three

Early in the morning, Lucy’s familiar card lay under the door. On the blank white paper was only a short line of writing: Bauhinia Manor, Jin.

This was how the witch always delivered her prophecies — merely a place name and a veiled hint, Lucy’s unique tone.

My stomach tightened abruptly, not from hunger, but from an instinctive pull.

It urged me to go.

Bauhinia Manor stood deep in the northern mountains. On the surface, it was a secluded and luxurious private club. But I knew well that a place willing to draw outlaws like Jin to risk their lives could never be pure. It was a filthy swamp that even Satan would disdain to step foot in.

The buyers Ron had spoken of were definitely gathered here.

My hunting target might also be hidden in this gloomy place.

I changed into all‑black clothes, pulled down my baseball cap, tucked a short blade into my boot, and pushed the door open to step into the night.

At eleven o’clock at night, I crept quietly toward the rear wall of Bauhinia Manor.

The iron railings were far taller than they appeared. Ever since I had eaten that kidney, however, my body had become unusually light. I vaulted over the railings neatly, rolled softly into the garden bushes, and made not a single sound.

The main building blazed with lights. The ballroom on the first floor buzzed with noise, filled with clinking wine cups and endless revelry. Beneath the glamorous surface, undercurrents surged. Everyone understood one another silently, putting on masks to put on a show.

I knew the real secrets lay on the second floor.

I avoided patrolling security guards and sneaked into the main building through a side door. Thick carpets covered the long corridor, swallowing every footstep. I pressed close to the wall, hunched my body low, and moved quickly toward the staircase.

The second floor housed a huge circular hall. A crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, casting a ghastly pale light like surgical lamps in an operating room.

In the center of the hall stood a metal operating table.

A person was tied to it. Their hands and feet were locked tight in iron cuffs, their mouth sealed with tape. Their eyes widened in terror, tears mixed with blood trickling from the corners of their eyes.

A man in surgical scrubs stood beside the table, his hands soaked in blood, holding a slender scalpel.

He was not cutting. He was tearing. A rib spreader pried the victim’s ribs open to both sides, revealing a still‑beating heart inside.

The person’s chest remained wide open. The heart pulsed again and again, each throb pumping streams of dark red blood.

The body on the table convulsed violently. Muffled whimpers escaped its throat, like a mouse with its neck crushed.

The man in scrubs set down the knife and reached his hand into the open chest cavity.

He grabbed the heart.

He wrenched it free with force.

Blood gushed out, splattering his white coat and his face, red droplets sliding slowly off the tip of his nose.

He held the still‑beating heart high above his head. Once, twice, three times.

He turned toward the audience.

“Lot Six: healthy male, Type‑O blood, perfect match.”

More than a dozen men sat in the audience, suited and polished, smiling faintly while holding glasses of blood‑red liquid.

“One hundred thousand.”

“One hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Two hundred thousand.”

…

A frenzy broke out below as they began bidding fiercely.

No one cared that the person on the table had stopped twitching.

His eyes stayed open, filled only with terror and unwillingness.

My nose could clearly smell fresh human blood in their wine glasses.

My stomach churned violently.

Not hunger. Revulsion.

But the revulsion lasted only a second.

The next moment, my stomach rumbled again. The urge to devour raged endlessly in my mind and gut.

It recognized the scent. It craved it.

I bit my lip and forced myself to look away. I was not there to save anyone.

I stepped back, ready to leave. After all, I was not the protagonist of this bloody feast.

“Someone’s there!”

A blinding flashlight beam shone straight into my face.

“Grab that bitch!”

I squinted and saw two black‑suited bodyguards charging toward me from the end of the corridor.

Damn it.

I turned and ran, their footsteps pounding rapidly behind me like drumbeats.

“Stop! Don’t run!”

I ignored them. I ran toward the stairs, planning to escape through a window.

Just then, a hand shot out from the side and seized my arm sharply.

“Come with me!”

Shock rushed up my throat, and I nearly gasped.

Yet my body froze, for I recognized that voice.

I stared at the man’s familiar side profile — deep brown pupils, profound eyes, a tall straight nose, and a jawline colder and sharper than it had been ten years before. Only his eyes remained unchanged, the clear and bright glow they once held untouched.

I was dragged into a cramped space. A dull thud echoed as the door slammed shut behind me.

In the darkness, his tall figure stood before me, blocking all light from outside.

I leaned against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, and stroked his torso involuntarily.

“Don’t move.”

A low voice, spoken barely above a whisper.

I looked up into his eyes and whispered, “Long time no see.”