Yan Huli's hands, clad in rubber gloves hastily snatched from the kitchen upstairs, hinted at his mother's regular visits to clean his quiet villa. With a zip bag of antidepressants in his grip, he observed Director Pei's helpless state, a sight that strangely delighted him more with each passing moment. The urge to act surged through him, manifesting as an insistent itch in his palms.
Without hesitation, he unzipped the bag and seized a handful of pills, forcefully cramming them into the now resisting victim before him. In his frenzy, the bag slipped from his grasp, spilling its contents across the bloody stained floor. His fingers tightened around Director Pei's scant hair, holding him firmly in place.
An expression of annoyance contorted Yan Huli's face, revealing the ugliness of his true nature as he pushed both pills and fist into the man's mouth.
"Be good. Be nice, Director Pei. You're just ill. You need to take YOUR MEDICINE!" His voice oscillated between gentle coaxing and unstable screams, his finely knit brows and twitching lips betraying his descent into madness.
In this moment of instability, Yan Huli's mind teetered between the desire to continue tormenting the man before him and the impulse to force-feed him what he believed to be the key to a new life.
Director Pei's struggles only intensified as he emitted choking, muffled sounds of distress, tears mixing with the warmth of Yan Huli's hands and the oval pills invading his throat. Despite his resistance, the youth seemed intent on prolonging his torment, relishing in the sight of Director Pei's agony.
While some may appear elegant even in tears, Director Pei's current state of crying was thoroughly ugly. His contorted face resembled that of a shrieking pig, lacking any semblance of attractiveness.
Unaware, Director Pei involuntarily swallowed a dose of antidepressants, the warmth of Yan Huli's finger against his throat triggering a disturbing thought in the youth's mind. Surrendering to his intrusive impulses, Yan Huli loosened his grip, his hands diving back into Director Pei's mouth to seize the hard, squishy trachea and pull it out through the throat.
The scene unfolded like a chicken having its neck slit, blood gushing from Director Pei's mouth as his eyes widened in shock, his breaths becoming shallow and labored, his ability to grasp air slipping away. With each passing moment, Yan Huli's descent into madness seemed irreversible, his actions driven by an unfathomable darkness lurking within him, consuming any remnants of sanity.
"Director's blood is also red! Oh my goodness, it's red!" Yan Huli exclaimed with glee, the severed trachea swinging in his hand as he spun around, leaving a macabre trail of red paint on the cold cemented walls of the basement.
Meanwhile, Director Pei, though still alive, clutched at his own throat through the skin of his neck, a testament to his resilience even in the face of such brutality. Yet, the sight of him gasping for air, akin to someone suffering from severe asthma, gave Yan Huli pause, prompting an immediate shift in his expression.
For a moment, he seemed to forget the purpose of their one-on-one meeting, his focus drawn to the dying man before him. "My lechon!" he exclaimed, dropping the grotesque organ as he hurried towards Director Pei's now lifeless form. However, instead of a grimace or fear at the realization of his actions, Yan Huli's face contorted in displeasure.
"Noooo! My lechon! Food is no longer fresh, it's a dead pig!" he lamented, his once twisted pleasure now replaced by disappointment at the loss of what he deemed a culinary opportunity.
Yan Huli's unstable emotions continued to spill forth, his once beautiful shade of blue eyes now dilated with madness. With trembling hands, he gripped the shoulder of the dead Director Pei, shaking it with a strength born of desperation. In his frantic state, he nervously attempted to rouse the man he had just killed, his mind still fixated on his twisted desire to continue the gruesome act of roasting a pig.
His emotions betrayed him yet again, overwhelming him with a sensation he couldn't quite control. The thought of inflicting agonizing pain, like that experienced by those rotating over burning coals with bamboo poles lodged in their mouths, was supposed to be satisfying to him. But now, faced with the reality of his actions, he found himself grappling with a tumultuous inner turmoil.
Seizing a heavy chair, Yan Huli dragged it across the floor towards the large metal plate, his movements erratic and frenzied. Even as he released his hold, allowing the corpse to fall limply to the ground, his instability remained unchanged. Ignoring the state of his once pristine white sneakers, he reached for a scalpel from a small stroller nearby, raining down stabs upon the flabby stomach of his victim with a chilling sense of detachment.
With each slash and stab, Yan Huli could keenly feel the resistance of the flesh beneath his scalpel, akin to slicing through a block of nata de coco—soft to the touch, yet frustratingly resilient when pressed or pinched. The blood, far from ceasing its flow, continued to pour steadily from the gaping wounds he inflicted, pooling around the body of his victim.
Focusing his attention on the swollen, protruding belly, Yan Huli slashed it open wide, revealing the contents within. Despite the grotesque sight, he couldn't help but marvel at the completeness of Director Pei's organs, though the lungs resembled nothing more than the fried lungs of a cow from a street food stall.
As he peered into the cavity, Yan Huli noticed a dryness pervading the inner space, juxtaposed against the sizable puddle of blood that had accumulated. Eager to explore further, he pressed on both sides of the open stomach, widening the hole to gain a clearer view of the internal structures.
Recalling his limited knowledge from a quick browse on Wikipedia, he recognized the presence of white or slightly dirty translucent yellow substance—the fat typically found in individuals with higher body weights. Delving deeper, he observed that the texture of the lungs, when pressed, resembled that of nata de coco, but upon closer inspection, felt akin to the soft, yielding consistency of pimple-filled cheeks.