Between the Nest and the Backstreets lies a chasm so deep it might as well be a natural law.
The enormous cultural difference can, in the end, be blamed on one thing: the environment people are forced to live in.
The Nest is always pristine—synonymous with privilege. Safe. Peaceful. Wealthy. It's what countless Backstreets residents spend their lives yearning for.
The Backstreets, meanwhile, are filthy and wretched—born, it seems, with original sin. Backstreets people are crude and violent, living every day on edge, trapped in fear and uncertainty.
And yet, the "upper-class" in the Nest often develop a strange fondness for the "free" life of the alleys.
At the geographic boundary between Nest and Backstreets, there are always opportunists running shady little cafés and restaurants—most of them under the umbrella of a Wing.
They all slap the word "luxury" on their signboards.
After all, when the other side of the street is nothing but broken-down Backstreets squalor, what could look more "high-end" than that kind of contrast?
That said, some Wings use methods to wall off the Backstreets that… aren't exactly fit to be shown in public.
For example: L Corp.
The City's largest—and only—energy producer, whose production method is nauseating.
But hey, as far as the marketing goes, isn't thick, heavy smog a kind of steampunk aesthetic?
At least, that's what L Corp's official statements claim.
Even so, everyone in the Nest knows one thing:
Housing prices along the edge of L Nest are cheap in a way that's genuinely frightening.
You get what you pay for.
Richard had warned Ke long ago not to settle in L Nest.
Now it was Richard's turn to take care of his old friend's orphan.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes, and sighed.
He was terrible with children.
Children were inevitably tied to "immature" and "ignorant," which clashed with everything he believed in: gentlemanly conduct and elegance.
But this was his friend's child. Even if he had to grit his teeth, he had to try.
Besides, the other people in the office were either sprawled at home doing nothing, or stuck with commissions they couldn't refuse.
And the old gentleman who represented the office was probably still fighting with his family—asking the Seven Association to monitor someone wasn't exactly something you could drag into daylight.
Everyone knows: if you kill everyone, then no one can tell you were "gathering intelligence."
With the assassination-specialized Association of Death declining by the day, rich clients preferred to hire the Seven to do their work.
Richard himself had taken commissions like that before—nominally "information gathering," but actually requiring him to "gather heads" without a trace.
That had been the spark that drove him out of the Seven…
…
On the other side, after a long ugly breakdown, Ke Ming finally fell into doubt and reflection.
The mismatch between body and mind often left him in embarrassing dilemmas. A seven- or eight-year-old throwing a tantrum and crying was perfectly normal—but for a mind pushing forty…
It was humiliating.
Ke Ming covered his face and sat with his head lowered.
His hands were clasped tightly, nervous. His feet turned slightly inward, knees pressed together.
An adorable little boy—if you ignored the mental age inside.
Richard glanced at the stiffly seated kid and nearly sprayed out the mouthful of water he'd just swallowed.
By sheer force of will, he suppressed the cough, swallowed it down, and narrowly avoided both choking and losing face in front of a junior.
"In any case," Richard said, clearing his throat and tapping the back of his hand, "the situation is as I described."
Ke Ming blinked and nodded as if he understood.
"So, basically: the Head Chef was actually a bad person who wanted to eat me. Killing him was to protect me, so the killer is a good person—one of us?"
He stared.
"I don't believe that."
"It's not that simple," Richard replied. "Mr. Lovie doesn't act out of personal desire. More likely he received some commission he couldn't speak openly about."
Then Richard paused and pointed at Ke Ming's prosthetic.
"As for the Head Chef… from what I've learned, no child has ever gotten out alive from his hands. Those who survived for a while usually ended up missing limbs. The fact he arranged a prosthetic for you means he truly didn't intend to kill you."
"Then why did you—"
Anger surged up from Ke Ming's chest again, swallowing his reason.
He sprang to his feet so violently that the chair toppled backward.
"He would have lost control eventually," Richard said, straightening a collar that had creased slightly in the wind. "The most reliable inference right now is that the Head Chef suffered an unknown influence—some kind of mental mutation."
"If we assume his nature wasn't evil," Richard continued, "then perhaps your father's coat blocked that contamination."
Ke Ming's eyes showed confusion, so Richard explained.
"Moonstone—technology from M Corp. The uniforms of Section Six members incorporate it. It can block mental harm."
"The official explanation is that it can effectively counter mental attacks, oppression, interference, and so on… It reduces or impedes all kinds of visual, auditory, and pain effects that occur to the wearer, and also shields against external psychological hazards."
"In other words: the moonstone on your father's coat weakened the mental contamination in the Head Chef. While he stayed near you, he gradually regained some clarity."
"Wings experiments," Ke Ming suddenly said, as if remembering something.
"What?" Richard's eyes sharpened.
"I heard the Head Chef muttering about it. Wings, experiments… things like that." Ke Ming frowned, searching his memory. "T Corp, W Corp. Agreements. Contracts."
Richard's expression darkened instantly, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.
"Again with Wings… If that's involved, then where we are now isn't safe enough." He looked grim. "If Mr. Lovie can resolve things cleanly, we might still have breathing room…"
"Then what do we do—"
"Go back to the office," Richard said, "or lie low here for a while and gamble on luck. Or flee to the Outskirts—the Wings' claws don't reach that far."
Then, as if a thought struck him, Richard let a thin smile appear.
"The choice is yours, Mr. Ke Ming."
…The office. The Backstreets. The Outskirts.
It looked like a multiple-choice question, but Ke Ming had no real choice.
Going to the office meant placing himself entirely at this man's mercy. Staying in the Backstreets meant risking endless attacks from the Wings…
The Outskirts—a region barely mentioned in the original Lobotomy Corporation setting—seemed like his only remaining option.
"Which Wings have I offended?" Ke Ming asked slowly, his voice carrying a steadiness that didn't belong to his age. "My parents—who wanted them dead?"
"Ke… by sheer bad luck, saw an L Corp secret," Richard said. "An order was issued to erase him."
Richard looked momentarily stunned. He hadn't expected the boy in front of him to be this composed. After a brief thought, he decided to speak to him differently—more directly.
"And the Head Chef likely violated an agreement with T Corp. The exact terms are unclear."
…So that meant he was now, at minimum, on the radar of two Wings?
Even if he was just an insignificant nobody—so small he might not even be worth a Wing's attention…
Still.
Looks like he could only run to the Outskirts and gamble on a sliver of life.
"…Brother Richard," Ke Ming said, voice trembling into something small again, "save me!"
"Huh?"
....
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