Chapter 47: Digging your own grave

May moved.

She pushed forward in a half-asleep haze until her entire face was pressed flush against his back.

Ray’s body turned into a single slab of iron.

Her face was burning. The heat of alcohol mixed with the lingering sweetness of yellow-peach syrup branded itself through the thin combat uniform and straight onto the old scars along his spine—no barrier, no escape.

"Mm..."

A soft, nasal hum left her throat. She rubbed her face against his back, searching for a more comfortable spot. When the left side wasn’t right, she switched to the right; when the right still felt wrong, she simply buried her whole face in and let every warm breath soak into his skin.

The muscles of his back jumped visibly.

"Pillow... so hard."

The mumbled words were barely coherent.

Ray nearly choked. Who the hell is your pillow?

He ground his back teeth, ready to peel her off his back.

Before he could move, her legs moved first. Apparently hugging a "pillow" wasn’t stable enough. Both legs lifted, wrapped around the sides of his waist, knees locked just under his ribs, ankles crossed and hooked in front of his abdomen.

Locked tight.

. . .

Outside, Mitch’s booming voice exploded: "Fuck, Jack, you pissed crooked again!"

"I... I didn’t..."

"Look at the floor yourself! You call that not crooked?"

"That... that was the wine you spilled just now, Mitch..."

The vein at Ray’s forehead pulsed hard.

He wanted to curse, yet a mouthful of hot air stayed stuck in his throat; not a single word came out.

The woman’s legs were soft, but the strength wasn’t small. Her knees sat with perfect precision three inches below the side of his waist.

Every drop of blood in his body roared toward that exact spot. He had never imagined he would one day be trapped in a position like this.

A drunk, pretty woman clung to his back like an octopus—face pressed to his scars, legs wrapped around his waist, knees digging into a lethal place. And she herself slept like a dead pig, completely unaware.

His breathing completely collapsed. Heavy pants burst from his nose, striking the back of his own hand again and again. He clenched his fists until the nails dug into the flesh of his palms.

Endure.

Outside, the men were still arguing. Alex tossed in a few cold remarks, Jack mumbled defenses, Mitch ranted in a drunken rage.

Ray heard none of it. His ears were filled only with the soft, thin breaths of the woman behind him. Her chest pressed against his back; every inhale and exhale created a tiny rise and fall that rubbed continuously against the thin fabric under his uniform.

Worse still were her hands.

Even asleep, she refused to stay still. One small hand had somehow slipped under the side of his uniform, gripping a piece of flesh at his waist through the inner mesh lining.

Holding on. And occasionally giving a little squeeze.

The last string in Ray’s mind snapped with a clean crack.

He spun around in one violent motion. The speed was so great that May was flipped completely over; her back hit the moisture-proof mat hard.

She didn’t wake. The sudden movement only made her give a dazed "mm," brows knitting for a second as she mumbled something unintelligible.

Ray braced one hand beside her head. The other covered her mouth.

He used no real force—palm resting lightly, only enough to keep her silent. His face hovered less than ten centimeters above hers.

In the dim side room, the only light came from the thin crack under the door. That single line of light fell exactly across his eyes.

The black pupils beneath were pure blood-red. Like a wolf that had gone three days without food.

"Don’t move."

The words were forced out of his throat, sandpaper-rough and barely human.

May’s eyes opened. Still hazy, still too drunk to understand where she was. Her lashes fluttered twice. Unfocused pupils met his gaze. She couldn’t read his expression. She could only feel the terrifying heat of his palm—hot as a branding iron—pressed against her lips.

"Mm..."

Her lips moved faintly under his hand. Ray’s hand never loosened. His body pressed down until his chest nearly touched hers, both arms braced on either side of her, shrinking the space to almost nothing.

May’s mind was still pure mush. She didn’t understand what was happening—only that she felt warm, as if wrapped in a giant furnace.

"Stop touching." His voice dropped to the lowest register, every word forced out between clenched teeth. "I can’t take it anymore."

She blinked. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. But her body reacted before her brain did—his hand still covered her mouth, and her lips unconsciously brushed against his palm once.

Ray’s entire body shuddered hard. His palm tightened for a split second, then forced itself to ease.

"You’re really not afraid of dying."

He lowered his head until his lips almost brushed her ear. Hot breath spilled across the shell of her ear and made her shoulders twitch.

"Boss..." Her voice was muffled under his hand, soft and nasal. "You’re... so hot..."

A mechanical chime sounded inside her head. The system’s cheerful, pure-spectator tone rang out:

[Host has successfully regained clarity. Current rationality: 100%. Recommendation: immediately stop digging your own grave.]

May’s eyes rolled once under her lids.

Clear-headed? Absolutely.

But the scorching "iron plate" under her hands felt far too good—eight hard ridges of muscle, perfect texture.

Stopping was never an option.

Not only did she refuse to stop—she doubled down. Five fingers slipped into the gaps of his combat uniform; her little finger even gave a shameless little hook against the sensitive dip of his waist.

***

Meanwhile, elsewhere...

On the abandoned street outside the supermarket, the night wind rattled a metal signboard with loud clangs.

Through two heavy security doors, a faint, intermittent crying drifted into the main hall via the ventilation ducts.

It sounded like a woman’s voice—high, thin, and laced with an inexplicable sharpness that sent chills down the spine.

In the hall, Mitch rubbed his face in irritation.

"Fuck. Just finished drinking and someone’s out there wailing in the middle of the night?"

Alex leaned against a shelf, idly spinning a combat knife, smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Doesn’t sound alive, Mitch. Why don’t you go take a look? Maybe a beauty is looking for you to take responsibility."

"Cut the bullshit!"

Mitch cursed, kicked an empty can aside, and stood with his gun.

"Let’s check. Better not be a zombie pack sneaking up."