The Hunt

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. — Romans 12:19

The goddess of fate has no mercy, and God's long night has no end. Your flesh is but time, ceaselessly flowing time. You are merely each solitary sigh. — Borges, You Are Not the Others

...

When he stopped to rest for the second time, Ni Xiangdong finally admitted he was getting old.

Leaning against a crooked pine tree, he clutched his waist, panting heavily. The heavy, battered wooden crate sat at his feet, flattening a patch of withered grass. A cold gust of wind turned the sweat on his neck icy, trickling down his gaunt back and seeping into his loose, threadbare underwear.

He sniffed and peered through the gap between his cap and mask, double-checking that there were no surveillance cameras nearby before slowly pulling the mask down. From a half-empty pack of crumpled Hadamen cigarettes, he picked out the longest butt and clamped it between his teeth at a slant. These days, cheap, strong cigarettes like these were hard to come by, so whenever he found a seller, he always stocked up on a few extra packs.

A flick of the lighter, and the flame danced. Nicotine filled the air as exhaustion dissolved into milky smoke, carried away by the mountain breeze.

Still, he wasn’t that old yet. The thought cheered him up again.

Humming to himself, he gazed down from the mountainside.

Night had fallen, but the streetlights hadn’t yet flickered on. The towering buildings were swallowed by the mist, their silhouettes looming indistinctly. The elevated highway stretched toward the horizon, its car lights twinkling—gold on one side, red on the other—like a starkly divided river from afar.

He squinted, playing a game of trying to spot his secondhand Wuling Hongguang minivan.

Of course, he couldn’t see it. Before ascending the mountain, he had carefully parked it on a deserted side road and scattered a handful of dead branches and leaves over it, camouflaging it completely. Now, the thickening darkness had swallowed both the van and the path he had taken.

“What are you doing here?”

The sudden voice made his hand jerk, sending the cigarette tumbling and burning a hole in his black cotton jacket.

At one end of the leash, a fox-like dog yapped and pranced, while at the other end, the old man walking it rushed forward and stomped out the ember.

“What kind of manners are these, smoking on the mountain? Who’ll take responsibility if a fire starts?” The old man’s worn-out sneakers ground the cigarette butt into the dirt a few more times. “What are you doing here? Hiding in the dark like this?”

“Delivery guy, dropping off a package.”

Half-truths came naturally to him, so he answered smoothly, without a trace of panic.

“Delivery?” The old man didn’t seem convinced. He tilted his head, peering past Ni Xiangdong at the wooden crate he was trying to obscure. “This is the middle of nowhere. Beyond here, it’s just unmarked graves. Who lives up here? What are you delivering? Don’t give me that—”

The lecture stopped abruptly—probably because the old man had gotten a good look at his face.

Ni Xiangdong was used to this.

People who saw his face always followed the same script: stunned silence, hesitant words, torn between fear, pity, and curiosity before hastily making up an excuse to leave.

The old man was no different. He didn’t even bother with an excuse—just fled down the slope in terror, his dog sprinting ahead of him, paws barely touching the ground, leash pulled taut.

Ni Xiangdong stood there, silently watching their frantic escape, the wooden crate at his feet just as silent.Until the man and the dog ran faster and faster, disappearing around the mountain bend in the blink of an eye, he pulled his mask back up over his face, picked up the wooden crate, and began trembling as he walked uphill.

If it weren’t for Cao Xiaojun, he would never have gotten involved in this mess.

Late last night, Ni Xiangdong had been jolted awake from his groggy sleep by the ringing of his phone. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number. Not answering calls from unknown numbers was a habit he had long cultivated, but the call ended only to ring again seconds later—from the same unknown number.

After three consecutive calls, he finally answered in irritation.

"Hello?"

A series of static noises came from the other end.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Still, no one answered—only strange, crackling sounds continued. Just as he was about to hang up, an all-too-familiar voice came through.

"It's me."

Ni Xiangdong bolted upright in bed, his face burning, his fingers icy.

"Xiaojun? Did you change your number?"

"Can you talk right now?"

"Of course. You know me—I’m a lone wolf—"

"Good. Let me ask you—do you consider us brothers?"

"Yes."

"Then will you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"I can’t explain much. If you trust me, just do exactly as I say. Can you?"

Ni Xiangdong clutched the phone in his left hand while his right fumbled on the nightstand for a cigarette. He lit it and remained silent for a long moment.

"Hello? Dongzi, you still there?"

"Go on."

Cao Xiaojun’s request was simple: he wanted Ni Xiangdong to transport a crate for him. But this had to stay between them—not even his wife, Wu Ximei, could know. Ni Xiangdong was to take the crate to an abandoned hut at the mountain summit after sunset, then leave.

"Dongzi, can you do this for me?"

No response.

"Dongzi?"

"Xiaojun, tell me," Ni Xiangdong stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes wearily, "what’s inside the crate?"

By the time Ni Xiangdong found the derelict hut, the last sliver of twilight had faded, plunging the wilderness into complete darkness.

Exhausted, his arms trembling uncontrollably, he staggered through the overgrown weeds and stopped at the door.

Creak—the door wasn’t locked. The peeling, paint-chipped wooden door swung open with a push.

A foul stench assaulted him—the place had long been used as a makeshift toilet by hikers.

"Anyone here?"

No answer. Only the howling north wind rushed in through the broken windowpanes.

Ni Xiangdong cautiously peered inside, scanning the room with the dim glow of his phone.

An old wooden desk from the '80s, scattered with yellowed newspapers and a metal thermos. A pin-up calendar hung on the wall. In the corner stood a single bed, its pillow and sheets long rotted into tattered wads, stained beyond recognition. The floor was littered with trash and excrement. As his flashlight swept the room, a small, nimble creature darted past.

He bent down, hooked his fingers under the crate’s brass handles, and dragged it inside. The crate scraped against the concrete floor, emitting an unpleasant screech.

The crate seemed to grow heavier with every pull. Ni Xiangdong clenched his jaw, muscles straining, his lower back aching, until he finally hauled it to the center of the room and let go. Gasping for breath, he stood there, hands on his knees, staring blankly.

In the empty room, the crate looked starkly out of place.

It was an old-fashioned countryside style—brownish-yellow, coated with varnish, reinforced with brass corners, the clasps tarnished green.

Suddenly, he desperately wanted to see what was inside.

Last night, no matter how much he pressed, Cao Xiaojun had hung up without ever telling him what the crate contained."Put it down and leave. Don't be curious. Knowing too much won't do you any good."

Cao Xiaojun's warning echoed in his ears again and again.

The task was complete; it was time to leave. Ni Xiangdong brushed the dust off his clothes and stood up, heading for the door. After a few steps, he paused, turning back to stare at the wooden box.

An inexplicable impulse seized him.

He wanted to call Cao Xiaojun.

He fished out his phone, his cold index finger tapping the cracked screen repeatedly until it finally unlocked. He scrolled through his contacts, found Cao Xiaojun’s old number, and pressed the call button without much hope.

After a brief pause, a ringtone sounded—from behind him.

Ni Xiangdong pulled the phone away from his ear, his eyes darting around the empty room in confusion and dread before finally settling on the source of the sound.

Cao Xiaojun’s ringtone was coming from inside the box.

The box.

Now heedless of the warning, he grabbed a thermos from the table and smashed it down with all his strength. The lock snapped. Inside, he saw a man curled up like a fetus, his head slumped against his chest, his agonized face flickering in and out of view with the pulsing glow of the phone screen.

The entire time, he had been transporting Cao Xiaojun’s corpse.

A flash of lightning lit up the window, illuminating everything in stark clarity.

Crack.

He heard the sound of a plastic case being crushed underfoot, followed by the frantic patter of fleeing footsteps.

Suddenly, Ni Xiangdong realized—the bright flash hadn’t been lightning. It was the flash of a phone camera.

Someone outside had been taking pictures. Evidence of him "disposing of a body."

But by the time he rushed out, the unseen photographer had already vanished into the night, leaving no trace behind.