dmims Chapter 1 Rainy Night Scavenger
Chapter 1 Rainy Night Scavenger
The smoke concentration in the duty room reached the level required for a fire drill.
Cheng Song sank into the creaking computer chair, his eyelids drooping, watching the static on the monitor screen flicker on and off. A long layer of ash accumulated on his cigarette, maintaining a precarious balance between gravity and the stubbornness of a smoker.
On the opposite cot, his partner, Xiao Chen, looked ashen-faced as an unearthed artifact, clutching his stomach and curled up like a shrimp: "Brother Song... my intestines... feel like they're tap dancing..."
Before he could finish speaking, he tactically rolled off the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. Immediately afterward, a heart-wrenching sound came from inside, full of emotion and intensity, like a human bass cannon.
Cheng Song put the cigarette back in his mouth and took a slow puff. When he took over the shift in the afternoon, he casually handed his cup of spiked strong tea to Xiao Chen, who was complaining of a stomachache. The dosage was precise enough to make the guy run a marathon between the toilet and the cot, but not enough to alarm the emergency room.
Acute gastroenteritis: simple, effective, and efficient.
The walkie-talkie crackled to life: "Patrol Area 07, Cheng Song and Chen Liang, are you there?"
Cheng Song waited three seconds, until the second wave of spraying sounds came from the toilet, before pressing the call button. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding against sheet metal: "07 received, Cheng Song is online. Comrade Chen Liang... is temporarily out of battle and is currently in the second round of strategic consultations with the toilet."
The timing was perfect; just then, Xiao Chen's trembling shout rang out from the restroom: "I swear I'm mortal enemies with toilets!"
There was a three-second silence on the other end of the walkie-talkie before Old Zhang's cursing voice came through: "Damn it... are you the only one? There's a report from the public under the Wenchang Bridge that there's a drunkard lying there like a corpse. Go check it out, and hurry up!"
"Understood." Cheng Song's tone was full of a "tool person" mentality. "Comrade Chen Liang is expected to hold several more rounds of consultations with the sanitation facilities. I'll go myself and guarantee to complete the mission."
"Be careful! Finish this quickly!"
Putting down the walkie-talkie, Cheng Song stubbed out his cigarette in the Coke can overflowing with smoldering cigarette butts, making a satisfying hiss. He stood up, quickly pulled on his reflective vest, and raised his voice as he passed the restroom, his tone filled with the concern of a revolutionary comrade:
"Chen'er, hang in there! I'll go take care of this and be right back!"
From inside came Xiao Chen's weak but resolute reply: "Brother Song...you go...me and the toilet...one of us has to go first..."
Cheng Song hummed in agreement, his expression perfectly controlled.
The guilt he felt for taking advantage of his teammate's diarrhea? It was crushed into dust by the relief of "finally being able to solo." The rule was that two officers should be dispatched at a time, but Lao Zhang's "be careful" and "get it over with quickly" were the unspoken, flexible rules at the grassroots level.
Solo operation, stealth, and efficiency.
As long as the mission report is written in a harmonious manner, emphasizing that "there is no danger at the scene" and "the person involved has been properly taken care of," usually no one will take it seriously.
He strolled into the yard and climbed into the old Santana patrol car, its blue and white paint peeling and worn, almost like a fossil. Rain pattered against the police lights, making a crackling sound, like an ASMR play. Inside, a symphony of smells—cigarette smoke, sweat, musty leather, and moldy air conditioning filter—was as familiar as the scent of an old friend.
He needs this metal shell.
It's not just a rule, it's a strategic shelter. In case that "drunkard" under the bridge is an elite monster who needs special handling, the trunk of a police car is much more reliable than the basket of a shared bicycle.
A familiar, hollow, cramping pain came from my stomach.
It wasn't hunger, but a nutrient deficit alarm deep within his cellular memory. He frowned, gulped down half a cup of cooled, strong tea—the effect was roughly equivalent to using a water gun to combat a volcanic eruption.
Several dark red lines began to throb and bulge restlessly under the skin of my right arm, bringing a stinging and burning sensation.
well.
His digestive system was reminding him that he needed to "nourish" himself.
Cheng Song started the engine, and the patrol car glided into the rain like a nocturnal creature. He held the steering wheel with one hand, and his other hand instinctively reached for his cigarette case. After hesitating for half a second, he still put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn't light it. He chewed it fiercely, barely suppressing the urge to use the steering wheel as a teething toy.
The windshield wipers swung monotonously from side to side.
On the windshield, the city's neon lights blurred in the rain, turning into a flowing, cold patch of light.
Three hours ago, at an abandoned textile factory in the west of the city.
The thing maintained a human-shaped outline on the outside, but its inside had been modified into a "biological animal trap" that secreted strong acid to lure and capture homeless people. Cheng Song had no choice. Conventional methods were like scratching an itch, while its abnormal spread was comparable to the viral marketing of a mini-game.
At that moment, he had only one thought in his mind:
Damn, if we make a big commotion here, those guys from the branch office with their keener sense of smell than police dogs will definitely swarm out. On-site investigation, CCTV footage review, the report will be longer than my mother's bound feet... All the pretense I've painstakingly built up to the "ordinary auxiliary police officer" reputation will be wiped out in a minute.
So he activated the "emergency plan".
The claws were activated.
Black, predatory organs formed from the instantaneous proliferation, keratinization, and mutation of forearm flesh, their edges shimmering with the cold light of metal and biomass. The sound of tearing apart the monster's carapace was like ripping open a stack of damp file folders.
The feel of it... was surprisingly relaxing.
The real trouble was the cleanup. He had to "clean" it even more thoroughly than the murder scene, as any biological residue was a fatal flaw. And his body, as his consciousness frantically issued the "stop" command, had already autonomously extended dark red, greedy digestive tentacles to envelop, decompose, and assimilate the remains that emanated ominous energy.
It's not eating.
It is a more efficient and thorough "resource recycling".
His hand, along with its tentacles, pierced the monster's core. Absorbing, analyzing, plundering. The monster's structural template, its pitiful pheromone encoding, and its chaotic dying thoughts filled with "Hungry, hungry, hungry..."
Everything is transformed into cold data streams and biomass, flowing into Cheng Song's life system.
He knelt in the ruins, dry heaving in the sewage for a minute, vomiting only bile and philosophical thoughts. The monster's nutrients were plundered by his cells with 100% utilization, not a single drop was wasted.
He felt a little full.
But what kept flashing back in the background of his consciousness was the last image etched into the monster's mind when he was still human—
A blurry, tear-streaked face of a child.
Damn it.
Cheng Song uttered a modal particle.
I don't know if they're complaining about this increasingly chaotic world, mourning that unfortunate monster, or disliking their own constitution that's becoming more and more like a human-shaped self-propelled incinerator.
The small cut on the tiger's mouth, which was made by a shard of porcelain when dealing with a neighborhood dispute in the afternoon, is now completely smooth, without even a white mark, as if it had never been injured.
He raised his hand and looked at it in the dim light of the car's roof.
Perfectly healed. The super cells work with outrageous efficiency, truly model workers.
This is the price to pay.
It's also a curse.
He was starving. Not just in his stomach, but at the cellular level—a nutrient deficit that could drive a person mad. The little energy he absorbed while processing that thing was like pouring a cup of water into the desert—it vanished in an instant, only intensifying his thirst.
He would always remember the first game he experienced six months ago. It wasn't some wish-fulfillment story where he gained superpowers and reached the pinnacle of life. It was the actual set of Prototype, except he was playing a background researcher. After being forced to accept this reality, he narrowly escaped death and received a reward.
That thing—the Blacklight Virus—is not some kind of cheat code that allows people to conjure fireballs and fly or teleport.
It's more like a sentient, extremely hungry, living thing.
He did not "gain the ability".
He became it.
The sole survivor. The sole infected. A human-shaped petri dish. A walking prototype of the virus.
Cheng Song lowered his hand and rubbed the spot where the skin had been broken between his thumb and forefinger with his fingertips. It felt smooth and the temperature was normal.
Who would have thought that beneath this thin layer of skin flows something capable of corroding steel, reconstructing flesh and blood, and devouring all organic matter like a buffet?
Sometimes he would think, what's the big deal?
Superheroes?
What utter nonsense!
Superheroes don't get so hungry in the middle of the night that they want to chew on the steering wheel, they don't subconsciously assess whether something is edible just because it looks strange, and they certainly don't have uncontrollable flashbacks in their minds after digesting a monster—the last thing that thing saw before it died: the face of a child crying in fear.
What kind of hero is that?
At best, he's just a... cleaner.
It's the kind that comes with its own incinerator.
As he approached Wenchang Bridge, he slowed down, turned off the hazard lights, and silently glided the car into the shadows at the bridgehead. Instead of getting out immediately, he rolled down the windows to let in the cold wind and rain. He took a deep breath, the air, a mixture of rust, mud, and city fumes, filling his nostrils.
Then--
He caught that "signal".
It was very faint, mixed with the damp, musty smell and the stench of the distant landfill. There was a hint of sweetness and fishiness, the same as the "extra meal" at the textile factory, but it was like a "diluted version" or a "prototype," not concentrated enough, with a slightly fresh, plastic feel.
Cheng Song spat out the unlit cigarette from his mouth, the filter of which he had crushed into a sponge.
He opened the car door and put on his duty uniform jacket. Rain quickly soaked his shoulder insignia. He took out a high-powered flashlight, but didn't turn it on immediately. Instead, he stood at the entrance of the bridge arch and activated his "Scent Perception" skill.
The source of the sweet, fishy signal was traced to the huddled dark figure inside the cave.
"Tsk."
He uttered a syllable somewhere between "trouble" and "good results are coming in," then snapped on his flashlight, the beam piercing the darkness like a spear of judgment, precisely targeting his objective.
"Sir, please cooperate with the inspection."
Cheng Song's voice wasn't loud, but it reverberated in the empty bridge arch. He walked lightly, his posture relaxed as if taking a stroll, but his muscle memory had already switched to a combat-ready mode, ready to erupt at any moment.
The target did not respond.
The flashlight beam meticulously scanned the target's exposed neck and arms. The skin's color was abnormal, not the bluish-purple of frostbite, but rather a faint dark green fluorescence emanating from beneath the skin, similar to the sheen of bacteria colonies in a petri dish. The color was extremely faint, almost imperceptible to the average person, but it couldn't escape his eyes, optimized by the virus and comparable to a hyperspectral imaging device.
A slight throbbing sensation came from the thing inside my body.
It wasn't fear, but a more primal, instinctive response that combined "identifying prey" with "assessing the benefits of devouring it."
"Sir, can you hear me? Should we call 120?"
Cheng Song took another step closer, his voice steady yet carrying a hint of professional perfunctoriness. But his left hand hung limply at his sides, a faint tingling sensation spreading through his fingertips; the cells beneath his skin were silently pleading for help.
Contact protocol ready! Request to collect samples!
Just as his shadow was about to overlap with the target, the "drunkard" moved.
It was not a natural awakening.
Instead, it was as if it were being violently pulled by invisible threads, and it sprang to its feet in a twisted posture that defied joints and biomechanics! The face that turned around no longer showed any signs of drunkenness. Its eyes were cloudy and greenish, its mouth split to the roots of its ears, revealing sharp teeth covered with black mucus, and a "hoarse" sound like the airflow from an old blower came from its throat.
There was no pre-animation, no warning.
That thing launched a direct charge, its speed exploding to create a sonic boom, its ten fingernails turning black and sharp, aiming straight for Cheng Song's heart! It was a fatal attack right from the start, drawing aggro firmly.
"Damn it! A sneak attack! Young people have no sportsmanship!"
Cheng Song only had time to utter a single trash talk before his body acted before his mind could react. Instead of retreating, he advanced, sidestepped, and twisted his hips! His movements were simple and unadorned, carrying the wild aesthetics of street fighting, but his timing was as precise as a scalpel, dodging the sharp claw strikes to the limit. At the same time, his right arm wrapped around the opponent's attacking arm like an iron hoop, twisting it with force!
"Snap!"
The pleasant sound of bone breaking.
The thing's forearm was bent at an angle that made your teeth ache. But it seemed as if its pain receptors were blocked, and its other hand, carrying an even stronger, bloody stench, swept across Cheng Song's temple! The combo was swift and fierce; it was clearly a veteran of street PvP.
An impatience flashed in Cheng Song's eyes:
"You can't beat me, so why are you chasing after me? I just want to get off work early!"
He released his grip, leaned back, and narrowly avoided the sweeping attack by a fraction of a second. At the same time, his left hand, which had been hanging by his side the whole time, suddenly moved.
The five fingers blurred in an instant, the skin darkened a shade, and the fingertips sharpened a level. Then, with ghostly speed, the hand precisely struck a specific coordinate on the side of the creature's neck.
It is neither the Adam's apple nor the carotid artery.
Rather, it is a weakness that lies between a "physiological dead point" and an "energy node".
This is a database of weaknesses that his body instinctively recorded after he devoured the abnormal sample.
"puff."
A slight muffled sound, like puncturing a water-filled balloon.
The thing's entire body stiffened, its movements halted. The green light in its eyes flickered violently a few times, like a faulty neon sign, before going out completely. Its mouth was open, as if trying to utter its final words, but only a black, granular, viscous liquid emerged, resembling spoiled sesame paste.
But Cheng Song did not immediately let go.
His fingers, pressed against the side of the target's neck, applied sustained pressure, maintaining a suppressive stance. His face was close, his voice low and cold:
"Copy number, contamination code, leaked coordinates. Confessing and cooperating may lead to lenient treatment."
The man's murky green eyes flickered, his lips trembled, and he tried to resist, but the higher-level and more domineering suppressive force transmitted by Cheng Song's fingertips made the "source of pollution" in his body instinctively tremble and submit.
That was the absolute authority of the Blacklight virus prototype over its subordinate chaotic creations.
It's commonly known as "a higher-ranking official can crush you."
"...Spare...my...life..." the man managed to utter two hoarse words, his eyes completely dimmed, the bone spurs softened and retracted, leaving several wounds oozing black blood. He collapsed, like a robot that had lost power.
Cheng Song naturally helped the other person up, his movements as natural as rescuing an injured person. His other hand moved with lightning speed to reach for the other person's carotid artery—there was still a faint pulse, but the vital signs were plummeting as the green light dissipated.
Once the core source of such pollution is contained, the host's fragile life system will collapse simultaneously.
He helped the limp man sit against the bridge pillar, demonstrating standard human compassion. At the same time, a hair-thin crack quietly appeared in his left palm, and several dark red tendrils emerged, silently piercing the wound on the man's arm.
It is not about devouring.
Instead, it refers to "reading" and "collecting".
Fragmented information flows into consciousness:
A dimly lit basement, a distorted array of symbols, a group of anonymous individuals with fanatical eyes, a jar of viscous solution flowing with a ghastly green glow... The final scene is the man in front of me secretly licking the liquid that has splashed out of the jar, his face displaying a complex expression that is a mixture of "I think I did something stupid" and "Wow, that's really powerful."
Conclusion: This is a spread point of "counterfeit pollution" in an underground workshop setting. The products are not from high-difficulty dungeons; they are either defective products from low-end production lines or experimental samples from areas of poor control.
The tendrils were removed, and the wound healed instantly under the influence of the virus, leaving no trace. At that moment, the man's vital signs dropped to zero, his pupils dilated, and the dark green spots quickly faded and disappeared, leaving only faint marks resembling those after severe eczema.
It can be called a "miracle in dermatology".
Cheng Song released his grip, letting the body fall to the ground naturally. He stood up, his face instantly switching from the "cold executioner" persona to that of a "weary, miserable low-level worker." He picked up the walkie-talkie, cleared his throat, and pressed the call button:
"Command Center, 07 call. A man has been found under the Wenchang Bridge, suspected of being intoxicated and suffering from hypothermia, unconscious, with weak vital signs... Yes, this is a solo call. My partner, Comrade Chen Liang, has suddenly developed acute gastroenteritis and is currently in the restroom at the station... Preliminary assessment suggests it may be an acute exacerbation of an underlying medical condition combined with hypothermia. Requesting ambulance support. Also... it is recommended to notify the forensic unit for collaborative investigation, as the situation at the scene suggests a possible non-natural death."
His tone was steady, tinged with just the right amount of urgency and the professional helplessness of "hoping to leave work on time is dashed." Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, sliding down his face, which screamed "dedication to his job" but whose inner monologue was "get off work as soon as possible."
Red and blue light tore through the rain curtain, and Lao Zhao's police car arrived at the scene first. Lao Zhao jumped out of the car and saw Cheng Song standing alone outside the bridge arch, exuding the aura of "I just cleaned up the mess," as well as the outline of the figure covered by cloth inside the arch. His brows instantly furrowed into deep lines.
"Cheng Song! Going on a solo call? Is Chen Liang slacking off again?" Old Zhao's voice boomed, tinged with anger.
Cheng Song treaded closer, a wry smile plastered on his face: "Chief Zhao, calm down, have a smoke to soothe your nerves. That poor Chen Liang has acute gastroenteritis and is still vomiting at the station. Brother Zhang said it's just a drunkard, and told me to drive over and check it out first, and call for backup if things get serious. I thought it was just a small matter, I could handle it myself, and avoid troubling everyone..."
He pointed to the underpass, a look of "bad luck is no excuse": "Who would have thought I'd run into something like this as soon as I arrived? I immediately reported to the command center and have been waiting here for you and the forensic doctor to arrive."
As he spoke, he tactically hunched his neck, allowing the rain to flow more freely along the brim of his hat, creating a "disheveled but dutiful" visual effect.
Old Zhao stared at him for two seconds, his gaze sweeping over the lone patrol car and the dark underpass, finally settling on his soaked epaulets. His anger seemed to subside, but his tone remained as stern as a headmaster:
"Nonsense! Safety rules are ironclad! If he's sick, you should call a nearby patrol team or wait for instructions! What if you're responding alone and encounter an emergency? How am I supposed to explain this to my superiors and your family if something happens to you?"
"Yes, yes, yes, Zhao's criticism is correct. My risk assessment was insufficient; I only thought about efficiency first..." Cheng Song nodded vigorously, his attitude of admitting his mistake as sincere as reciting the Party Constitution, perfectly demonstrating the survival wisdom of a seasoned grassroots worker. "Next time, I will strictly abide by the operating procedures and never make the same mistake again!"
Old Zhao snorted coldly, "This is the last time! Get inside."
Cheng Song followed the tactic, his inner alarm was 70% relieved, and he managed to get away with it.
By utilizing Xiao Chen's genuine diarrhea debuff, combined with his well-known "trouble-averse and efficiency-oriented" nature, and with just the right amount of luck—the deceased's appearance matching the characteristics of sudden death from illness—this gave the "solo operation" a semblance of legitimacy.
He knew that Lao Zhao's reprimand stemmed more from a sense of rule and concern than from suspicion. At the grassroots level, such cases of temporary "solo challenges" due to "teammates disconnecting" or "emergency situations" are not uncommon. As long as no serious consequences result, they usually only receive a verbal warning.
On-site investigation, evidence collection, and preliminary forensic examination. The process proceeded according to plan amidst the patter of rain. Cheng Song retreated to a safe distance, found a spot to crouch down, lit a cigarette to keep himself warm, and entered observer mode. Rainwater trickled down his raincoat, forming miniature puddles at his feet.
The lingering, cold, indigestion-like emptiness in my stomach, intertwined with the taste of nicotine, remained. The abnormal bioelectric current beneath my arm's skin, after absorbing the new sample data, temporarily entered a state of silent analysis.
My phone vibrated.
A message came in from her mother: "Xiaosong, it's raining heavily, be careful. What do you want to eat tomorrow morning? Mom will make it for you."
He stared at the screen, cigarette ash falling from his fingertips, touching the puddles and fading into silence. His stomach convulsed reflexively, but ultimately, it was the longing for the mundane routine that briefly suppressed his already somewhat full urge to devour.
He slowly typed his reply, a smile unconsciously creeping onto his lips:
"Mom, I'll eat anything you cook, even if it's a big meal of meat and fish."
send.
The rain hadn't stopped, and the on-site investigation was nearing its end. He flicked away his cigarette butt and opened the car door. A familiar mix of smells enveloped him. He needed to return to base as soon as possible to rescue Xiao Chen from her diarrhea crisis and thoroughly remove any possible traces of "non-standard mission procedures."