Chapter 008 - The Infinite Train 08

  Even though the train arrived two hours ahead of schedule, our stop still lasted only five minutes.

  This time, Elliot and I split up—he went to scout the lounge while I checked the dining hall.

  The dining hall was eerily pristine. Tables gleamed under the overhead lights, glass counters reflected a sterile brightness, and decorative mirrors gave the illusion of a larger space. A few passengers sat in near silence, heads down as they ate. The air smelled faintly of broth and something richer—something I couldn’t quite place.

  A neatly dressed waiter approached with a professional smile. “Sir, are you staying overnight or dining?”

  Staying overnight?

  That was the second time I’d heard that phrase. The internet café attendant had said the same thing earlier.

  So spending the night at the station meant something. Something I probably didn’t want to know.

  I kept my voice even. “Dining.”

  The chef gave me a polite smile, pulling out a chair with exaggerated hospitality. “Please wait a moment. I’ll prepare your meal.”

  The moment he turned away, I subtly rose from my seat, ensuring no one was watching, and followed him at a distance. A quick glance at my watch—two minutes gone. That left me two and a half.

  To the side of the kitchen, I spotted a restroom. I ducked inside, turned on the sink to mask any noise, and pried open the vent connecting to the kitchen.

  The moment the vent loosened, a thick, metallic stench poured out.

  Blood.

  My stomach twisted. I held my breath, but the foul, coppery odor forced its way into my lungs.

  Swallowing hard, I peered through the narrow gap—

  And found myself staring straight into a pair of lifeless eyes.

  A severed head dangled from a triangular hook just two meters away.

  Recognition slammed into me like a freight train. I knew this man. I’d seen him just days ago.

  His long braid was still intact, but his eyes were frozen wide in shock. Blood dripped sluggishly from the jagged stump where his neck had been severed.

  My gaze flicked further to the right. Under dim yellow lighting, a conveyor system of metal hooks slowly rotated, moving counterclockwise.

  Bodies—or what remained of them—hung from the hooks. Thighs, forearms, hands, feet. Carved apart with brutal precision.

  Like a slaughterhouse.

  Except here, the ones being butchered weren’t livestock.

  They were people.

  My breath hitched. My pulse pounded against my ribs. Just as I tried to steady myself, something shifted in my periphery.

  Another pair of eyes.

  Closer. Right in front of me.

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  Bloodshot. Wrinkled skin below the lower lids.

  The chef！

  He was staring straight at me！

  “What,” he whispered, voice razor-sharp, “are you looking at?！”

  Cold terror slammed through my veins.

  I forced my muscles to obey, counted to three in my head—then, with a flick of my wrist, I drove the dining knife in my grip straight into his right eye.

  His shriek was inhuman. The sound of flesh tearing, of bone cracking, of a body stumbling backward.

  I ran.

  Behind me, footsteps pounded against the floor. I glanced back—the chef, his face a mask of blood, clutched his ruined eye with one hand. In the other, he gripped a gleaming cleaver.

  His expression contorted with rage, mouth twisted in a furious snarl. He looked like something that had crawled out of hell itself.

  I tore through the dining hall, yanking tablecloths as I passed, sending dishes and silverware crashing to the ground in my wake. When he got too close, I snatched up a heavy serving tray and hurled it at him.

  The second I reached the exit, I bolted into the freezing night, my boots slipping on the icy platform as I stumbled toward the train.

  I lunged inside just as the doors slid shut behind me.

  Even back in my seat, my skin crawled. My stomach twisted with nausea. “Fuck！” I exhaled, running a hand through my hair.

  Elliot, having just returned, caught sight of my face and frowned. “What the hell happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I didn’t answer right away. Instead, my eyes flicked to the window.

  Just beyond the white boundary line, barely ten meters away, the chef stood motionless.

  He was staring at us. His breathing ragged, his body trembling with rage.

  But he didn’t step forward.

  Couldn’t.

  Something held him back.

  He swayed slightly in place, his grip tightening on the cleaver, his frustration evident in the way his shoulders heaved.

  I forced myself to remain still, slowly reaching up to pull the window curtain shut. Then, exhaling through gritted teeth, I gave Elliot a condensed version of what I’d just seen.

  No. 137’s eyes went wide with horror. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “You mean… that huge guy who stole my blanket… he was butchered? And the chef—he was going to—was he turning him into—oh my god. Then what the hell were we eating?!”

  Elliot, however, didn’t look particularly surprised.

  “I had my suspicions,” he admitted. “The number of passengers has been dropping—some get off, some… die. But the number of people at the stations hasn’t changed much.”

  He hesitated before adding, “I checked the lounge, but nothing new stood out. If anything, the only difference is in the station’s structure. The windows and doors here are made of glass, unlike the aluminum ones at Coldwind and Noah Station. Glass is weaker… but I tried hitting it with a knife. Didn’t break.”

  He glanced at me, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re thinking something, aren’t you?”