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墨書 Inktalez
Carter knew that he could never go back now.
His home had turned to ashes, and the past version of himself had been buried alongside it. His faith, hope, and love—all had been consumed by that great fire, scattering like ashes in the wind throughout this decaying city.
The only thing he could do now was to plunge Rain's world into flames as well, turning this city into a battlefield.
He still had a considerable amount of savings, enough to sustain him for a while, but "living" held no meaning for him anymore. Money was no longer a tool for survival; it had become a weapon, the fuel for revenge, the bullets in his hand—a ticket to hell.
He would strike back.
He would make Rain understand that when he chose to deal with Carter, he had already chosen war.
Dark Alley Dealings
Carter lowered the brim of his hat and tightened his jacket as he maneuvered through the city’s filthiest alleys, skillfully avoiding the blind spots of surveillance cameras. The ground was damp, sticky and slippery underfoot, and the air was thick with the stench of urine, rotting garbage, and some other foul decay.
He arrived at a battered iron door, his fingers curled as he knocked three times—short and forceful; it was the code.
From within came the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Moments later, a small window on the door was yanked open with a loud snap, revealing a bloodshot eye peering out at him, filled with suspicion and impatience.
“What do you want?” The man’s voice was hoarse, laced with a hint of aggression.
Carter wasted no time on pleasantries. He pulled out a stack of cash from his pocket and slid it through the window, his tone calm as if ordering coffee.
“I want two handguns: Glock 17, 9mm, extended magazines.”
“One shotgun: Mossberg 590A1, 12-gauge lead shot, military grade.”
“One assault rifle: FN SCAR-H, 7.62mm, folding stock, fully automatic mode.”
“Plus 500 rounds for the rifle, 250 rounds for the handguns, and 50 rounds of 12-gauge shells.”
After finishing his order, he remained silent, staring into those bloodshot eyes as if waiting for a response—or more accurately—making it clear that he wasn’t here to negotiate.
The person inside fell silent for a second before letting out a cold laugh. “What do you think this is? A damn arms supermarket? Or a U.S. military supply depot?”
Carter still said nothing; he simply pushed another stack of cash through the window. The bills appeared especially vibrant under the dim light.
The man's eyes flickered as he looked at the bills, seemingly weighing the risks against the rewards.
In the end, he spat disdainfully, the small window slammed shut with a "bang," followed by the dull sound of chains clanking. "Damn it, just wait for me," he muttered.
The sound of the lock turning echoed, and the rusty iron door slowly creaked open, revealing a dark gap before Carter.
"Come in."
Carter took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
It closed behind him, swallowing him completely into the darkness of the city.
Inside the room, a cacophony of noise erupted—chaotic and hurried, as if a group had suddenly become excited over a certain topic.
Carter hesitated at the threshold, quietly listening to the conversations within.
"...Black on black, damn it, this is the third time this month..."
"...Shit, that guy comes in and spends so much money; he's either military or a big fish..."
"...Damn it, should we...?"
The words abruptly ceased mid-sentence, followed by hushed whispers, like vultures circling around a dying animal, brewing some dangerous thoughts.
Carter's gaze turned icy.
He knew all too well that none of these arms-dealing scumbags were trustworthy. They were like maggots; as soon as they caught a whiff of profit, they would swarm to devour the carcass.
They had no sense of morality, no boundaries, and never considered the consequences.
Carter had initially hoped for a peaceful resolution to this transaction, but now he was already assessing his own lethal range.
He reached down to feel the small knife at his waist, confirming it was still there.
It was his only weapon.
If the transaction turned into an ambush, how would he escape? Should he fight his way out or wait for them to make a mistake?
He lowered his head and glanced at his boots, caked with grime, silently calculating as a silent tactical map unfolded in his mind.
The small window in the door opened again, revealing those bloodshot eyes once more, this time carrying a different expression—wariness, probing, and an indescribable hint of excitement.
"Our boss wants to meet you."
The tone had changed, now laced with a hint of politeness, almost as if they were deliberately trying to win him over.
But Carter knew that the true meaning behind this "politeness" was—
"We want to see if you're a fat sheep or a hunting dog."
"After all... it's the first time someone has bought this much merchandise at once."
Carter did not respond immediately; instead, he locked eyes with that gaze, remaining silent for a moment.
He could feel them observing his reaction.
If he appeared too frightened, they would conclude he was an easy target and would pull a gun on him in an instant.
If he came off as too aggressive, they might decide that someone like him wasn't worth the trouble and would simply eliminate him.
So, he merely allowed a slight smile to curve his lips, vague and indistinct, speaking in a tone as casual as discussing the weather—
"Is that so? Then let's meet."
The door opened, and a strong smell of tobacco and gun oil wafted out. He was greeted by a narrow, dimly lit corridor where an unknown confrontation was about to unfold.
Carter stepped onto the hard concrete floor, walking through the cramped, dark hallway. The walls were mottled, and old ammunition boxes were piled in the corners. The air was thick with gun oil, tobacco, and a faint mustiness reminiscent of a long-sealed basement.
His eyes quickly scanned the surroundings; there weren't many people here, but several doors were ajar. Through the cracks, he could vaguely see weapon crates, military-grade ammunition bags, and loaded rifles. These rooms were likely storage for arms, and the corridor he walked through led to a slightly larger room—what could be called the trading room or rather the heart of this dirty business.
Carter's steps were steady, but inside he was already calculating risks—though this place was small, it likely had only one exit. If things went south, he would have to make a decision in seconds: should he bolt for the door or fight his way out?
At the end of the corridor, he stepped into the trading room.
The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly and casting flickering shadows.
In the center of the room stood an old wooden table, on which lay a disassembled Colt M1911 pistol, a few crumpled bills, and a half-open ammunition box filled with 7.62mm rounds.
Behind the table, a scruffy-faced man leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand. His gaze was laced with disdain and scrutiny; he was the boss here, the true decision-maker of this transaction.
Beside him, five or six lackeys were busy organizing firearms. Some were cleaning the barrel of an AK-47, others were loading 5.56mm rounds into magazines, while one sat on the floor disassembling the firing mechanism of a shotgun.
Everyone was armed, and Carter knew without needing to look closely that he was in an extremely dangerous environment.
Yet he showed no signs of unease; he simply stood at the door, calmly surveying everything, waiting for the scruffy man to speak.
"It's you..." The boss swirled his drink and smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. "I heard you came here to buy so much at once? That's not something just anyone can pull off."
His tone carried a hint of contempt as he tried to sniff out fear from Carter's reaction, like a hunting dog assessing whether its prey was alive or dead.
Carter did not respond; he merely glanced at the M1911 on the table before raising his head. His eyes were cold, his tone as calm as still water—
"I can pay. The question is, do you dare to sell?"
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