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墨書 Inktalez
As the truck slowly rolled into the city, the first hints of morning light began to emerge on the streets. The distant skyline was painted with a faint golden hue, as if the remnants of night were being consumed by the approaching day.
The driver parked the vehicle by the roadside and turned to look at the passenger seat. "We're here, Old Buddy."
Carter nodded silently, opening the door and stepping out. His movements were somewhat stiff, his body still bearing the pain from last night's beating, like searing marks reminding him of the city's cruelty and absurdity.
"Get some rest, and don't go running around again," the driver said, shaking his head with a hint of helplessness.
Carter raised a hand and waved it dismissively, his tone calm. "Thanks."
The driver said nothing more, simply restarting the engine and driving away slowly. The headlights flickered in the morning mist before the heavy truck silently moved into the distance, like a beast rushing toward dawn, gradually fading from view.
The sun at the horizon was slowly rising, its gentle light falling between the city's tall buildings, as if bestowing a fleeting tenderness upon this dirty land.
But Carter knew that light had never belonged to this city, at least not to someone like him.
He walked slowly toward home, his steps heavy. Each movement tugged at his wounds; although the pain had lessened slightly since earlier, it still lingered like a shadow closely following him.
When he finally stepped inside and closed the door behind him, it felt as if the world had been completely shut out.
He didn't turn on any lights or change his clothes; he didn't even have time to take off his shoes before collapsing onto the bed, sinking deeply into the soft mattress.
Fatigue enveloped him like a massive net, consuming him entirely as his consciousness plunged into darkness within seconds.
—And then he began to dream.
In his dream, everything was a chaotic mess.
It felt as if he were trapped in an inescapable kaleidoscope, with countless vibrant and bizarre lights intertwining, spinning, morphing, and twisting into a labyrinth with no exit.
He tried to steady himself, but the entire world was spinning; his body was tossed around like a leaf caught in a storm, utterly directionless.
He heard laughter—familiar, strange, mocking, and mad—all interwoven together like a symphony woven from chaos.
He attempted to reach out and grasp something, but all his fingertips touched was emptiness.
Then, he began to fall.
—Endlessly, without cease, he fell.
Darkness engulfed him until finally, he remembered nothing at all.
Carter jolted awake, his chest heaving violently, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He still lingered in the aftershocks of the dream, as if he had just struggled ashore from an abyss, drenched and unable to recall what he had experienced in that dream.
Buzz—buzz—buzz—
The phone beside his pillow vibrated impatiently, its screen lighting up and dimming again, urging him back to reality.
Carter frowned as he reached for the phone, his throat dry as if he had swallowed a mouthful of dust.
He swiped to answer the call, and immediately the anxious voice of his secretary came through the line, speaking rapidly and impatiently—
“Carter, where the hell have you been?!”
“There’s an event today, do you know that?! Hurry up and get here!”
Carter rubbed his temples, his head pounding as if someone had struck him with a blunt object. He forced himself to wake up, and a hoarse response escaped his throat. “...Damn it, I overslept.”
“Overslept?!”
The secretary’s tone was laced with unmistakable impatience, as if Carter’s time was entirely meant for the campaign team.
“I was in a car accident last night. I’m a bit injured and will be late...”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the secretary was weighing the truth of his words.
Then came a careless sigh, dripping with indifference. “Stop wasting my time and get over here. Don’t delay the schedule.”
“Beep—”
The call ended.
Carter stared blankly at the screen, a wave of inexplicable disgust washing over him.
The pain in his body remained, each bruise reminding him of the harsh reality of last night. And now, no one asked how he was doing; no one cared about his well-being. He was just a cog in the machine, a pawn to be moved at will.
But there was no time to dwell on it; he had to get moving.
He gritted his teeth and struggled to lift himself from the bed, his muscles protesting in pain, the wounds pulling at his nerves, causing him to frown, but he did not stop.
He dragged his feet toward the wardrobe and removed the bloodstained, filthy shirt he had been wearing.
Then, he changed into clean clothes that concealed the scars left from last night, making himself look "presentable," like someone who could attend a campaign event normally.
He looked at himself in the mirror, bloodshot eyes staring back at him, his face pale, yet he had to put on an indifferent expression.
Because this was the role he had to play now.
He sighed, ran a hand through his messy hair, and turned to walk out the door to face this damned day.
Carter stood by the roadside and raised his arm to hail a taxi.
As soon as the car stopped, he quickly opened the door and sat down heavily inside, his tone low and urgent: "Municipal Square. Hurry."
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror, seemingly noticing his pale complexion and wrinkled clothes, but said nothing. He simply nodded and pressed down on the accelerator.
The cityscape outside the window rushed by as Carter leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes in an attempt to stay awake. However, the wounds on his body felt like countless needles stabbing at his nerves, preventing him from truly relaxing.
—Damn it, it still hurts like hell.
As the car approached Municipal Square, he could hear the overwhelming sounds of a crowd from afar—cheers, slogans, and the rustling of flags intertwined like a frenzied religious ceremony.
The moment Carter stepped out of the car, he was immediately engulfed by the surging crowd. The cacophony nearly caused his ears to ring as he pushed through throngs of people toward the inner circle of the venue, finally spotting his secretary amidst the crowd.
The moment the secretary saw him, she frowned with irritation, her tone dripping with impatience. "Finally here, are you?"
He glanced at Carter's face and noticed that he looked even paler than usual, with deep exhaustion etched in his eyes. His gait was stiff, as if some part of his body ached too much for him to move normally.
The secretary's frown deepened, tinged with dissatisfaction. "What on earth is going on?"
Carter merely shrugged, saying nothing more.
He didn't want to explain because he knew that no one here truly cared about his condition. His injuries were hardly worth mentioning in the context of this campaign.
The secretary stared at him for a couple of seconds, as if weighing something, but ultimately chose not to press further. With a huff, she grabbed Carter's arm and pulled him toward the stage.
"Stop wasting time. Rain is waiting for you; don't keep him too long."
Carter was forced to move forward, but an inexplicable sense of weariness suddenly washed over him.
—What was he even doing here?
—Was he here to "fight," or was it merely a "performance"?
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