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墨書 Inktalez
Carter Black suddenly broke free from the nightmare, as if he had been forcibly dragged from the depths of the ocean to the surface. The intense feeling of suffocation made his lungs spasm, gasping for air. His eyes were wide open, the outlines of the room in the darkness shifting erratically, resembling a massive mouth that was about to swallow him whole. He lay on the bed, motionless, his heart racing wildly, each beat reverberating painfully against his eardrums, urging him to get up and escape. Yet the surroundings were eerily silent, with only his rapid breaths echoing in the cold air.
Cold sweat soaked through his back, the damp sheets clinging to his skin, both icy and sticky, like an invisible shackle binding him tightly. He licked his dry lips; a burning acidity clawed at his throat, reminiscent of stomach acid rising, mingled with the bitter aftertaste of last night's alcohol. He cursed impatiently under his breath, rolled over, and reached for the small table beside the bed.
His fingers brushed against a jumble of items—a cigarette pack, a lighter, a handgun he hadn't put away yet, and an empty bottle of whiskey. He opened the cigarette pack to find two crumpled cigarettes remaining. He pulled one out and expertly placed it between his lips. The metallic lid of the lighter flicked open at his fingertips; as the flame leapt up, he noticed his fingers trembling slightly in its glow.
With a snap, the flame extinguished, and the cigarette tip ignited, releasing a pungent aroma of smoke and nicotine that filled the air. He took a deep drag, letting the warm sting of smoke fill his lungs, which calmed his chaotic thoughts just a bit.
He slowly exhaled the smoke, watching it swirl and twist in the air before dissipating into nothingness.
But the noise in his mind did not fade away. Those fragmented memories and ghosts lurking in the shadows still clung tightly to him like a vine that thrived in darkness, tightening around his neck little by little until he could barely breathe.
Irritated, he flicked the ash into an empty glass on the table. The sheets were a mess; he simply tossed them aside and stepped barefoot onto the floor, making his way to the balcony.
He pushed open the glass door, and cold air rushed in immediately, carrying with it the unique chill of night that gently brushed against his bare skin. The coldness helped clear his mind slightly. Leaning against the balcony railing, he looked down at the sleepless city below.
Lights intertwined as red and white vehicles flowed through the streets like blood coursing through veins, endlessly weaving through asphalt arteries. Neon lights flickered erratically, casting vibrant hues on the damp streets as if this city wore a glamorous mask to conceal countless dirty wounds beneath.
In the distance stood towering buildings like a group of indifferent giants overlooking this steel jungle that would never sleep. The wind whispered through narrow gaps, mingling with smells of asphalt, burning garbage, and a bitter blend of alcohol and despair.
Yet above all these familiar urban scents lingered something unusual.
Carter furrowed his brow and took a deep breath, trying to discern that strange aroma—it was neither smoke nor alcohol nor any common filth found in cities. It was closer to… some primal essence; a biological scent from the wilds or forests that carried a beastly sweetness and dampness as if some predator lurked at the edge of this cityscape, quietly observing this man-made jungle.
He stared into the dark distance as the cigarette between his fingers burned slowly down to its end; its embers flickered in the night breeze before finally turning to ashes that silently drifted away.
He didn't know where he should escape to, or rather, he had nowhere to run.
Carter rubbed his tired eyes, forcing himself to suppress the weariness as he yawned and walked lazily down the street in the morning light. The fatigue from last night clung to him like a heavy layer of mud, making each step feel burdensome. The sunlight was glaring, seemingly intent on opposing him, causing him to squint slightly, like a nocturnal creature just emerging from underground, resisting the brightness of the world.
On the street, people had already begun their new day. Pedestrians moved briskly, exchanging cheerful laughter that sounded like a harsh mockery in Carter's ears, as if the rhythm of the city had nothing to do with him; he was merely an outcast cast aside in the torrent of time.
But he couldn't be bothered.
He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder and continued toward his destination—the Lianxun Commercial Building.
The structure gleamed in the morning light with its glass and steel facade, towering into the clouds and overlooking the pedestrians below like an ivory tower, allowing those inside to survey, calculate, and manipulate the flow of wealth and power in the world. Carter stood at the entrance of the building, took a deep breath, and pushed open the heavy glass door.
"Morning, Carter."
The security colleague at the door nodded at him in greeting. Carter returned a slight nod, responding coldly and perfunctorily before walking straight into the lobby.
Inside, people were bustling about; sharply dressed men and elegantly groomed women hurried past, their phones seemingly rooted to their ears as they engaged in continuous discussions. "Asset acquisition," "market forecasts," "quantitative analysis"—various complex terms intertwined in the air like a ritual he had no intention of participating in, leaving him as merely an outsider permitted to stand at the periphery.
He navigated around these individuals as if avoiding a species that didn't belong to him, sidestepping those discussing numbers and decisions, bypassing groups of traders laughing and chatting, evading the overwhelming scents of expensive perfumes and overly shiny shoes as he made his way toward the security room at the back of the building.
As soon as he stepped inside, he let out a sigh of relief, as if retreating from an unfamiliar territory back into a realm he knew well. He tossed his bag onto a bench, opened a locker, and quickly changed into his daily security uniform. The rough fabric rubbed against his skin but felt reassuring compared to the suffocating conversations in the lobby.
He zipped up his jacket, donned his ID badge, and finally glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall.
The man in the mirror looked just as he always did—exhausted, indifferent, and out of place in this world.
He scoffed and muttered under his breath, "Another day of this damn nonsense."
Then he turned and walked toward the patrol area, preparing to face the extravagant world within the building that had nothing to do with him.
Carter sauntered over to his desk, casually fiddling with the patrol baton in his hand. He twirled it between his fingers, letting it slide back and forth in his palm like a trivial toy. This motion had become an unconscious habit for him, providing a rhythm he could rely on amidst the monotony of his daily life.
He needed to switch to the night shift.
The thought lingered in his mind. He was fed up with the agony of morning shifts, tired of the blinding sunlight, exhausted by the overly energetic pedestrians on the streets, and sick of the city pretending everything was perfectly normal. What frustrated him most was that his nights were already terrible—light sleep, vivid dreams, waking up in the middle of the night. Every time he closed his eyes, it felt like he was wrestling with some invisible nightmare. So why torture himself during the day?
The night shift was the perfect time for him—darkness, silence, isolation.
As he pondered this, he reached the security desk and casually dropped the baton onto the table with a thud. He pulled out a chair and slouched into it, leaning back against the chair's support. He took out his Bluetooth headphones, popped them into his ears, and connected to the radio station he listened to every day—FM66.6.
The host, Johnny, spoke in a deep, malicious tone: "…this country is being buried by fools and politicians alike. Want to know who’s stealing your paycheck? Want to know why your life has become so difficult?"
A guest on the show chuckled before responding, "Who else could it be? Those yellow-skinned, brown-skinned, black-skinned bastards! They come here, take our jobs and resources, and then have the audacity to demand we respect their culture!"
Johnny snorted derisively, his voice dripping with sarcasm: "Respect? Have they ever respected us? These bastards contribute nothing but crime and exploitation! And our government continues to pander to these foreign trash, turning our city into an endless dump!"
Carter remained silent, leaning back in his chair as he listened intently. His fingertips unconsciously tapped on the table, keeping time with Johnny's voice as it echoed through his headphones. He tuned in daily to hear Johnny criticize society and lambaste immigration policies, listening to guests express their anger and dissatisfaction with the decay of their country while blaming all problems on those "outsiders."
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