MMPS Ch. 8

Chapter 8: Methods for Disciplining Subordinates

Yu An fixed his gaze on that face and instinctively stepped back, discreetly slipping the sheet of paper he held into one of the many cardboard boxes cluttering the living room.

Zhao Ran pried open the sliding glass window, propped himself on the sill, and leaped inside with practiced ease: “Is this a warehouse or a home? Can’t you organize this mess?” He pulled the curtains closed behind him and waved away the dust stirred by his movements.

The living room, overwhelmed with stacked luggage, was in such disarray that even the toppled television cabinet, lying on its back with all four legs in the air, failed to seem out of place.

Yu An studied Zhao Ran’s expression carefully, trying to gauge if he’d noticed the small hole in the bottom of the cabinet. When Zhao Ran gave no indication, Yu An refrained from drawing attention to it.

That page from the diary was strange. Yu An distinctly remembered giving his mother a ticket and a book for her birthday—but nothing about someone climbing in through the window that day.

The “he” described in the diary felt fabricated, almost otherworldly. From a scientific perspective, it could easily be dismissed as hallucinations stemming from a mental condition—perhaps dissociative identity disorder or delusions.

Then again, what if that person truly existed, and Yu An had somehow erased every memory of him, as though his face had been deliberately cut out from an old photograph?

Could “he” be Zhao Ran?

The thought lingered, but Zhao Ran’s behavior didn’t align with such an idea. He seemed too much like a stranger—polite and detached. Besides, some people just knock four times out of habit. It wasn’t proof of anything.

“What are you thinking about?” Zhao Ran suddenly appeared in front of him, brushing Yu An’s wrist lightly with his own. His tone carried a peculiar anticipation, as if waiting for Yu An to remember something.

“Interviewer, what are you doing here?”

“Special services.” Zhao Ran said, holding up his phone and shoving a message thread in Yu An’s face. On the screen, one incriminating line stood out: ‘I need the interviewer to sleep with me.’ Zhao Ran raised a brow. “You just walked out of a crime scene and even had close contact with the body. Spending the night with you is practically protocol.”

He sank into the sofa with the air of someone utterly resigned to unreasonable demands, rubbing his face in weary amusement.

“Ugh.” That was a joke. Yu An pressed his lips into a thin line, mildly regretful. Judging by the time, Zhao Ran must have already been en route when Yu An’s message reached him. He had likely turned back midway to respond.

Now that Zhao Ran was here, sending him away felt out of the question.

“Do you want a shower? I’ll check the water heater.” Yu An hurriedly fetched a glass of warm water, handed it to Zhao Ran to warm his hands, and kicked aside some luggage to clear a path. Bowing his head, he made his way to the bathroom.

Locking the door behind him, Yu An washed his hands methodically, thoughts racing as he pieced together the situation. A chilling thought took shape in his mind, sending a cold sweat trickling down his spine.

What if the real Zhao Ran was already dead, and the man outside was an imposter?

That would explain the familiarity with the house layout. And the way he had drawn the curtains—it was too deliberate, too unsettling. Was he concealing his next move?

Yu An’s memory loss made him vulnerable. Whatever had happened before his blackout could easily be rewritten by the stranger’s words.

The kitchen had knives. If the imposter reached them first, Yu An would be at a deadly disadvantage.

Reaching into his boot, Yu An drew a concealed dagger, his fingers steady against the hilt. He leaned lightly against the bathroom railing, every muscle taut.

Outside, the faint sound of a news broadcast reached his ears. The television had been turned on. Was he using the volume as a cover for his movements?

Yu An eased the lock open, gripping the handle as he pushed the door ajar, peering cautiously into the room.

He expected to meet wild, bloodshot eyes—but reality defied his grim imagination.

Zhao Ran had fallen asleep on the sofa. His long hair cascaded over the armrest, and his legs, too long for the cramped space, curled awkwardly beneath him.

His face, pale and drawn with exhaustion, was softened by troubled dreams. The hem of his shirt had ridden up, exposing a glimpse of taut abdominal muscles beneath the gauze Yu An had taped over his injuries.

Expressionless, Yu An approached, dagger in hand. He used the blade’s tip to brush Zhao Ran’s hair aside, studying his features in meticulous detail.

Asleep, Zhao Ran was almost fragile, his aura starkly different from his wakeful self. He resembled a peculiar flower—delicate white petals when closed, yet violent and predatory when fully in bloom.

Beautiful.

This body, so striking in its elegance, didn’t belong sprawled in a pool of blood. It should be bound, suspended in a windowless room, adorned with sharp, glittering ornaments. He would observe its responses to pain and touch.

After all, this man had chosen to live as a murderer. He’d already taken one of Yu An’s eyes. Surely, his hands were stained with countless lives. Whatever fate awaited him was simply destiny’s reckoning.

Yu An raised the dagger.

Abruptly, Zhao Ran’s eyes snapped open.

Caught in the act, Yu An remained composed. He continued with his motion, slamming the dagger’s hilt downward. But Zhao Ran reacted swiftly, catching Yu An’s wrist mid-strike.

Yu An, undeterred, leveraged his leg to pin Zhao Ran, capitalizing on his superior position. For a moment, they locked in a stalemate.

Zhao Ran, wide awake now, looked into Yu An’s eyes, startled by the cold, unyielding intent gleaming within them. He saw Yu An’s lips move silently, forming four unmistakable words: “Excessive self-defense.”

“Stop!” Zhao Ran twisted the dagger free and used his knee to flip Yu An onto the floor. “What the hell? I was just sleeping. How did I provoke you this time?”

Yu An, prepared for this, calmly retreated to the coffee table. He retrieved an entire set of kitchen knives he had preemptively brought over. As his fingers traced the knife handles, he met Zhao Ran’s gaze with a faint smirk, muttering a different term: “Justifiable self-defense.”

Zhao Ran froze, instinctively glancing at the dagger still in his hand. Unease crept over him.

Underground Metro operatives often joked that interviewing recruits was the riskiest assignment—they never knew what sort of twisted soul lay beneath an innocent-looking face.

Zhao Ran suddenly reined in the expression on his face, thrust the dagger into the wooden surface of the coffee table, took off his trench coat, and unbuttoned the button at his collar, looking as if he was serious.

He rolled up his sleeves, revealing sinewy arms lined with veins.

The cramped living room erupted into chaos as they clashed. Yu An, relentless, wielded a boning knife, aiming for precision. But mid-lunge, his foot was seized and yanked backward, flipping him over with stunning force.

Disoriented, Yu An’s chest slammed against the wall, air rushing from his lungs. Zhao Ran pressed against his back, immobilizing his arm. When Yu An stretched desperately for another knife, Zhao Ran slammed a blade between his fingers into the wall—close enough to stop him but leaving him unharmed.

Zhao Ran’s grip was as firm and unyielding as iron tongs, holding Yu An in place as effortlessly as pinning down a tiny kitten.

Yet, Yu An refused to yield, continuing to struggle.

“I’ve been too indulgent with you, haven’t I?” Zhao Ran tightened his grip, making Yu An feel as if his bones were about to dislocate and snap. The pain forced Yu An to clench his teeth, but he couldn’t suppress a faint grunt.

“They say you have to fight a newbie until they submit. I thought that was too rough, but it seems you prefer this method?”

Yu An’s struggles didn’t cease. “You look like the kind of guy men would fall for, don’t you think?” he taunted, turning to meet Zhao Ran’s gaze with a smirk. “I wasn’t really going to kill you.”

Zhao Ran’s resolve faltered for a fraction of a second by his cold and seductive eyes. Then came a sickening crack as Yu An’s wrist twisted unnaturally.

Yu An didn’t cry out, though tears spilled silently from his right eye.

“…” Zhao Ran’s grip loosened abruptly, his temper extinguished as quickly as it had flared. Slowly, he released his hold.

Yu An crumpled to the floor, his breaths shallow and ragged as he cradled his dislocated forearm. Pain radiated through his body, and beads of sweat clung to his temple.

Zhao Ran crouched down, his sharp gaze locked on Yu An—a small, broken creature now trembling at his feet. Without a word, he took hold of Yu An’s wrist, his other hand pressing firmly on the dislocated joint. The bone clicked back into place with practiced precision, drawing a muffled hiss of agony from Yu An.

But even as the pain still burned fresh, Yu An’s fingers shot out, curling around the handle of the boning knife.

“You’re still trying? You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that…” Zhao Ran’s tone was amused, but his body moved quickly, retreating to a safe distance before Yu An could strike.

At that moment, a familiar voice drifted from the wall-mounted television. The screen flickered to life, displaying the polished image of a man adorned in a trench coat, a metro insignia pinned to his chest. He waved at reporters with effortless composure, his face a sharp blend of authority and indifference.

Yu An froze. His gaze shifted toward the television, his heart sinking as recognition settled in. The broadcast replayed a press conference from the Underground Metro. Standing confidently at the podium, addressing the media with poise, was none other than Zhao Ran.

High cheekbones, pale skin, and the pale plum-colored hair cascading over his shoulders—this was unmistakably the same man in the room. His features were far too distinctive to imitate, and Yu An had already confirmed during their earlier conflict that no disguise masked his face.

For a moment, Yu An stared blankly at the screen. Then, as though the fight had drained out of him, he sheathed the boning knife back into the wooden rack and carried it into the kitchen.

Zhao Ran turned, sparing a glance at Yu An’s retreating figure. Finally, the little troublemaker had settled down. For now. He flexed his gloved fingers absently. The moisture from Yu An’s wrist lingered on his palm, seeping into the thin leather. It wasn’t sweat. It was something thicker, stickier.

…

After storing the knives, Yu An moved methodically. He switched on the water heater, adjusted the air conditioning to heat mode, and rummaged through a cabinet for clean towels and toiletries, arranging them neatly in the bathroom. Only when the sound of running water echoed from the shower did he finally exhale, the tension easing from his shoulders.

He tidied the living room, restoring the overturned TV console to its original state. Yet his mind drifted, tugged by fragments of memory that didn’t align with the world around him. It was as if the reality he inhabited was a fragile façade, while the truths buried deep in his mind were far more tangible.

Those journal pages haunted him. They spoke of intimacy—kisses, embraces, flushed necks, and teeth that grazed against tongues. Yu An found himself fascinated, bewildered. If Zhao Ran was the one in those stories… the thought was incomprehensible.

The same Zhao Ran who nearly wrenched his arm from its socket? Yu An scoffed inwardly, making a mental note to hold a grudge.

He suspected there were more journal entries hidden somewhere, but the coin lock on the console restricted him. Tomorrow, he’d have to scavenge for used cores to see if he could unlock additional dates.

Then again, there was the matter of his internship. He had already signed the contract. Tomorrow, he might be expected to work.

Probably some technical role. Yu An thought, shelving thoughts of the journal for now. Survival took precedence. His attention turned to the disassembled Core Analyzer on the desk, its components scattered like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

The water in the bathroom stopped. Moments later, Zhao Ran emerged, draped in a bathrobe, his damp hair clinging to his neck. He leaned casually against the doorway, his eyes narrowing at the sight before him.

“Good grief, did you take apart the Core Analyzer?” Zhao Ran drawled, his voice tinged with mild amusement. He dragged a stool closer and perched on it, watching Yu An tinker with the device. “Can you even put it back together?”

Yu An remained focused, his right eye enhanced by a mechanical magnifier. His nimble fingers twisted and aligned micro-coils onto the disinfection pump, linking eight high-voltage fiber tubes to individual core slots. A quick-drying insulation layer sealed the connections, leaving the contraption to dry while he debugged its software on his computer.

Despite the chaotic heap of screws and components on the desk, Yu An worked with unwavering precision, instinctively picking out the exact parts he needed.

Yet, as much as he tried to concentrate, his peripheral vision betrayed him. He kept glancing at Zhao Ran.

The man wore only a bathrobe, and without the masking scent of detergent from his shirt, a faint aroma of wood and aged paper emanated from him. It reminded Yu An of library books left untouched for decades. But the lavender of Zhao Ran’s shampoo soon overpowered it, leaving Yu An unsure if the earlier scent had been real or imagined.

“You can sleep on my bed, Interviewer.” Yu An mumbled without looking up. “The other rooms are messier.”

Outside, the first light of dawn brushed against the horizon. Exhausted, Yu An removed the mechanical magnifier and laid his head on the desk. Sleep began to creep in, his consciousness flickering like a dying ember.

In the haze of half-sleep, he felt someone approach. Strong arms looped under his, lifting him effortlessly.

Yu An was lowered into the covers, his dislocated arm inspected once more before Zhao Ran switched off the lights and settled beside him.

When Yu An’s eyes fluttered open, it was still dark. He had originally wanted to wake the interviewer to show off his modifications to the core analyzer, but Zhao Ran seemed utterly exhausted—his physical and mental fatigue plainly visible.

Curiosity gnawed at him. He pulled back the collar of Zhao Ran’s robe, telling himself he only wanted to check if his injuries were properly treated. But his fingers lingered, brushing against porcelain-pale skin that flushed pink at the slightest touch.

Yu An’s gaze fell on Zhao Ran’s chest, and he was slightly startled. Faint red marks were etched there, not yet faded, as if they had been left by the pressure of a pen tip when Yu An had signed the contract against his chest.

The faint outline of the characters for “Yu An” could still be discerned.

“…” Yu An bit down on the knuckle of his index finger, holding his breath, and tentatively traced his fingertips along Zhao Ran’s collarbone and chest. The path his fingers followed faintly revealed a hint of pink.

He was the interviewer, not a killer. That was the greatest regret of the night.

“Stop it.” Zhao Ran’s voice was strained, his body shifting with the weight of weariness, and with a flick of his hand, he pushed Yu An’s head away.

Yu An’s mind flickered to the gloves. Zhao Ran always wore them. From the first moment they’d met, they had never left his hands. Thin, worn gloves, as if a part of him.

Perhaps it was the aftereffect of too many horror games, but Yu An couldn’t help but imagine that beneath those gloves, there were hands covered in thorny, tumor-like growths, or that the gloves had become so fused with his skin that removing them would be like peeling away his flesh.

What secrets could those gloves be hiding?

Yu An lightly brushed his fingertip over Zhao Ran’s palm and fingers, but there didn’t seem to be anything unusual.

Yet, as he reached the fingertips, Zhao Ran suddenly shuddered, lifting his head from the soft pillow, his eyes locking onto Yu An with an intensity so fierce it seemed to burn. His pupils bled red.

Under the gaze of the interviewer, as chilling as death itself, Yu An licked his lips, quickly withdrew his hand, and turned away, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Don’t mess around; I really can’t control myself.” Zhao Ran’s voice came from behind him, low and hoarse, as if struggling to restrain something.