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墨書 Inktalez
The faint glow of neon lights flickered, reflecting off the damp, cold streets, mingling with the night's haze and the scent of alcohol, enveloping the entire block in a decayed atmosphere.
Marco stood in front of the bar, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag, yet feeling not a hint of relaxation. His gaze involuntarily fell on the television screen across the street—
The news anchor's voice was urgent, the background showing crumbling walls and the flashing lights of police sirens amidst the ruins.
"…Authorities are still investigating this explosion. It is currently known that at least eight gang members have died, with three others seriously injured. Preliminary police assessments suggest that the Murder Method of this attack bears a striking resemblance to recent terrorist actions, raising suspicions that it is still connected to the mysterious 'Reaper'…"
The scene switched to surveillance footage, showing a man walking away slowly from the flames, behind him lay charred remnants of buildings. Although the image was blurry, Marco knew exactly who that figure was.
"…Reports indicate that this suspect is believed to be a Veteran, who previously worked on the campaign team of a well-known political figure in this city…"
The news anchor continued to speak incessantly, but Marco could no longer absorb any of it.
His mouth twitched slightly as the cigarette in his hand burned slowly in the night breeze, sparks flickering unpredictably.
Carter, what on earth happened?
The person who once sat in bars discussing political ideals with him, claiming he wanted to change society and make sure the voices of the underprivileged were heard…
Now, he had become a terrorist in the news, a harbinger of death for this city.
"…Damn it."
Marco muttered under his breath, angrily flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it underfoot.
He couldn't understand—he truly couldn't understand—how Carter had come to this point.
Furrowing his brow, Marco was already troubled enough when he caught sight of a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye.
It was Jack.
That damn fool was standing on the street corner, holding up a piece of cardboard high above his head, shouting slogans amidst the bustling crowd with fervent enthusiasm, as if he were some kind of mad preacher.
"Support him! Support our Grim Reaper!"
The handwriting on the cardboard was messy, but the bold letters stood out starkly—"Support Him!"
Marco's expression darkened, and the unease in his heart amplified several times over.
Had Carter's influence spread to this extent?
Passersby glanced over, some casting disgusted looks at Jack and deliberately steering clear of him, while others hesitated, stopping to look at the cardboard, their eyes reflecting a complex mix of emotions.
Some seemed dazed, unable to fully grasp what was happening. Yet, instead of immediately condemning or walking away, they fell into contemplation.
Jack waved his hands passionately, his eyes ablaze with fervor as he spoke with intensity: "Look at this city! Look at how they treat us! Look at those greedy politicians! Look at the wealthy who reside in their high towers! They never care about our lives—but he does! He is helping us cleanse this city!"
"He is the only one willing to take action for us!"
"He is our Grim Reaper! The judge of this city!"
Some in the crowd murmured quietly among themselves, seemingly discussing something. A few displayed subtle signs of agreement, even nodding as if Jack's words had stirred something deep within them.
Marco's stomach began to churn with anxiety; he sensed an ominous change brewing.
This was no longer just a hunt against the gangs; it had transformed into a movement—a genuine upheaval.
And the symbol of this movement was Carter.
The city felt like a rubber band stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
The night wind carried dust and the scent of decay, swirling with an indescribable sense of unease in the air. Marco stood at the bar's entrance, his fingers habitually searching for his lighter in his pocket. His fingertips rubbed against the cold metal casing repeatedly, yet he hesitated to light a cigarette. His mind was a chaotic mess, filled with irritation and repression, like a rusty screwdriver stirring aimlessly in his brain.
The city was heading toward the abyss, and Carter—his "old friend"—had become the spark that ignited it all.
Just thinking about it made his stomach twist in pain, as if some unspeakable, nauseating emotion had gripped him tightly, leaving him breathless.
He had even considered leaving.
But could he really?
This place was no longer familiar to him.
Once upon a time, although this city was dirty, corrupt, and filled with various injustices, it at least functioned like a worn-out machine. Even with its aging parts, it could still run. But now, everything had changed.
The atmosphere on the streets had become eerie; silence felt unnatural, like the stillness before a storm.
In recent weeks, the law and order here had deteriorated more severely than he could ever remember. The news reported daily on explosions, shootings, and arson. The sound of police sirens at night seemed never-ending, as if the entire city had entered a state of war. People began to grow anxious and irritable; arguments erupted everywhere—in bars, in markets, even on buses—conflicts flared at any moment.
He knew that if he stayed here much longer, he would inevitably be swept into this chaos, becoming just another nameless statistic among the dead.
But could he? Could he truly leave?
He wasn't even sure where he would go.
However, just as he was wrestling with these thoughts, the sight of someone across the street made him furious.
It was Jack.
That damned Jack.
He stood in the street like a madman, holding up a torn piece of cardboard at a bustling intersection, shouting slogans with fervor and zeal, as if he were some kind of cult Cleric.
"Support him! Support our Grim Reaper!"
Marco's face darkened, and the unease in his heart was instantly ignited by a surge of anger.
The handwriting on the cardboard was scrawled, but the large letters stood out glaringly—"Support Him!"
Marco's fists clenched tightly, his gaze fixed on the tattered cardboard.
Had Carter's influence spread to this extent?
Passersby glanced over, some casting disdainful looks at Jack and veering away, while others hesitated, stopping to look at the sign with complex emotions flickering in their eyes.
Some appeared dazed, seemingly unable to accept it all. Yet they did not immediately condemn or walk away; instead, they fell into contemplation.
Marco's fury churned within him; he could not accept this scene. He could not accept that Carter, who once discussed political ideals in their bar, had now transformed into a kind of urban reaper worshipped by the mad.
"Get the hell out of here, Jack!" he shouted, his voice echoing down the street. "Go shout somewhere else; don’t come here and make me angry!"
Jack ignored him, not even turning his head, continuing to fervently preach his beliefs with a mysterious and eerie smile playing on his lips.
That smile sent chills down Marco's spine.
This was not Jack—no, at least not the Jack he once knew.
This city had turned everyone into monsters he could no longer comprehend.
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