4. 脐带断

The page torn from the ledger lived beneath Yulan's mattress like a second heart, pulsing with a geography that only she could read. 29.13N 122.14E. Annex Island. She had repeated the coordinates so many times that they had become a chant, a prayer, a curse. But a destination without a vessel was only a word, and a word could not carry a single woman off this rock, let alone a dozen.

Three days had passed since Doctor Zhong's midnight visit. He had not punished them—not openly. But small cruelties accumulated like frost: reduced rations for the women in the laundry, double shifts for Zhou Wan, and for Yulan, a reassignment to the gardens, where she spent her hours kneeling in the cold mud, pulling weeds that grew faster than she could destroy them. It was a lesson in futility, and she understood it perfectly.

Yumei had been released from the infirmary on the second day, her face paler than before, her steps more unsteady. When Yulan tried to speak to her, she shook her head and walked away, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if she could see the other island from here. Yulan did not press. She had learned that pressure only broke what was already cracked.

The other women in the dormitory had grown quieter. The whispering had stopped. Even A Shui, who had never been talkative, now spoke only in monosyllables. Fear had settled over the island like a fog, obscuring every outline, muffling every sound. But beneath the fog, Yulan felt something else—a slow, subterranean heat. The heat of women who had been told they were nothing, and who had begun to believe the opposite.

On the fourth night, Xiao Taohong appeared at Yulan's cot with a bundle wrapped in a flour sack. Inside were three kitchen knives, their blades honed to a wicked gleam, and a coil of copper wire that she had stripped from an old radio.

"The wire can short the generator," she whispered. "If we cut the power, we have ten minutes before the backup lights come on. Ten minutes to get into the basement and find the isolation cells."

"The isolation cells?"

"The ones they're keeping the healthy women in. Doctor Zhong moved them two days ago. He's preparing a shipment to Annex. The boat comes at the end of the week."

Yulan felt the heat in her chest flare into something sharper. "How many women?"

"Three. The strongest. The ones with the best histories. He wants them for the first round of 'donations' on the other island." Xiao Taohong's burn-scarred hands trembled as she handed over the knives. "My sister was one of them, before. She never came back."

Yulan took the knives and hid them beneath her mattress, next to the torn page. "Tomorrow night," she said. "We move tomorrow night."

The next day passed in a blur of forced labor and feigned compliance. Yulan pulled weeds until her fingers bled. She ate her thin soup without tasting it. She watched the sun crawl across the sky like a wounded animal, each hour a laborious step toward the darkness.

At dusk, Doctor Zhong summoned her to the medical wing. She went without resistance, her heart pounding a rhythm she tried to ignore. He was waiting in his office, a small room cluttered with books and anatomical charts. A single lamp cast a yellow circle on his desk, where a hypodermic needle lay beside a glass vial of clear liquid.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to a chair. "I want to run a few tests on your blood chemistry. You've been looking tired lately—withdrawal symptoms, I suspect. It's common in women who were exposed to opium in the past."

Yulan sat. She did not believe him, but she had learned that resistance was a luxury she could not afford. He swabbed her arm and inserted the needle with practiced ease. The liquid burned as it entered her vein, a cold fire that spread through her arm and into her chest.

"This will help you relax," he said, his smile as gentle as a mother's. "You've been carrying too much tension. Sleep now. When you wake, everything will be easier."

The room began to swim. Yulan felt her limbs grow heavy, her thoughts fragmenting like shattered glass. She tried to stand, but her legs would not obey. The last thing she saw was Doctor Zhong's face, his spectacles catching the lamplight like two small suns, his lips forming words she could no longer hear.

Then nothing.

She woke to the sensation of cold water on her face and the smell of urine. A Shui knelt over her, her scarred lip twisted into a grimace of concern. Xiao Taohong stood behind her, holding an empty tin cup.

"Too much morphine," A Shui said. "He tried to kill you. But you're too stubborn to die."

Yulan coughed, her throat raw, her head pounding. The room was dark—the dormitory, she realized, her own cot, the familiar creak of the springs. She had been unconscious for hours. The moon was already high, casting silver stripes through the window.

"How long?" she managed.

"Six hours. We thought you were dead. But Xiao Taohong remembered—her mother used to wake overdosed women with urine. It's the ammonia. It breaks the stupor."

Yulan sat up slowly, her stomach heaving. She vomited into a tin basin that Zhou Wan had placed beside the cot. The bile tasted of poison and betrayal. Doctor Zhong had tried to erase her, and he would try again. She had no time left.

"We go tonight," she said, her voice a ragged whisper. "Now. Before he checks on me."

A Shui nodded. Zhou Wan retrieved the knives from under the mattress. Xiao Taohong produced the copper wire and a small hand-cranked flashlight that she had scavenged from the kitchen stores. They moved through the dormitory like ghosts, waking only the women with dots on Yumei's list—six of them, including a gaunt former concubine named Lin and a teenage girl who had been sold by her own uncle.

They slipped out into the garden. The moon was bright enough to cast shadows, but the night guard was making his rounds on the far side of the main house, his cigarette a distant ember. Yulan led them to the kitchen, through the pantry, down the stone stairs into the basement corridor.

The medical wing was silent. The cribs were still there, still empty, still bearing their serial numbers. But now Yulan noticed a narrow door at the far end, half-hidden behind a stack of old mattresses. It was new—or at least newly unlocked.

Xiao Taohong knelt and examined the lock. "Simple tumbler. I can pick it with a hairpin."

She worked in the dim light of the flashlight, her burned fingers surprisingly nimble. The lock clicked open. Beyond the door, a steep staircase descended into absolute blackness. The air rose from below like breath—warm, moist, tinged with the smell of antiseptic and something faintly sweet.

They descended. The stairs ended in a low-ceilinged room lined with metal cages, each one just large enough to hold a cot and a bucket. Three of the cages were occupied. Three women lay on their cots, their eyes glassy, their bodies slack from sedation.

Yulan recognized one of them—a young woman who had sat next to her in the dining hall, who had smiled once at a joke Yulan had not understood. Now her smile was gone, replaced by a vacant stare that seemed to see nothing at all.

"We have to move them," A Shui said. "But they can't walk."

"Then we carry them." Yulan unlocked the first cage with the hairpin. The woman did not resist as Yulan lifted her onto her back—she was light, too light, her bones pressing against Yulan's shoulders like the skeleton of a bird.

They had made it halfway up the stairs when the alarm began to wail. A shrill, mechanical scream that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The lights flickered and died, then came back on, dimmer, yellow, powered by the backup generator.

"Go!" A Shui screamed. "Go now!"

They burst into the basement corridor, the sedated women draped over their shoulders. Xiao Taohong was ahead, her knife drawn, her face a mask of terrible determination. And then Yulan saw him—Ma Jiu, standing at the end of the corridor, a revolver in his hand, his face split by a grin that was more a baring of teeth than a smile.

"Little mice," he said. "You thought you could run from the cat?"

He raised the gun. A Shui pushed Yulan aside and lunged at him, her scarred lip curled into a snarl. The gun fired—once, twice—and A Shui staggered, a red blossom spreading across her chest. She did not fall. She kept moving, kept charging, her hands reaching for his throat.

Zhou Wan screamed. In her hand was the knife from the kitchen, the one she had sharpened until it could split a hair. She drove it into Ma Jiu's neck, just below the jaw, with a force that seemed to come from a place beyond her own body. He gasped, a wet, gurgling sound, and the revolver clattered to the floor. He sank to his knees, his hands clutching at the blade, his eyes wide with the sudden realization that he was mortal.

"You—" he coughed, blood frothing at his lips. "You think this changes anything? Zhong Yuxiu will send his boat. The island is his. The sea is his. You'll never leave."

He pitched forward onto his face and lay still. Zhou Wan stared at her hands, at the blood that covered them, at the knife still buried in Ma Jiu's flesh. She did not weep. She did not speak. She simply stood there, a statue of shock and rage.

A Shui had collapsed against the wall, her chest darkening with blood. Xiao Taohong knelt beside her, pressing a wad of cloth against the wound. "She's still breathing," she whispered. "But not for long."

Yulan forced herself to move. She found the radio room adjacent to the medical office—a small space with a transmitter and a hand-cranked generator. She began to crank, her arms burning, her mind racing. She had heard the operators on the mainland, their voices crackling through the static, calling out coordinates and weather reports. She had to reach someone, anyone, who could send a ship.

"This is Island 7," she said into the microphone, her voice shaking. "This is Chen Yulan. We are prisoners. There are women here being held for illegal surrogacy and organ trafficking. We need rescue. Please—"

A voice cut through the static. It was clear, sharp, the voice of a man who had been waiting for this call. "Island 7, this is Zhong Yuxiu. I've been monitoring your frequency. I must say, I'm impressed. You've come further than I expected."

Yulan's blood ran cold. "You—you're the owner."

"Yes. And I'm afraid I can't allow your message to reach the mainland. My operators have blocked all outgoing signals. But don't worry—I'm already on my way. I'll be at the cove within the hour. We can discuss terms face to face."

The signal died. Yulan stood frozen, the microphone still in her hand, the empty static hissing like a snake. The hour. She had one hour before Zhong Yuxiu arrived, with his men, his weapons, his relentless purpose.

She returned to the corridor. A Shui was still alive, but her breathing was shallow, her eyes fluttering. Zhou Wan had pulled the knife from Ma Jiu's neck and now held it at her side, her face pale but steady. The three sedated women lay in a heap near the staircase. Xiao Taohong had found a medical kit and was trying to bandage A Shui's wounds.

"We don't have an hour," Yulan said. "We have to get to the cove. We have to take one of the supply boats before he arrives."

"There are no boats," Zhou Wan said. "He keeps them locked. The keys are in the main office."

"Then we break the locks." Yulan picked up Ma Jiu's fallen revolver. It was heavy, cold, a weight she had never wanted to hold. But she held it now, because holding it was the only way to protect the women who had followed her.

They carried A Shui and the three sedated women up the stairs, through the kitchen, into the garden. The moon had passed its zenith and was beginning its descent, but the sky was still dark enough to hide them. They moved like a funeral procession, slow and solemn, each step a prayer for deliverance.

The cove was visible from the garden's edge—a small crescent of beach, dark sand, and a wooden jetty where two small motorboats bobbed at their moorings. The chains that secured them were thick, heavy, but Yulan had the revolver. She fired twice at the lock on the nearest chain. The shots rang out like thunder, and the chain shattered.

"Everyone in," she ordered. "As fast as you can."

They loaded the wounded women onto the boat. Xiao Taohong cranked the motor, and it sputtered to life, a raw, coughing sound that seemed to wake the entire island. Yulan stood at the stern, her eyes fixed on the path from the main house, waiting for the floodlights to come on, waiting for the shots that would end everything.

They came. But not from the island. From the sea.

A white motor yacht emerged from the darkness, its hull slicing through the black water like a blade. It bore no flag, no markings, only the crimson circle on a black field—the sewn-shut eye—painted on its bow. On the deck stood a man in a white suit, his hands clasped behind his back, his face obscured by the glare of a spotlight.

"Chen Yulan," his voice boomed through a loudspeaker. "I've brought you a gift. Come closer, and you'll see."

Yulan did not move. The motor of their small boat coughed again, threatening to stall. A Shui groaned on the floorboards, her blood seeping through Xiao Taohong's bandages.

Zhong Yuxiu raised a hand. In it, he held a small bundle—a blanket, wrapped tightly around something that squirmed and whimpered. A baby.

"This is your sister's child," he said. "The one she gave birth to three weeks ago. He's quite healthy. A strong heart. I thought you might like to hold him before we depart."

Yulan's world contracted to that single point—the bundle, the movement, the faint cry that carried across the water. Her sister's child. Her own lost daughter returned as a ghost in another mother's flesh.

"Let the women go," Yulan shouted. "And I will give myself up. I'll stay. I'll be your donor. Just let them leave."

Zhong Yuxiu laughed. It was a calm, measured sound, the laugh of a man who had never doubted his own victory. "You misunderstand, Chen Yulan. I don't need your sacrifice. I need your cooperation. And I think you'll find that I have a compelling argument." He held the baby higher. "Come to the yacht. Alone. If you're not aboard in five minutes, I'll drop this child into the sea. It's that simple."

The spotlight fixed on Yulan, blinding her, pinning her to the deck. She felt the revolver in her hand, felt the cold steel of decision. She could shoot—aim at the man, at the light, at anything. But she would miss. She would always miss. The baby would fall.

A Shui stirred, her voice a whisper of gravel and blood. "Don't go. He'll kill you."

"Maybe," Yulan said. "But if I don't, he'll kill everyone."

She stepped off the boat and into the shallow water, her feet sinking into the cold sand. She walked toward the yacht, her hands empty, her heart a dead weight in her chest. The spotlight followed her, a judgment eye that would not blink.

As she reached the ladder, Zhong Yuxiu leaned over the rail and smiled. "Excellent. Your sister will be so proud."

Behind her, the motorboat's engine roared to life—Xiao Taohong had gunned it, was pulling away, was heading for the open sea with the wounded and the sedated and the terrified. Yulan watched them shrink into the darkness, a single spark of rebellion in an ocean of night.

And then she climbed the ladder, into the arms of the man who owned everything, including the last shred of her hope.

But as her foot touched the yacht's deck, she saw something that made her stop. Tucked into Zhong Yuxiu's belt was the torn page from the ledger—the one with the coordinates of Annex Island. And beside it, a small glass vial labeled with her own name.

He had not come to bargain. He had come to complete her collection.

The baby in his arms stopped crying. The sea fell silent. And Chen Yulan understood, in the final moment of that long and terrible night, that the island had never been the prison. The prison was her own body, her own blood, her own relentless, unforgiving heart.

She reached for the vial, but his hand was faster.

"Sleep," he whispered, pressing the needle into her neck. "When you wake, you'll be home."

The last thing she saw was the sky, a canopy of indifferent stars, watching her fall into the dark.