Chapter 1083 Needing A Room
By assisting Zhane in his search for Dave, the director was indirectly extending goodwill toward the Young Minister himself. And if Dave were to learn that this clinic had facilitated efforts to locate him during his abduction, then the implications would be significant.
Technically, an underground clinic like his should be shut down the moment authorities discovered its existence. It operated without a license, outside the legal medical system, surviving purely in the shadows.
But favors carried weight.
If this act became a form of repayment for aiding in Dave’s rescue, then there was a very real chance that the Young Minister would choose to overlook the clinic’s illegal operations, or at the very least, ensure that it was no longer targeted or raided so easily by law enforcement.
And in a chaotic background like theirs, where survival depended on protection and connections, gaining even a silent backer like that was far more valuable than maintaining strict neutrality for a single day’s operation.
So, he agreed to Zhane’s request without further argument. Soon after, Zhane and his men began forcing every member of the Northern Faction, whether severely injured or barely able to stand, down onto their knees, their hands locked behind their heads under the cold threat of raised weapons.
"I said don’t move!" one of Zhane’s men snarled, his voice sharp with irritation.
A Northern Faction man had shifted ever so slightly, clearly intending to lunge for the gun of the guard standing near him, but he was caught red-handed before he could even act. The guard reacted instantly, driving a brutal kick into his side that sent him crashing hard onto the ground.
The impact forced a harsh cough out of him, blood spilling from his lips as pain flared through his already wounded body. His injuries had dulled his speed and judgment, and the moment of hesitation cost him dearly.
He had underestimated both the severity of his own condition and the vigilance of Zhane’s men, a mistake that left him exposed and helpless before he could even make his move.
"Don’t kill them just yet. Drag them all to a secluded room," Zhane ordered coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Then he turned his gaze toward the nearest doctor. "We’ll be borrowing a spare room. We need to interrogate them."
He wasn’t asking for permission; he was stating a fact, as if the decision had already been made and the doctor’s only role was to comply and show him the way.
The doctor visibly stiffened, a chill running down his spine. He was no stranger to the brutality of the underground world. Countless times, men had been brought into their hidden clinic half-dead, bodies mangled from torture yet deliberately kept alive just long enough for information to be squeezed out of them.
He had treated broken bones, stitched torn flesh, and stabilized victims only to watch them be dragged back into the same merciless cycle again and again.
He had always believed he had grown numb to it.
But this was different.
Knowing someone had been tortured was one thing. Hearing that torture would happen just rooms away, within earshot, was another entirely.
The thought alone made his stomach tighten with dread. After all, the screams of a person being tortured were nothing like the muffled groans of a patient under treatment. They were raw, desperate, and inhuman, cries that sounded as if they were being torn straight out of hell itself.
The doctor Zhane had called out was instantly drenched in cold sweat. He rose to his feet in a trembling rush, but his legs wobbled beneath him, forcing him to brace himself against the wall just to stay upright. Fear gripped him so tightly that he couldn’t even bring himself to lift his head and meet Zhane’s gaze.
"P-Please... follow me," he stammered, his voice thin and unsteady.
They had already received the director’s signal earlier; they were supposed to cooperate, obey Zhane’s instructions, and act as though they had no choice but to comply. It was meant to be an act.
But right now, the fear coursing through him was anything but fake.
He was genuinely terrified of being dragged into whatever was about to happen... or worse, becoming collateral damage if something went wrong.
Swallowing hard, he hurried ahead and led Zhane and several of his men toward the farthest corner of the facility, where a dim stairwell descended into the lower level, its shadowy entrance giving off an unsettling, almost ominous air.
"H-Here... this staircase leads directly to the morgue," the doctor explained, his voice still trembling as he pointed downward. "A-And beside the morgue, there’s an empty room. We usually store unclaimed bodies there before disposal... b-but it’s currently unused."
There was actually an elevator on the opposite side of the building that connected to every floor, including the underground morgue. But in his panic, his thoughts had become disorganized, his mind short-circuiting under the pressure. The stairs were simply the first thing he could remember, and the quickest way to comply without angering the man behind him.
"Alright. Thank you. You may return to your duties. We’ll leave once we’re done with our business," Zhane said calmly.
As he spoke, he tilted his head slightly, a silent signal to his men. Without hesitation, they began hauling the Northern Faction members toward the basement, dragging the injured and forcing the conscious ones to move faster at gunpoint.
They didn’t have the luxury of time.
Transporting the captives elsewhere would take more than half an hour, time better spent extracting information and, hopefully, tracing Dave’s location. To Zhane, the choice was obvious. Interrogation here was more efficient than wasting precious minutes on relocation.
And once they were finished?
They would simply leave.
The mess, the blood, the broken bodies, and the aftermath would be left for the underground clinic to handle, including treating whatever was left of the Northern Faction members so none of them died on-site.
Zhane saw no issue with that arrangement at all.
Meanwhile, the doctors and nurses left on the ground floor were trembling like leaves in a storm. The moment Zhane’s group disappeared into the stairwell, a suffocating tension settled over the clinic. They already knew what kind of night awaited them.
They wouldn’t be sleeping.
Not when they would likely be forced to patch up half-dead men dragged back from the brink, stabilizing them over and over again so they wouldn’t die within the clinic’s territory. It was exhausting, horrifying work, but also necessary.
After all, maintaining their neutrality depended on it.
As long as no one died under their roof, they could continue their façade as a neutral underground clinic that "saved" everyone brought to them. And if the Northern Faction ever came demanding answers, they could simply redirect the blame toward Zhane and his group, claiming they had done everything in their power to preserve lives within their premises.
Zhane descended the stairs first, his footsteps steady and unhurried. The dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the steps ahead, casting long, distorted shadows along the narrow stairwell. The air grew heavier the deeper they went, thick with a damp, suffocating stillness that could easily make anyone’s skin crawl.
The place felt eerily silent, the kind of setting straight out of a horror film, where one would expect something to lunge out of the darkness at any moment.
But Zhane showed no fear.
He was a man of science, a doctor who had seen more corpses than most people could stomach in a lifetime. Blood, death, and cold bodies were not unfamiliar sights to him. Compared to the things he had witnessed before, the oppressive atmosphere of the stairwell was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Behind him, his men followed closely, dragging the injured Northern Faction members down step by step, their groans echoing faintly in the enclosed space.
After a short while, they finally reached the bottom.
What greeted them was a dimly lit basement shrouded in near darkness. About ten meters ahead stood the morgue, larger than one would expect for a clinic. Zhane’s gaze swept across it briefly, and he understood the reason almost immediately.
This was an unlicensed underground clinic.
Most of the people who came here were far from clean, the kind who avoided registered hospitals to escape records, investigations, or legal attention. Many arrived in critical condition, and not all of the doctors working here were properly licensed; some had failed formal examinations, others were simply unqualified but desperate for work. Mistakes were inevitable, and the mortality rate here was naturally far higher than that of legitimate hospitals.
A larger morgue wasn’t a luxury.
It was a necessity.
To his right was another room, its metal door slightly ajar. That had to be the empty room the doctor mentioned, the place where unclaimed bodies were temporarily stored before disposal if no one ever came to retrieve them.
Zhane walked toward the room on the right and pushed the door open without hesitation.