As tensions between the Japanese and Chinese Yakuza sharpened like knives behind silk, Meilin Xiu’s advisors pressed her for more protection. She listened, silent behind her fan, wine-dark lips unmoving. More guards meant more mouths, more egos, more payroll. Unacceptable.

Then one of her wingmen leaned in with a suggestion, voice low like he feared being overheard even by ghosts.

“Not staff, mistress… a slave.”

⸻

The trafficking division under Meilin’s hand was barely a shadow of her empire—mostly skin-and-bone children, barely worth the effort to feed, let alone weaponize. It had bored her. No elegance. No control.

So they turned their gaze outward, toward the competition.

A discreet meeting. A metal door. A damp warehouse that stank of piss and cheap smoke.

And there they were.

Standing still in the dark like they’d always been there—barefoot, filthy. Eyes locked on nothing.

Her men recoiled. She stepped forward.

“Is this… alive?”

The seller only smiled, crooked teeth yellow. “Depends how you define it.”

Meilin Xiu stared. Then smiled.

“Don’t mind the look—it won’t move unless told. Quiet thing. No fuss, no noise. Been broken in already. You reward it, it listens. No tantrums. No questions. Just stands there, breathing.”

“They called it Zombie—name stuck. Skin’s bad, yeah, white and peeling, but they heal fast. Too fast. Cuts don’t stay long. Doesn’t bleed red either. Doesn’t seem to feel much. Or care. Eats when given food, kills when pointed. Simple.”

“Made in a lab. Mixed with things—plants, animals, I don’t ask. Scientists are gone now. It’s the only one left. That should tell you enough.”

“It won’t fight you. It will follow, and it won’t stop unless you tell it to.”

“Keep it fed, throw it a reward now and then… and it’ll be yours, eating right from your hand.”