So hungry…

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warning: PTSD depiction

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In the 40s and 50s, a type of collective apartment rose to prominence to meet the housing needs of civilians and grassroots workers.

Simple in structure and tiny in size, they were nonetheless fully functional. From the outside, the neat rows of balconies looked like stacked matchboxes, and because they were often inhabited by birds, they earned the nickname “Pigeon Boxes.”

While the architecture of the Izu Paraiso era wasn’t exactly aesthetic, its build quality was undeniable.

Having endured one tsunami, sixteen bouts of acid rain, and years of corrosive sea winds, these “Pigeon Boxes” had turned pitch-black from erosion, yet their frames still stood firm.

The building where Bai Ling once rented a room was one of them.

Originally, it had been a staff dormitory for the [Imperial Interstellar Airbus]. After the establishment of the New Empire, it naturally became part of the state-owned assets and was carved up by private interests.

By the time it reached the current landlord, it had passed through countless hands.

Walking up the steps, one could see the faint, lingering outline of a bloody handprint on the ground.

Legend had it that a kind old drunkard had drank too much one freezing night and died of hypothermia right there. By the time people found him the next morning, his palm had frozen to the terrazzo floor, leaving behind this mark.

In that story, the old drunk was named George, and he lived on the first floor. The spot where he fell was less than a hundred meters from his warm room.

Yet, those hundred meters were enough to claim a poor man’s life.

Old tenants always avoided that handprint to avoid bad luck.

But Bai Ling still affectionately called it “Old Mr. George.” In the past, every time he came back, he would stand on it to catch his breath.

Perhaps Old George was a good man, leaving this handprint to guide the weary, half-blind little birds back to their nests at night.

Bai Ling firmly believed so.

Entering the lobby, a sign painted crookedly in red on the glass door reads: Rooms available long-term, prices from 200 to 900.

This was the price range that most poor people could just barely afford.

Bai Ling had once rented a mid-range single room for 500 credits. He had originally wanted a cheaper eight-person shared room, but at that time, a neurological disease was quietly spreading through the Empire. He was constantly coughing blood and taking medication, so he had been rejected from collective housing.

Thus, he had paid those 500 credits through gritted teeth.

It was completely unlike now, where his association salary and gambling winnings added up to nearly 600,000, not even counting the sponsorship fees showered upon him by a certain willful merman.

“Is Room 04 occupied? If not, I’ll take it for a month,” Bai Ling casually said.

Twenty years ago, the landlord wasn’t bald yet.

He stared at Bai Ling’s cashmere coat, looking him up and down before biting into a toothpick. “I’ll say this upfront: no check-outs, no refunds. Even if the cops bag you, don’t dream of getting your money back.”

The landlord clearly took him for a petty thief who specialized in stealing rich people’s clothes.

Bai Ling directly scanned 500 credits. Only then did the landlord sluggishly pull out a ledger as thick as a brick, flipping to the last page to record it.

The people living here were often so poor they couldn’t even pay 500 credits at once. Tenants were slippery as wet loaches, playing guerrilla warfare with the landlord when he came to collect rent. If they were unfortunately cornered, they would dig out a pittance from under the mattress, wear a flattering smile, and beg for a few more days of grace.

This “installment plan” broke 500 credits into 20, 10, or even 5s and 3s…

So, whenever someone came to pay, the landlord, this balding Scrooge, would simply draw a ‘+’ sign after their name and write the corresponding number.

If someone failed to show up for a long time…

The landlord would go out to inquire, return cursing up a storm, open the ledger, scribble over a name until it was black, and angrily say:

“Damn it, another one dead.”

The landlord had a powerful pair of lungs; even in his old age, his street-cursing was the foulest and loudest in the district.

Even the children selling flowers learned the phrase, shouting along with innocent faces: “Dammit, another one dead.”

On rent day, those “Damnits” would ring out incessantly, stomping down stairs, echoing through hallways, and splashing through the puddles by the basement windows.

Back then, the 42 year-old Bai Ling would wake with a start and instinctively reach for the knife under his pillow.

Only when his vision cleared and cold sweat soaked through his undershirt would he clutch the sheets, and slowly realize the truth.

This isn’t a battlefield…

The one who died isn’t me…

With shaking wrists, he’d pick up a cup and take a sip of overnight cold water. But the sudden metallic tang of blood would make his throat seize, and nearly make him gag.

His mouth would become full of blood, sticking to his teeth in a tenacious mess.

Eating only cheap compressed biscuits without vegetables or fruit can cause scurvy.

Bai Ling would sit there in a daze, muttering to himself: “Dammit, I might as well be dead…”

While cursing, he would continue to break the biscuits, forcing that unpalatable stuff into his mouth and washing it down with water.

My stomach feels bloated, yet I still feel… so hungry.

This extreme hunger and dissatisfaction usually haunted him all day.

Carrying heavy bottled water past the butcher shop, he couldn’t help but stop in front of the window.

The bright, clean glass reflected his pale, sunken cheeks.

He’d stare intensely at the meat cut into blocks and weighed by the gram. He remembered being cornered, bumped, and shoved to the ground by young vendors at the subway station, and the long time it took to crawl back up, with his body hollow as a paper bird.

Bai Ling bitterly thought it wasn’t that he was old—he was just too hungry to find any strength.

If only I could eat beef.

Real meat, big chunks of it, just like the pictures on the packaging of beef-flavored biscuits. Eating that would fill you with energy, your illness would slowly fade away…

This wasn’t just an exaggeration.

Bai Ling had heard many such stories.

A sick raptor on the verge of death is picked up, fed veal for half a month, and then a miracle happens. It regrows its talons, its beak hardens, and its flight feathers become beautiful and neat.

He can also do it too…

If someone is willing to feed him, he will work hard to live, work hard to grow new feathers.

He didn’t need half a month; just one or two meals would do.

But it was a ridiculous pipe dream. Who would take in a broken peregrine falcon?

At this point, Bai Ling would just cover his eyes, saying hatefully with trembling lips:

“Dammit, I’m so hungry.”

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Shaking off the chaotic thoughts from the past, he opened the basement door.

The familiar smell of mildew rushed to meet him.

Bai Ling spread his arms and collapsed onto the mattress.

Ugh… so hard, so prickly. Not nearly as comfortable as Yu Chen’s down mattress.

He rolled onto his side, pulled out his terminal, and checked Mr. D’s interface first—still no accepted friend request.

“Sigh…” Bai Ling softly sighed, and stared at the water stains on the ceiling for a while before finally calling Yu Chen.

The call was quickly answered.

The merman seemed to have been busy with official business and he hadn’t fully switched out of that clinical, calm state yet, his voice sounding deep and cool:

“What is it?”

Bai Ling smiled quietly. “I miss your mattress.”

Yu Chen leaned back in his chair, brushing back a stray lock of golden hair. His deep-set eyes softened. “Only the mattress?”

Bai Ling bit his lip and whispered, “And you, who sleeps so peacefully.”

Hearing the background noise through the call, Yu Chen raised an eyebrow. “Where are you? It sounds like an argument outside.”

Bai Ling instinctively turned his head toward the wall. Next door was a six-person room with thin walls; the sound of loud drinking and shouting was bound to leak through.

But today, the commotion seemed excessive.

A violent kick thudded against the door next door. Boom! Boom! Then a woman’s scream: “Who gave you permission to come in? I’m calling the police!”

“Go ahead, we are the investigators. Someone reported you for harboring dissidents. We have sufficient evidence, don’t even think about denying it. Hmph, come with us.”

An inexplicable jolt struck Bai Ling’s heart, and his blurred memories were stirred into ripples by this conversation.

The Secret Police.

He remembered that twenty years from now, this crowd would be even more arrogant, often conducting raids under the guise of “investigations.”

Bai Ling was a registered Class-A wanted criminal; no matter where he lived, anxiety was unavoidable. But his psychological fortitude was excellent and relying on a sickly appearance and a fake restriction ring, he had lived under the noses of the Secret Police for over two years without incident.

He never spared these lapdogs a second glance.

Bai Ling instinctively touched his chest.

Where did this sudden surge of tension come from?

The screaming next door stopped, and heavy footsteps approached his door. Bai Ling quickly said to the terminal: “I’ll be back for dinner tonight. I want steak. See you later.”

Yu Chen seemed to sense something, but out of trust, he simply replied: “Alright.”

The moment the call ended, a fist pounded on the door.

Bai Ling opened it to find three alphas looking into his room with unfriendly expressions.. “Out. We’re conducting an inspection.”

Bai Ling knew the procedure all too well. After the “inspection,” they would find an excuse to take them away for “evidence,” followed by a demand for ransom.

This was how the broadcaster was arrested before.

Bai Ling pulled his turtleneck up just below the tip of his nose, lowering his head and silently blending into the crowd of tenants.

With his strength, taking out three armed alphas wouldn’t be an issue. But the problem was the narrow space and the crowd—innocents might get hurt.

Bai Ling was prepared to pay money to get himself released once he was in jail.

Arriving at the Secret Police headquarters, he maintained the mindset of a tourist, wandering around and glancing nonchalantly at the colorful posters on the walls, curling his lip in a sneer at the Tyrant’s foolishly large portrait.

Suddenly, an investigator with thick, bushy eyebrows stared straight at him, squinting as he spoke:

“Hey… haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“That white hair… I remember now. You’re the little brat who hit someone in the square last time. So jumping into the sea didn’t drown you after all, huh?”

Bai Ling responded with a cold sneer.

The investigator immediately yanked him out of the line and shoved him into an interrogation room. Pulling out a gun and pointing it at Bai Ling’s forehead, he sinisterly grinned:

“Don’t think about running this time. Let’s see if your legs are faster than my bullets.”

They expected the little white-haired boy to show signs of panic.

Instead, Bai Ling walked in as if he owned the place, kicked a chair upright, sat down loosely with his arms crossed, and flicked his eyelids up to give them a cold stare.

Coldly pale and intensely vivid, he looked like frost splattered with blood on an execution ground.

That single look sent an involuntary chill crawling up the spines of every investigator in the room.

A mocking curve appeared in the corner of Bai Ling’s mouth. “Ask whatever you want to ask. I’m in a hurry.”

He paused for a moment, almost imperceptibly, as soon as he finished speaking.

Similar scene, similar words… have I said this before?

Bai Ling looked around the interrogation room again, a heavy sensation slowly bleeding out from the depths of his heart.

A voice in his mind told him:

I’ve been to this place…

Cold sweat began to seep from his palms. His heart rate spiked, and the vessels in his chest felt a faint, dull ache.

He suddenly became restless, irritable, and anxious, frequently glancing at the clock hanging on the grey cement wall.

5:49 PM.

Taking advantage of Bai Ling’s distraction, the investigator forcibly snatched his terminal, inserted a chip, and skillfully cracked the password.

He began flipping through the messages, drawling them out in a mocking tone: “[Big Blue Tail]: Are you awake? Does your stomach still hurt? Do you want me to carry you to dinner? Hahahahaha—”

The other alphas burst into derisive laughter.

These words were fine coming from Yu Chen, but hearing them mimicked in a greasy, middle-aged man’s voice made Bai Ling want to vomit.

“This guy is a one-legged cripple,” the investigator noted, glancing at the prosthetic leg under the table.

With an intent full of pure malice, he turned to the other alphas. “If we break his leg, will he have to crawl out of this room like a dog?”

The secret policeman chimed in: “Tsk tsk, now that’s something I’d like to see.”

“With a face this pretty, he should definitely crawl around our Boss’s feet a few times. Let’s get a taste of an aristocrat’s life!”

Bai Ling’s gaze grew dull. The investigator’s face gradually merged with an older image from his memory.

The same bulbous nose, the same insults…

The investigator pointed at him, teasing, “Look, this guy is so scared he can’t even speak.”

Bai Ling’s eyes stopped moving and his expression became terrifyingly numb.

No one knew that at this very moment, a grotesque hallucination was playing out in his mind.

In his eyes, the mouths of these men were like trash cans overturned by the wind, opening and closing to emit harsh, jarring noises. Their ugly, pitted faces twisted into a mass, melting together like grotesque lumps of clay.

Bai Ling was intimately familiar with this feeling.

Whenever his mental disorder flared up, his surroundings would warp, tear, and entwine weirdly, as if he had been poisoned.

He quietly raised his head. The clock in the room seemed to be melting. The ticking hands grew infinitely large in his vision, pressing against his bloodshot eyes, advancing notch by notch—

Click. Click.

Time was irrevocably marching toward 6:00 PM…

The investigator found something new: “Who is this Mr. D? Is he your ridiculous Big Blue Tail?”

The ticking of the clock began to synchronize with his racing heartbeat. Bai Ling breathed in short gasps, feeling as though his chest was about to explode from the pressure.

For a fleeting second, he felt his soul drift out of his seat. He wanted to scream, to run, to jump, to fly to an unknown place, to…

Go to an unfinished appointment.

Bai Ling anxiously tugged at his turtleneck, instinctively trying to breathe easier.

In the corner of his eye, the investigator caught a glimpse of a pearl tucked under his sweater.

Based on his years of experience accepting bribes, he could tell at a glance that this pearl was of exceptional quality. On the black market, it would fetch at least five figures!

The investigator broke into a greedy smile and waved the others away.

“You’re lucky today. Rip that pearl off and give it to me, and I’ll be merciful enough to let you go.”

That head like white dandelion-fuzz trembled slightly as he slowly looked up.

The investigator expected a face full of terror, but his expression froze when he met a pair of eyes entwined with bloody malice, looking as if they had just been fished out of Hell’s blood lake.

“…What do you want from me?”

“I want the pearl.”

In the next heartbeat, the investigator’s vision tilted to the side.

His head slammed into the wall with excruciating pain. He instinctively reached for his gun to spray the white-haired boy with bullets, only to see his own body still sitting perfectly in the chair, a geyser of blood from his carotid artery spraying the ceiling.

Bai Ling silently wiped his blade.

Then, he took back his terminal and reconnected with [Big Blue Tail].

“Hello. I’ve had some… splashing issues here. There are cameras in the room; do you have a way to help me cover this up?”

“Splashing” was an underworld slang.

Yu Chen listened to his mechanical, broadcast-like voice. After two seconds of silence, he asked: “Do you know the way home?”

“I do.”

Yu Chen: “Wait one moment. I’ll transfer you to a ‘Representative.’ From now on, follow its instructions for every step.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hearing the crisp, decisive answer, Yu Chen’s heart stirred.

This was the first time they had spoken so professionally, and the first time Bai Ling had actively sought him out to solve a problem.

His and Bai Ling’s actions in external affairs seemed to intersect at this moment.

It was a good start.

Meanwhile, Bai Ling’s terminal gave a “beep” as the line was switched.

Bai Ling composed himself, prepared to exchange pleasantries with this “Representative,” but the voice that came through was—

“Little Mechanical Bird? Who bullied you?! Give me your coordinates immediately!”

Your overprotective AI is now online.

It started hijacking cameras, modifying footage, discreetly lurking in network cables, and personally escorting the overloaded mechanical bird back to its nest.