01.
In the black night, ghosts always lurk.
The youth doesn't believe in spirits but believes in destiny.
Defying fate is impossible because society continuously reproduces classes; the low remain low, tainted and humble, replicating the class of their parents.
Eventually, they lie forgotten by the roadside, and a lifetime of turning things around becomes an impossibility.
Head covered by a burlap sack, the youth's hands are torn open, and fresh blood drips along the cement floor. He's shoved to the ground, knees forcefully striking the floor, a sound echoing through.
Even through the burlap, the intense scent of blood permeates the surroundings.
Surrounded by approximately five individuals, the youth kneels quietly, composed and unruffled, showing no signs of the panic one might expect.
Through the gaps in the burlap sack, he can perceive this to be a warehouse, though not very clearly. Still visible in the warehouse's corner is a bed covered with sheets of an uncertain color—whether blue or green. The sheets are stained with a thick, coffee-colored liquid, a chaotic mix of fresh and old blood.
Adjacent to the bed is a rudimentary double-decker cart, scattered with surgical knives, emitting a stench whose origin is likely traced back to there.
Like ants such as him, does society not mourn their deaths? Living meal to meal, being looked down upon, subject to the whims of others, dying might not be the worst fate; at least, their organs could be used to save lives.
Suddenly, two individuals enter, prompting a stir among the people.
They shout, "Sir," towards the doorway. The person addressed as "Sir" has a youthful voice. He responds with a grunt and hands something resembling documents to the person beside him through the gaps in the burlap.
The man accompanying him has a small ponytail, wearing a white robe. Due to the lighting, their faces remain unclear. The youth, in response, lowers his head again, averting his gaze.
"This guy's physique doesn't match the records. Much shorter, and the weight is off," the one with the ponytail remarked.
"Who is this?" inquired the sir.
A voice to the left of the youth, notably deep, responded, "This guy is a fighter in underground boxing. He works at the gym where the pit bulls usually practice. Today, a guy who owed him money challenged him to a fight, and he ended up beating him to death. We had to bring him here to settle the debt. Anyway, he's got a kidney to spare."
"Underground boxing? He won a fight he was supposed to lose?" inquired the sir.
The youth heard the sound of a lighter, making the warehouse particularly quiet.
Besides the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, there were almost no other sounds.
As the flame consumed the paper, the sir's voice became a bit muffled, and the scent of tobacco masked a hint of the lingering blood.
"No, he lost. After the match, the gamblers already collected their winnings, and only then did he go to the opponent's locker room and beat him to death," someone responded.
The sir chuckled; his voice was light but landed heavily, akin to a powerful hook punch. Those in power often carried such weight. Though the youth didn't know the sir's background, he could sense his extraordinariness.
"I want to see his face," the words remained light, airy, executed immediately upon landing.
The burlap sack covering the youth's face was pulled away, and he greedily breathed in the air, inhaling the mixed scent of blood.
He surveyed the surroundings, spotting a well-dressed man. The man, intriguingly, looked at him with interest, holding a cigarette in his right hand, the left sleeve hanging empty below the elbow—a distinctive mark that the youth recognized.
It was the man he had longed for, the one chance, perhaps, to escape his fate. The only opportunity to get close to this man.
The sir goes by the name One, a benevolent official. Of course, the term "good official" wouldn't be associated with a place that seemingly engages in organ harvesting. To the common people, his physically impaired but undeterred demeanor marks him as a good official.
The influence behind the sir is extensive, involving connections with the underworld, the military, and the police. On the surface, he appears clean and civic-minded, but behind the scenes, he's involved in various illicit activities. From usurious lending and organ trafficking to underground boxing and drug trade, the sir even maintains a group referred to as "fighting dogs," young individuals who engage in boxing for him. These fighting dogs reside in the "Youth Home" he established. The younger ones receive special care, staying in sunlit rooms and occasionally participating in media interviews. The older ones, not officially adopted, live in the basement, undergoing training away from the light.
The rules of the fighting dogs are similar to boxing, and wealthy individuals often organize matches among them. During these competitions, the dogs spar with each other, transcending the notion of winning or losing; it becomes a matter of life and death. Many fighting dogs, even if victorious, end up fearing the matches. To instill bravery, those managing the fighting dogs often resort to controlling them with substances like cocaine.
Being familiar with the world of fighting dogs, the young man, having heard about it, lacked a means to join. Unafraid of death or pain, he saw becoming a fighting dog, under the protection of One, as a way to secure basic needs and a purpose in life.
To him, regardless of whether One was good or evil, the man represented a lifesaving buoy in the turbulent sea of existence.
So the young man, his eyes filled with hope, pleaded with his "Master," saying, "Master, please let me become your fighting dog. It must be more worthwhile than having my organs harvested. I'm not afraid of getting hurt or dying, and I can fight without the need for drugs."
Some people nearby chuckled, saying, "What a joke, have you ever been a fighting dog?"
The young man, unperturbed, continued to gaze directly at One, waiting for his response. One smiled faintly, "Why should I keep someone who has broken their word?"
"I haven't broken my word. The people who bet on the other guy have already received their money. It's a personal dispute; he owes me Towthousand," the young man replied.
One burst into laughter, "Towthousand?"
How miserable must someone be to kill another person for such a small amount? And to beat someone to death alive. The young man continued to kneel before One, blood dripping from his hands, showing respect, "I'm intelligent."
One leaned over, observing the young man's battered fists, wounds nearly exposing bone. Despite the severity of the injuries, the boy's eyes still gleamed with hope.
Who had he considered as his redemption?
In this world, there were no free lunches, and good people were scarce.
One wore a smile on his face as he addressed the hopeful gaze, "Oh? Are you good at oral sex ?"
Laughter erupted among the men, but the young man remained unflinching, his gaze fixed on One.
The fearless courage irritated One, "Use your mouth to serve everyone here, and I'll let you be my dog. Originally, you were supposed to have your organs harvested – using your mouth is better than losing body parts."
"I only serve you, give my all for you," the young man replied resolutely.
"I am your dog, eating only what you provide."
One furrowed his brow, growing impatient, "Can't you handle a simple task for someone else?"
The young man stood tall, "I can do it. If you want me to die, I can do that too. As long as you accept me, I can do anything."
"Why were you hesitant, then?"
The young man kept his gaze fixed, "If I had submitted to others to surrender them, your loyal impression of me would diminish. It's fine not to trust me now, but in the future, you might hesitate to rely on me, fearing that I could kneel for someone else and let them semen in my mouth. I don't want that. I want to be a fighting dog and be your trusted confidant."
The person beside him kicked him down, pressing his head with disdain, "Hey, who do you think you are? You're about to die, yet you dare to negotiate with One. What are you, something that One has to spend money to keep?"
The youth, with his face against the ground, mumbled, "Master is willing to spend money to keep you. I don't think I'm worse than you."
The man, angered by this, grabbed the youth's head and delivered a powerful punch.
One chuckled as he saw the youth, who, despite spitting out blood, remained kneeling and seemingly unfazed by the violence.
It was the first time One had seen the young man, leaving a strong and surprisingly positive impression.
