Deep in the Red Star Machinery Factory, a place long abandoned by the times, on the eastern edge of the city.
The air reeked of rust, old grease, and something heavier, thicker, and fresher: blood.
The hulking scrap machinery cast twisted, grotesque shadows, like steel beasts lying in wait.
At the center of the factory, temporary floodlights hammered down a harsh white glare, the sole blinding focus in the surrounding chaos and darkness.
Beneath the beam stood a heavy metal worktable coated in dust, with a human figure restrained on top.
It was Zhang Qiang, star trainer at the “Limit Strength” gym in the western district, famous for his iron will and knotted muscles.
Now his bronze skin, once a sign of vigorous life, looked under the lights like some bizarre mix of waxy white and ashen gray.
His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated, frozen in the final, unspeakable terror and despair of his life. They stared blankly up at the towering ceiling webbed with cobwebs. His mouth hung slightly open, as if he had so much he wanted to tell whoever found him.
The truly horrifying part was the cavity in his torso.
A vast, nearly perfect rectangular opening had been cut from his chest down through his abdomen.
The flesh curled back along the edges, and the incision was impossibly smooth, as if made with the most precise measurements and the coldest blade.
His organs, heart, liver, kidneys, and all the rest, the very core of life and the source of his virile strength, had been removed completely and cleanly.
All that remained was a shocking, blood-soaked shell, like an offering that had been hollowed out.
