Chapter Two: The White Mouse
The sound of rain pounding on the warehouse's tin roof was monotonous and continuous, like background noise that would never stop.
In the headquarters office, constructed of heavy concrete and steel, Xu Yue stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the London night view blurred by the rain.
Her cold face and silver hair were reflected in the glass, overlapping with the dim, flickering lights in the distance, as if she had become one with this sinful city.
The chilling aura of Jackson's execution still seemed to linger on her fingertips; that cold, fulfilling sense of control over life and death and the maintenance of order was the cornerstone of her underground empire.
However, beneath this solid ground built by power and violence, there is always a bottomless void that, in moments of silence, faintly exudes a chill.
She turned around, and the flickering flames in the office fireplace dispelled the damp chill of the rainy night, but could not truly warm her gray eyes.
My gaze swept across the room: a map on the wall precisely marked with territories, advanced telephones and encrypted communication equipment on the desk, and a heavy safe standing in the corner.
Everything was under her control, orderly and efficient, like a finely functioning machine.
However, there are always moments, like now, when the sound of rain becomes exceptionally clear, and when the shadow of the flame dances and twists on the wall, a distant yet familiar fear quietly emerges like a ghost.
It wasn't fear of enemies or betrayal, but something deeper, more primal—about being abandoned, about coldness, about utter helplessness.
Her fingers unconsciously brushed across the smooth, cool wooden surface of the desk.
This touch inexplicably evoked a completely different, cold memory—a coldness belonging to concrete, rough, musty, and filled with despair.
More than twenty-three years ago. In a remote village in northern England. The Convent of St. Agnes.
The cold here is unlike anything you'd seep in London's rain. It's a bone-chilling, chilling cold, carrying the weight of stone walls and ancient resentment. The sky in my memory is always leaden gray, as if it had never truly been clear.
She wasn't called Xuyue then, she didn't even have a proper name. The nuns called her "that child," or, when they were in a bad mood, they used a more sarcastic term—"little white mouse."
Because of her unusually silvery-white hair, and her timid appearance that always tried to shrink into a corner and minimize her presence.
She was five years old when, on a rainy night, she was abandoned at the entrance of a convent by an unmarked black car.
All she had with her was an ill-fitting old dress, made of surprisingly fine material, and the aftereffects of a car accident that supposedly made her "forget everything."
Who she was, where her parents were, and why she was abandoned—all remained a mystery. The abbess of the convent, Sister Hawkins, with eyes as sharp as a hawk and lips as thin as a blade, reluctantly took in this "trouble."
Life in a monastery is another cruel face of order. Here, order is not for efficiency and power, but for repression, punishment, and absolute obedience.
Day after day of prayers, monotonous labor, bland food, and the ever-present threat of physical punishment under the guise of "purifying the soul."
Because of her hair and amnesia, "Little White Mouse" became a symbol of "ominousness" and "abnormality" in Sister Hawkins' eyes, an existence that disrupted the "sacred tranquility" of the monastery.
The nun's aversion to her was not simply due to her bad temper, but rather a deeper frustration stemming from a thwarted desire for control.
This child possesses an almost instinctive, flawless "obedience"—not compliance, but a survival instinct stemming from extreme fear, a trait that minimizes his sense of self-worth.
This silent resilience, in turn, challenged the absolute authority the nun had built up through dignity and punishment, causing her to feel an indescribable anxiety and loss of control.
The girl slept in a windowless storage room next to the laundry room, a place perpetually filled with the damp smell of soap and mold. The bed was a pile of old burlap sacks that could barely be considered soft.
The night is the hardest to get through.
Darkness not only swallowed the light, but also amplified all sounds and imaginations. Rats scurried behind the wall, the distant church bells sounded eerie in the wind, and other girls sobbed in their sleep... Every sound made her curl up into a ball, tightly covering her ears, as if that would allow her to escape the malice of the entire world.
Her only solace was a small, smooth pebble she secretly hid, which she had found while working outdoors. In the quiet of the night, she would hold it in her palm, and the slight warmth from her body was her only, faint connection to the cold world.
She wasn't truly suffering from complete amnesia. Fragmented images would occasionally flash through her mind: blinding headlights, screeching brakes, the loud crash of shattering glass, a pair of eyes filled with terror that then became empty... and the pungent smell of blood.
But these fragmented images couldn't piece together the complete truth, instead bringing deeper confusion and fear. She dared not mention it to anyone, because being "special" would only invite more rejection and punishment.
Sister Hawkins' methods of punishment were "creative." Sometimes she was forced to kneel on the cold stone floor until her knees went numb; sometimes she was locked in a cellar with potatoes and onions, her only companions in the darkness, her own breathing and heartbeat; what terrified her most was being left alone in the empty, echoing church, facing the silent and solemn icons in the shadows, as if countless eyes were judging her soul, which "should not exist."
She learned to remain completely silent, to suppress all her emotions—fear, grievance, confusion—until her face was blank with an almost numb expression.
She was like an inconspicuous piece of furniture, trying her best to remain unnoticed. But this repression, like a constantly compressed spring, accumulated unimaginable power deep within her.
The turning point came in the winter when she was fourteen. It was a colder night than usual, with the wind howling through the ancient buildings of the monastery.
For a trivial mistake—perhaps just being caught daydreaming while praying—Sister Hawkins punished her by making her wash the entire chapel floor, without using hot water.
The water was icy cold, the brush was rough, and the space was enormous. Her fingers quickly turned red and numb from the cold, and her knees ached from grinding against the icy ground.
Sweat, tears, and dirty water mingled together, but she gritted her teeth and didn't utter a sound. Just as she was exhaustedly wringing out the last bit of dirty water from the rag, Sister Hawkins came in and pointed at a barely visible water stain with her toe.
“You filthy thing,” the nun’s voice sounded particularly cold in the empty chapel, “you can’t even do this properly. Your very existence is a blasphemy against God.”
At that moment, nine years of pent-up anger, humiliation, and despair erupted in her chest like a volcano. But she did not cry out, nor did she argue. She simply raised her head and looked directly at Sister Hawkins with eyes that had become unusually calm under long-term suppression.
Gone was the fear and submissive look in his eyes; instead, there was a cold, almost all-knowing calm. Sister Hawkins was stunned by this sudden gaze. In those young eyes, she saw something she couldn't understand or control—a resoluteness beyond her years.
"What are you looking at?" The nun raised her voice, somewhat annoyed, trying to use her authority to cover up her momentary unease.
The girl didn't answer. She slowly stood up, tossing aside the rag in her hand. The movement was light, yet carried an unprecedented strength. She walked past the nun and headed straight for the chapel doors.
"Stop! Where are you going?" Sister Hawkins shouted sternly.
The girl didn't turn around. She pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the cold night wind rushed in instantly. Outside the door was boundless darkness and a chilling freedom.
She ran. With all her might, she ran along a muddy path behind the monastery, heading into the unknown darkness. Behind her, she heard the nuns' shouts and the faint sound of bells, but she paid no heed.
The icy air cut like knives into her throat and cheeks, and the muddy ground caused her to slip and fall repeatedly, only to rise again and again. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, not from fear, but from an unprecedented, almost wild excitement.
She ran across desolate fields, across sleeping villages, until she reached the edge of a grove of trees, where she collapsed, exhausted, gasping for breath. Looking back, the monastery's silhouette in the night resembled a vast, imprisoning cage for the soul. But she had escaped.
There was no moon in the sky, only a few cold stars twinkling through the gaps in the clouds. She lay on the cold earth, feeling the shiver of freedom and the deeper sense of bewilderment that followed.
Then, she reached out and grasped a handful of cold soil. The touch was rough, real, and carried the most primal scent of the earth.
The crackling sound of the firewood in the fireplace pulled Xu Yue back to reality from her distant memories. She was still standing by the office window; the rain was still falling outside, and the London night remained as noisy and real as ever.
She raised her hand, looking at her now strong, well-defined hands, capable of easily deciding life and death. These hands were no longer the small, numb hands that had been soaked in the icy water of the monastery.
From that night she fled the monastery, she understood one thing: there is no such thing as unconditional protection in this world; order is either established by oneself or crushed by the order of others. Weakness and pleading cannot buy survival; only strength and control can.
Her experience at the monastery did not make her yearn for the light; instead, it gave her a profound understanding of the rules of darkness. The organization she built, this empire named after the "Salt Crocodile," was less a pursuit of power than her ultimate rebellion against the absolute disorder and forced obedience of her childhood.
Here, she is the creator of order, the embodiment of rules. She uses ruthlessness to build a high wall, firmly protecting that once helpless "little white mouse," while also keeping out all uncertainties and potential threats from the outside world.
That deep-seated insecurity became the perpetual driving force behind her ever-expanding and intensifying control. She wouldn't tolerate any weakness, whether it belonged to others or herself. Because any tiny crack could plunge her back into that cold, helpless abyss.
Xu Yue walked to the desk and opened a locked drawer. Inside were no documents, only an ordinary pebble whose surface had been worn smooth by countless touches.
She held it in her hand, feeling the familiar, slightly cool touch. This wasn't nostalgia, but a reminder of where she came from, and why she had to sit on this throne forged in blood and steel.
She put down the stone and locked the drawer. Her face regained its usual coldness and calm. The ghosts of the past had been sealed away deep in her memory. At this moment, she was the "Saltwater Crocodile," the sole queen of these "ravens" dwelling in the shadows of London.
The road ahead was still fraught with thorns and conspiracies, but she had long been accustomed to walking alone in the darkness, and in her own way, she gave this chaotic world a cold and cruel order.
The rain outside the window seemed to have lessened a bit. But the London night was far from over.
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