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墨書 Inktalez
The three of them took a taxi to an old neighborhood. Uncle Andong had never been to Agatha's home before; he had just called for the address and hurried over. Under Lisa's fierce gaze, he mustered the courage to knock on the door. "Is Agatha home?"
"Who is it?"
The door was opened by a young man in his twenties, with sunken eyes and heavy dark circles. As the door swung open, an indescribable strange odor wafted out, filling their nostrils. Peter immediately pulled Lisa behind him, as three or four other young men with ill intentions approached the doorway.
Uncle Andong had always been a good boy, but he had never seen such a scene before. He glanced at the group and nervously asked, "Does Agatha live here?"
The leader of the group grinned, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. "Agatha is having a good time inside. Are you one of her introductions?"
"Introductions?" Uncle Andong was still confused, but Peter suddenly slammed the door shut. He then kicked off against the stair railing behind him, bracing his shoulder against the security door while shouting at the siblings, "These are all drug addicts! We need to run!"
"Oh, oh, oh!" Uncle Andong immediately grabbed Lisa and ran downstairs. As they fled, Lisa pulled out her phone to call the police. The sound of kicking at the door echoed from above. Peter, who had been exercising regularly lately and inherited good genes, was in much better shape than the group of junkies inside.
"Open up, Suka Blyat!"
The people inside took turns kicking the door. In the living room behind them, three naked girls were sitting with their eyes closed, exhaling smoke while their bodies twitched occasionally, seemingly lost in some lingering pleasure.
"Get back!" A bald youth groggily pulled out a handgun from his waistband and began firing at the door: bang bang bang!
"Ah!" A scream came from outside, eliciting gleeful laughter from the addicts. The bald youth yanked the handle, and the door swung open to reveal no one outside but a trail of blood on the floor. He ran downstairs with his gun: "Chase them!"
They wouldn't expose themselves if they caught those three; if they let them escape and call the police, it would mean iron bars and handcuffs for them and endless days of monotony.
As he reached the first floor, gripping the railing and about to turn a corner, a wooden stick struck his left hand holding the gun. With a scream, he dropped the handgun on the ground floor. Peter, hiding around the corner, followed up with another blow to his head: smack!
The bald guy rolled his eyes and collapsed on the ground. The other addicts planned to rush him and beat this meddling brat into submission. But Peter wasn't that foolish; he quickly ran downstairs, picked up the handgun, and fired at them: bang bang bang!
Click click!
He managed to fire five shots before running out of bullets. He discarded the gun and picked up a wooden stick again, charging back into action. The five bullets had taken down three addicts; only two remained who hadn't yet reacted when he knocked one down with a single strike.
The last addict scanned around and picked up a chair leg from a corner. It was similar to what Peter held as they faced off across their groaning companions on the ground. Peter's left hand was bleeding and weakly raised while the addict seemed fully prepared.
In comparison, it appeared that he had the advantage!
So he stepped over his fallen comrades and charged at that annoying little punk.
No content to translate, only a farewell message.
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