The path to the basement was not easy. Ming You checked every corner, listening for sounds to make sure no one had noticed his actions.
Finally, he reached the basement and struggled to open the door, careful not to make a sound.
Ming You dragged Hee Rak into the basement, throwing him roughly by the door. Leaving the body on the concrete floor, he dropped his backpack, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of gloves, pulling them onto his hands before retrieving several rolls of thick plastic sheeting. Methodically, without unnecessary movements, he covered the floor around a massive concrete pillar, smoothing out every wrinkle—each crease in the plastic could leave unwanted traces. Then he wrapped the pillars in plastic—there were three in a row. Once finished with the pillars, he dragged Hee Rak to the prepared spot, making sure he lay flat.
Bending down to his backpack again, Ming You took out a coil of sturdy synthetic rope and approached Hee Rak. He lifted his arms and pulled him closer to the pillar. He began wrapping the rope around his body, looping it tightly—across the chest, thighs, ankles—leaving no chance for movement. Every knot was pulled tight until it creaked, tested for strength.
Then Ming You raised his head and examined the ceiling. He grabbed a roll of wide duct tape and began sealing the gaps between the panels, the corners, the ventilation grates—anything that could retain particles, droplets, or scent. The strips overlapped, covering even the smallest cracks. He worked silently, focused, as if assembling an airtight capsule.
Twenty-two minutes later, the room—or rather, the plastic-wrapped box—was fully prepared.
Without wasting time, Ming You knelt beside Hee Rak's backpack and unzipped it. His fingers slid through the contents until they brushed against the familiar ribbed surface of a basketball.
Pulling out the ball, he stood and stepped toward the unconscious Hee Rak. Without hesitation, Ming You began methodically tapping the ball against his head—not hard enough to cause harm, but firmly enough to wake him. Each impact produced a soft thwap, and Hee Rak's face gradually twisted in discomfort.
Hee Rak slowly regained consciousness, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim basement light. Ming You stood nearby, his face cold and resolute.
"Hi-hi, Hee Rak," Ming You said emotionlessly, tossing the basketball over his shoulder. "Scream," he pressed a knife to Hee Rak's lips, "and I'll cut out your tongue and make you swallow it. So let's talk calmly while we still can."
"What do you want?" Hee Rak tried to rise but quickly realized his arms and legs were bound. "Who the hell are you?! You can't keep me here!"
"Actually, I can," Ming You replied, his gaze unwavering. "And I have some questions you need to answer."
Hee Rak panicked, his eyes wide with confusion.
"Please, let me go! I haven't done anything, I don't know anything!"
Ming You stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, threatening tone.
"You don't understand the position you're in. I don't just want information. I'll do whatever it takes to win. And if you don't cooperate, the consequences will be far less pleasant than you'd like. Or you can stay silent for ten seconds, and I'll kill you—starting with your nails, then your fingers, then your hands, all the way up to your head."
Ming You leaned in even closer, his smile widening. Hee Rak clenched his teeth, his eyes brimming with fear.
"O-okay, what do you want to know?"
"Tell me about your team and their plans. And I'd also like to know how much money you can offer for your freedom." Ming You tilted his head, his voice growing more insistent.
"My team? Plans? You kidnapped me over some basketball game?" Hee Rak asked frantically, but Ming You grabbed his collar and yanked him forward.
"I'm the one asking questions here," he said, using the knife to rip off Hee Rak's fingernail.
"AAAAH!!!" Hee Rak screamed with all his strength, but no one except Ming You could hear him.
"You'd better not piss me off. Talk, and maybe I'll let you live." Ming You flicked the torn nail onto the plastic.
Hee Rak wavered, his fear peaking.
"I get it, I get it! I-I'll talk. Just please, don't kill me."
Ming You paused for a moment, then replied coldly:
"No one in this world is safe from death, Hee Rak. But I'll hear you out."
Hee Rak swallowed nervously, took a deep breath, and began speaking:
"All the team's plans depend on me—without me, they won't act. And as for money… I'm in debt myself. Under my deal with Taek Joon and Tae Hwan, I have to play streetball against other teams to pay it off."
"Sorry, Hee Rak," Ming You said, not a trace of pity in his voice. "You're too useless to keep alive."
"Wait, please!" Hee Rak cried, his voice trembling. "I can be useful to you! Just give me a chance!"
Ignoring his pleas, Ming You pulled out a kitchen knife, its blade glinting in the dim basement light. Hee Rak shuddered, his eyes widening in horror.
"What a shame you're just another debtor," Ming You said, his voice icy.
"Don't kill me!" Hee Rak begged. "I have a family! My mother, my fath—"
SLASH!
Before he could finish, Ming You raised the knife and drove it deep into his neck. The blade crunched through flesh, severing the artery and stopping just short of piercing his throat.
Hee Rak's head slumped forward, his blood soaking the plastic around the pillar and dripping down his clothes.
The arterial blood spread slowly across the floor, forming dark, sticky pools. Its metallic scent mixed with the basement's dampness, creating a suffocating atmosphere. Ming You stood over the body, assessing the situation with a cold, calculating gaze.
He picked up his backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out several trash bags. Most were empty, rolled tightly, but one was heavier than the rest. Inside gleamed the blade of a cleaver, and Ming You gripped it firmly, feeling the cold metal against his palm. He placed it on the plastic-covered floor next to the body, ready to work.
Without hurry, he began undressing the corpse. His fingers, accustomed to precision, methodically stripped away layers of fabric. First, the sweatpants slid off heavily, as if resisting. Then the gray hoodie, soaked with sweat and fear. Underneath, a T-shirt clung to his chest, peeling away with a faint tearing sound.
The underwear and socks came last. Only when the body lay bare did Ming You pick up the cleaver again.
His fingers closed around the handle with familiar confidence, as if the tool were an extension of his arm. He leaned over Hee Rak's legs.
Dragging the cleaver across the skin, he began slicing through flesh until he hit bone. The meat parted under pressure, revealing layers of muscle and sinew. Blood oozed thickly, mixing with tanned skin, leaving dark, sticky smears.
The bone was burgundy from blood and clinging bits of flesh. It looked almost alive beneath the crimson fluid, but Ming You didn't hesitate. With a few precise strikes, he split it with a dull crack. The severed foot dropped onto the plastic with a thud, and he pushed it aside.
He did the same with the second leg—his movements precise, mechanical, as if performing a long-rehearsed ritual. When the second foot was severed, he pushed both aside, leaving behind a bloody trail smeared across the filthy floor.
Gripping the cleaver tightly, Ming You bent lower, bracing one hand against the corpse's thigh for better leverage. The plastic beneath his feet crinkled, stretching under his weight, while sticky blood clung to the soles of his shoes.
A sharp swing—the blade sank into the knee with a dull crunch. Blood splattered lightly, spraying crimson droplets across the plastic and his sleeves. A deep gash split the skin, exposing the fractured kneecap beneath, cracked like shattered glass.
He struck again—the bone gave way with a sickening snap, the patella splitting in half to reveal the wet, pinkish tissue of the joint. One final chop—the cleaver severed the remaining ligaments, and the lower leg, trailing bloody strands of meat, separated from the thigh.
Ming You flung the dismembered limb aside, where it landed with a heavy thud on the plastic, leaving a greasy smear of blood. Without pause, he moved to the second leg, crouching for a better swing.
The same motions—strike, crack, splatter. His movements were practiced, as if he'd done this a thousand times. The second shin followed the first, and he was already reaching higher, toward the thighs, where denser muscle required more force.
Ming You pressed closer to the body, his knees sinking into the tacky plastic. Adjusting his grip, he drove the cleaver into the thigh—the skin split with a faint crunch, like overripe fruit.
At first, blood oozed lazily in thick droplets. But as he deepened the cut, slicing through yellowed fat and dense muscle fibers, the scarlet liquid pooled in the wound before overflowing, dripping down the leg onto the now-stained plastic.
The blade struck bone with a muffled thud. The femur—thick, matte, its edges rough—looked almost black in the basement's dim light. Ming You raised the cleaver, gauged his swing, and—
CRACK!
The first blow left a white notch in the bone. The second—a deep fissure, oozing dark-red marrow. The third finished it: the thigh snapped with a wet crunch, exposing jagged, splintered edges.
He tossed the severed portion aside, where it slapped wetly against the plastic, scattering clots. Without even wiping his spattered face, Ming You immediately adjusted his grip and reached for the other thigh.
The shadow on the wall swayed with his rhythm—chop-chop, chop-chop. The air hung thick with a sweet, metallic stench. Somewhere, liquid dripped. But he no longer heard it. He just kept hacking, hacking, hacking—until the body was legless, the ropes slackening as it slumped to the floor.
Ming You kicked the bloody stumps aside, his gaze dropping to the corpse's splayed arms. The dead fingers twitched faintly from residual nerve impulses, as if still grasping at empty air.
He raised the cleaver, took aim, and with one sharp swing, split the skin and tendons. The blade carved through the wrist joint, snapping ligaments and cartilage with a sound like cracking twigs. The scaphoid and lunate bones fractured under pressure, exposing spongy tissue beneath. Blood gushed from severed arteries, staining the plastic dark crimson.
Flipping the forearm over, Ming You drove the cleaver into the elbow crease. The joint held firmer—the humerus, fused to the ulna and radius, resisted. The first strike only split the synovial sac, leaking viscous fluid that mixed with blood. The second—angled precisely—shattered the olecranon, bending the arm at an unnatural angle. The third strike finished it: the joint collapsed into pieces, leaving only flaps of skin, which he sliced through effortlessly.
Now, only the shoulder remained. Ming You grunted, plunging the cleaver into the armpit. The blade tore through deltoid and pectoral muscles before meeting the humerus. He pushed harder—the bone creaked but held. So he swung with full force—CRACK!—the humerus splintered like dried kindling. The humeral head popped from the glenoid cavity, and the arm finally detached, slapping wetly onto the floor.
He repeated the process with the other arm, faster now—the body no longer resisted, its muscles slack. When the last chunk of flesh fell away, only a limbless torso and head remained, the latter lolling grotesquely backward. Hee Rak's half-lidded eyes stared at the ceiling, as if asking, "What now?"
Ming You reached for the kitchen knife with the same indifference as a man picking up a fork at dinner. The blade gleamed dully, as if exhausted. He pressed his palm against the corpse's forehead, fingers digging into cold skin, and drove the knife into the base of the skull, just behind the ear.
The blade slid in smoothly—first through skin, then subcutaneous fat, meeting dense muscle bundles. He dragged the knife forward, severing the sternocleidomastoid, then felt steel scrape against cervical vertebrae.
Little blood remained—the carotid and jugular had already drained, leaving only a thick, burgundy ooze like congealed jelly. Dried rivulets on the neck crumbled under the blade like old paint.
He set the knife aside, took up the cleaver again.
One strike—the blade wedged into the knife's initial groove, shattering cartilage between vertebrae. The sound resembled celery snapping, only louder, wetter.
Two strikes—the cleaver bit deeper, severing the spinal cord. Yellow-white pulp oozed from the cleft, mingling with clotted blood.
Three strikes—the head tilted back, hanging by a strip of skin and a few stubborn muscles. Ming You grabbed the hair, yanked—and with a moist pop, the head came free.
He held it in his hand, examining it. The eyes, half-closed, stared through him, pupils dilated and cloudy. The mouth was slightly open, as if frozen mid-word—the last, unspoken one. Shreds of the trachea hung from the slit in the neck, resembling frayed tubes.
Without the slightest tremor, he placed the head next to the other parts, wiped his hands on his pants, and reached for Hee Rak's genitals.
Ming You pressed the cleaver against the base of the penis, feeling the spongy tissue beneath the blade. One sharp strike—and the organ came off with a wet plop, leaving behind a ragged wound oozing thick, dark blood mixed with lymph. The testicles, resembling shriveled pouches, he cut out separately, severing the spermatic cords with a crunch like snapping rubber bands. Without emotion, without disgust—almost as if enjoying it—he tossed them aside.
Ming You flipped the bloodied knife in his hand and, without hesitation, plunged it into the corpse's swollen belly. The skin and subcutaneous fat yielded with a wet squelch, exposing the glistening serous membrane of the peritoneum. He dragged the blade downward, from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone, and the entrails, previously compressed in the cramped cavity, spilled out with a warm, pulsating movement.
The abdomen reeked of a sweetly rotten stench from the torn intestines, mingling with the sharp odor of half-digested food and bile. The air grew thick, sticky, as if chewable. Yet Ming You only leaned closer, methodically extracting organ after organ.
The liver—dark burgundy, still warm, with an oily sheen—he sliced off along with the gallbladder. Bile trickled out in a corrosive stream, eating at the edges of the cut. The stomach—full, heavy, veined with bluish vessels. When he slit it open, half-digested chunks of food spilled into the pool of blood, releasing a sour, fermented smell. The intestines he pulled out loop by loop, as if unraveling an endless, slippery rope. They were warm, greasy to the touch, shimmering bluish-pink.
Grasping the intestines with both hands, he stretched them taut, like a butcher preparing sausage casings, and began cutting.
Each slice—squelch—released a brown-black slurry. Fecal matter, mixed with blood and mucus, oozed out in thick waves, bubbling and stretching into strands. The stench surged anew, but Ming You didn't even flinch. He kept cutting.
The small intestine split under the knife like overripe fruit, spilling semi-liquid contents. The large intestine burst with a gurgling pop, releasing gases that smelled like an open sewer in summer heat.
Blood, feces, mucus—all merged into one revolting, quivering mass on the plastic sheet.
But he didn't stop.
The smaller organs were easier. Ming You simply took them and diced them finely, as if preparing meat porridge for sausages.
The heart, deep crimson, with fatty strands of connective tissue, he crushed in his fist before cutting. Thickened blood squelched out of the ventricles, stringing between his fingers and the blade. Each cut came with a wet smack—like slicing an overripe fruit filled with mucus.
The lungs, porous and flabby, fell apart under the knife into shreds, making a sound like tearing wet newspaper. Pinkish, frothy fluid seeped from the alveoli, bubbling on the steel.
The liver, fatty and grainy, smeared across the table like pâté. The gallbladder burst under pressure, splashing corrosive green bile that immediately began eating at the flesh, leaving behind yellow, scorched edges.
The spleen split under the blade like a rotten tomato, releasing dark, nearly black blood, thick as tar.
Ming You worked methodically, without pause. Bits of meat, cartilage, and fat clung to his hands, wedged under his nails. Occasionally, he shook them off, and tiny shreds of flesh fell to the floor, sticking to the plastic already coated with dried blood, hair, and skin fragments.
The air grew dense, heavy. The stench—thick, tangible. It seeped into clothes, skin, hair. This wasn't just the smell of death—it was decay, digestive juices, excrement, and something else, indescribable, that clenched jaws and set hearts racing, screaming to run, run before it's too late.
But Ming You didn't run. He just kept cutting.
Finely.
Methodically.
Without stopping until every organ was reduced to mincemeat.
The plastic sheet rustled underfoot, sticky with congealed blood and flesh. Ming You stood over the pile of dismembered organs—or rather, what remained of them. Intestines, liver, heart—all chopped into bloody mush, a shapeless mass mixed with gelatinous clots. He scooped it up with his hands, squeezing between his fingers, feeling the slippery chunks ooze through, and slapped it into a black garbage bag.
Each organ had lost its structure, becoming a mash of fibers and veins, though here and there, recognizable fragments remained—shreds of mucosa, bits of cartilage, flaps of tissue. The bag filled heavily, with a gurgling sound.
After dismembering the organs and packing them into trash bags, Ming You moved to the next stage. His fingers, sticky with fat and ichor, dug into cold chunks of flesh, scraping off remaining shreds from the severed legs, arms, and torso.
Every centimeter had to be cleaned to the bone. He stripped muscle fibers, scraped tendons with the knife, yanked out sinews, leaving behind bloody tatters. Feet and hands, once flexible and mobile, were now formless lumps studded with shattered joints. The butchering took the longest—the meat resisted, clinging to bone, requiring repeated cuts until only a slippery, gleaming surface remained.
The bones were the next challenge. The cleaver bit into the hard tissue with a ringing crack, but the first strike rarely split them fully. He had to strike again, viciously, until the bone broke with a wet snap, splintering into fragments. The plastic caught most of the shards, but fine bone dust settled on his hands, clothes, face—impossible to wash off, embedding like ash.
Finally—the head.
His fingers pressed into the eyeballs, and they burst with a soft squish, releasing viscous fluid. The tongue, pulled out, was sliced into sections—muscle tissue tore easily, leaving bloody threads. Teeth were crushed one by one under the cleaver, crumbling like glass, mixing with saliva and blood.
The skull didn't yield at first. The first blow left only a crack. The second—split it in half. The brain, quivering and gray, spilled out, and Ming You methodically kneaded it with his fingers, tearing it apart until only murky slurry remained. The ears were cut last—cartilage crunching like insects under a boot.
When he finished, the head was a formless mass—bone, meat, hair, and brain matter. The plastic beneath was soaked through, and the basement air thickened with a sweetly rotten reek.
Next, Ming You methodically gathered the bloody slurry, scooping it with hands dripping mucus and pulped flesh. Each sticky clump splatted into the black garbage bag, leaving greasy, gleaming streaks. Bone shards, skin scraps, and blood clots—all vanished into the plastic abyss.
The brain slurry was the hardest to collect—it oozed between his fingers, dripped onto the floor, mixing with bone dust. He scraped it up with his palm like thick jelly and flung it into the bag. Skull fragments, sticky with tissue remnants, followed, thudding dully against the already full bottom.
When the last pieces were scraped up, Ming You tied the bag, squeezing out air along with the stench of decaying flesh. The plastic stretched, sagging under the weight of the shapeless mass inside. He placed it beside the others—just as taut, heavy, seeping pinkish fluid at the seams.
Ten times, Ming You checked the floor for traces—tiny fragments, droplets of fat, shreds of flesh clinging to plastic folds. Even bone dust could betray him, so he collected every speck. Only when certain nothing was missed did he roll up the bloodied plastic and seal it in trash bags.
Ming You, his face impassive, methodically removed his bloodstained hoodie and pants. Then he took a clean black T-shirt and wiped his face, clearing dark streaks from his lashes and chin, then ran it through his hair, scrubbing away dried stains.
After, he pulled on a fresh school uniform, adjusting the collar and buttoning it one by one. His fingers didn't tremble; his breath stayed even. The dirty clothes—black hoodie, khaki pants, medical mask, and gloves—he folded neatly into a trash bag already holding Hee Rak's remains.
He tied the bag tight without looking inside.
Finishing cleanup, he opened the basement door, and cold morning air hit his face. The sun was just rising, painting the sky pale. Ming You carried out six heavy bags, distributing them discreetly. On his way to school, he stopped at different dumpsters, discarding them one by one, pausing between each.
"Right now, preparing Yoshido's team for the next game is more important," Ming You thought calmly to himself.