Chapter3

I heard someone speaking outside the door, in a very low voice, but the words were so clear it was as if they were deliberately trying to let me hear.

“We must be clean before the bell is rung.” It was David’s voice. “If he remembers, none of us will have an easy time.”

Another, more steady voice seemed to be reminding him of something: "Your uncle said, you should die in a hallucination. Don't leave any trace."

I raised my hand to rub my temples, and just as my fingertips touched my skin, the iron gate was suddenly slammed shut.

"Bang--"

The door rattled, causing the light bulb to sway slightly, and dust settled on my eyelashes. I instinctively stepped back, my back against the wall, the hemp rope on my wrist rubbing against my skin, burning with pain.

The second blow was heavier.

"Bang--"

The latch made a short, metallic click, as if someone had pried it open with a tool. The next moment, the door opened.

The rain swept in, carrying the smell of damp mud and gasoline. My vision blurred; I could only see a few people standing in the doorway, their shadows elongated by the light bulb, crowding my only exit. At the front was David, his coat half-soaked, water dripping from his sleeves onto the ground, as if timing me.

He glanced at me, his expression blank, and simply raised his hand.

A thug walked in, carrying a stick. The wood was blackened by the rain, and the edges glistened with moisture.

I opened my mouth, but only a few breaths escaped my throat: "No... I—"

I wanted to say I was obedient, that I could continue perfumery, that I could stay here. I even wanted to say that if someone outside really wanted to kill me, I wouldn't go out.

But before I could even put my words into a sentence, the stick came down.

The first blow hit my right arm.

I wanted to scream, but the sound was stuck in my throat, as if something was blocking it. Someone roughly stuffed a rag into my mouth; the rag smelled of sweat and mildew, and it instantly made me choke and tears well up in my eyes.

David stood in the doorway, watching me convulse and arch my back, as if confirming one thing: I was still alive.

The thugs quickly untied the ropes.

Someone grabbed my ankle and dragged me out.

The cement floor scraped against my back, my clothes were torn open, and my skin was chafed. Each drag pushed me a little further into the rainy air by the door, but my nose was unusually clear at times like these—I could smell the damp wood and humid walls of the stairwell, and the base notes of an expensive perfume wafting down from above.

My heart tightened, and an image flashed through my mind: under the cold white light, a long table was filled with people, pages turning, the scratching of pens on paper. Someone next to me said, "Sign here, Victor."

Victor.

The name burst like a bubble rising from the bottom of the water. I froze for a moment, then was dragged back to reality by an even more intense pain—my spine slammed against the edge of the stairs.

That sudden movement made my vision go white, and the sound of the rain seemed to fade into the distance. I couldn't even hear my own breathing, only the dull thud of my bones hitting the steps, one thud after another.

I was dragged upstairs.

Each step felt like it was tearing me apart. My right arm felt like it was filled with lead, and my left arm was numb. A certain spot on my back pierced my entire body, sending shivers down my spine like an electric current coursing through my limbs. I wanted to shrink back, to protect my head, but neither of my arms would obey my commands.

The door at the end of the stairs opened.

The sound of the downpour suddenly grew louder, as if the entire house was being drenched. The wind, carrying raindrops, lashed my face, making me shiver with cold. The rain washed away the grime from my face, but also the metallic smell of blood.

I was left at the door.

A pair of shoes came into view, clean, with no mud on the toes. Above that was a black umbrella, water dripping from its rim, yet it provided steady protection for the person beneath it.

Elena stood there.

She was wearing a dark coat, the collar buttoned up tightly, her hair neatly tied back, as if she had just walked out of a press conference. Her fragrance overpowered the smell of rain, filling my nostrils and giving me a ridiculous illusion for a moment—that she had come to pick me up.

I struggled, using my shoulders to push myself up, like a fish being dragged ashore, and slowly crawled towards her. The rag was still stuffed in my mouth, and I could only manage to gasp out, "Help...me...Elena..."

The rain lashed my back, cold as knives. I crawled slowly, but I thought that if I got close enough, she would reach out. She had hugged me before and said, "Bear with it." She had said she would protect me.

I looked up and saw her looking down at me.

Her eyes showed no panic, nor did they dart away. It was as if she were looking at an old object that was finally going to be disposed of, checking its size, its weight, and making sure that throwing it wouldn't hit her.

David stood beside her, his voice muffled by the rain but tinged with obvious impatience: "Have you thought this through? If he's alive, he'll remember sooner or later. And if he does, we're all finished."

Elena was silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Noah,” she said.

Noah.

I froze, as if struck by those two words. Who is Noah? Why did she call me Noah? But before I could think, the next sentence, so light and airy, had already fallen.

"You, this dog that's just getting through the winter, should be removed."

The word "cleanup" was like a pair of scissors, severing the sticky dependence in my heart. Rain streamed down my eyelashes; I couldn't tell if it was rain or tears.

I wanted to shake my head, to tell her my name was Victor, to tell her I remembered a name, to tell her I could continue to obey, continue to stay in the basement, continue to be her tool—as long as she didn't throw me out.

But I couldn't make a sound.

David waved his hand: "Do as your uncle says."

One of the thugs unscrewed the bottle cap, and the strong smell of medicine stung my eyes. It wasn't the usual half-cup dose; the smell was much stronger, as if it was going to rip my consciousness out of the water.

The bottle opening was pressed against my lips.

I tried to dodge, but someone pressed my head down. A rag was pulled out, and the next second, liquid was poured in, so violently it felt like it was going to burst my stomach. Spicy, sweet, and pungent, it all mixed into a nauseating smell. I choked and coughed violently, but the liquid kept pouring down, burning my throat.

"Don't throw it up," someone whispered in my ear. "If you do, just drink another bottle."

I was forced to swallow it.

A few seconds later, the world began to distort.

The sound of rain echoed like it was being poured into a giant empty bucket, the rhythm of dripping water from the umbrella edge becoming a kind of tapping. The lamplight stretched into lines, splitting Elena's face in two, then closing it again. My stomach churned, and shadows crept across the edges of my vision.

But this time, the hallucination did not push me into nothingness.

It felt like someone was pressing the fragments back into place one by one, pressing so hard that my skull was aching.

I saw the long table, the cold white lamps, and the board's sign—Silver Iris, the letters sharply engraved. Someone said at the meeting, "Victor's overseas convalescence plan has been submitted; the board doesn't need to worry."

I saw the acquisition agreement, thick as a stone, with a forged signature at the bottom of the page. I recognized the handwriting—not because I had seen that person before, but because there was a familiar affectation in the strokes, like the pauses in David's uncle's speech.

I saw the steam in the lab, the hot air churning in the glassware, and the curves on the chromatograms undulating like mountain ridges. My senior colleague frowned, his finger pointing to the pre-induction section, and said in a low voice, "This technique... is like Victor's."

Victor.

Therefore, it is not a bounty offered by the underworld.

They dragged me down from that position, locked me in the basement, and used drugs, lies, and starvation to turn me into something that could only nod. My formula was used to exchange for investment, for acquisition, for the "cleanliness" before the stock market IPO.

And now, they're going to bury the last piece of evidence.

I snapped back to reality, my chest heaving violently. I wanted to scream, to vomit out everything I had just seen, to grab the hem of the person under the umbrella and force her to confess.

"Elena—" I opened my mouth.

His voice was now just a hoarse whisper.

Because someone held me down from behind.

I was dragged to the backyard. The rain intensified, and the ground beneath my feet was slippery mud. In the distance, the roar of a cement mixer could be heard, like the panting of a dull beast. The smell of cement assaulted my nostrils, and the alkaline odor stung my eyes.

They are preparing.

I was pressed against the edge of the pit, my hair plastered to my forehead by the rain. Elena stood not far away, her umbrella still held steady, raindrops falling from the edge like thin lines. She didn't come closer, nor did she glance at me again, as if by not looking, she could categorize this as "necessary cleaning."

David urged, "Hurry up."

The moment the first shovel of cement fell, I remembered her words in the basement: "Just bear with it."

The gray slurry slammed into my chest, cold and heavy, with a gritty, abrasive feel. It trickled down my collarbone, stuck to my skin, and quickly congealed. The second shovel pressed down, squeezing my ribs with a muffled thud, my breath felt like it was being choked, I couldn't breathe in or out.

The hallucinogens kept my consciousness churning, the fragments still piecing together, and I could even clearly "see" how each chain of evidence was put together: my uncle's fake report, Elena's shares, the acquisition agreement for Silver Iris, how my formula became her sample, and how ringing the bell brought them to the forefront.

The whole truth is right before my eyes, like a net finally being laid out.

But I had cement stuck in my throat.

The third shovelful fell, cement sealing my chin, my teeth slammed into the gravel, and my tongue tasted blood. The sound of rain faded, and the world felt like it was being crammed into a thick wall, leaving only the struggling air in my chest, growing thinner and thinner.

As my gaze swept past the edge of the umbrella one last time, I saw Elena tilt her head slightly, as if avoiding splashes of mud. Her profile appeared serene in the rain.

As darkness descended, I remembered everything.

The board meeting of Silver Iris, the proxy signing of the acquisition agreement, my senior's comment on the new product's chromatogram, "like Victor," and the lingering fragrance in the basement—all these have been reminding me: I am not a hidden piece of trash, but a name that has been erased.

In my final moments of consciousness, I heard my own heartbeat, which, through an ever-thickening layer of gray, became heavy and slow, like a countdown before a bell tolls.

Then, everything turned to darkness.