. She stood a few paces away from the wreck, deliberately clear of the flashing lights, near the precipice edge of the fog-shrouded road. She remained cloaked in the imposing black wool coat, shoulders dark with rain. Her back was to the clamorous rescue effort. Her gaze was fixed, not on Xiaoyu, not on the ambulance, but on the road below—the direction swallowed by fog, the direction of Yunjin City. The direction of Hope School. Her profile in the swirling mist appeared stark, attenuated, solitary—a chill marker weathered by storm. “Sir! Here! Move!” A paramedic waved him towards the ambulance rear doors as they secured Xiaoyu’s stretcher. Chen Mo’s gaze swept over his daughter—pale as rice paper, lashes dark smudges against her cheeks, the oxygen mask misting weakly over her face, secured by web straps against the gurney—and his heart lurched violently. He dared not delay. Stumbling, he lurched towards the vehicle. He grabbed the cold metal frame of the ambulance door, poised to haul himself inside— The woman, the rigid marker in the mist, turned. No warning. Smooth. Deliberate. Her face, rendered starkly geometric by the erratic blue flashes, turned fully to meet Chen Mo’s gaze as he paused, half-entering the ambulance. Across the meters of chill air, mingled rain, dense fog, and the ambulance’s clamor, her eyes—those deep brown pools seemingly capable of swallowing light—held his. He saw his own reflected exhaustion, suspicion, and that desperate, pathetic flicker of hope. The surface of those eyes remained unrippled, unnervingly tranquil. Yet they held a piercing, almost brutal, clarity. Then, her lips, set in that impassive countenance, moved. Minimally. Precisely. No sound emerged. Only deliberate formation. A glacial fist seized Chen Mo’s heart. He felt the freshly bandaged wound throb violently. Adrenaline etched the silent message into his consciousness with absolute, chilling certainty: “Do not go to Hope School.”