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墨書 Inktalez
Hunter walked slowly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, the knife inside swaying slightly with each step, echoing the desires stirring within him. The sky was overcast, clouds gathering ominously as if to swallow the entire city. The gray sky grew darker with the weight of the clouds, and a damp chill permeated the air, instilling a sense of unease. Before long, a light rain began to fall, pattering softly against the asphalt.
Yet, Hunter remained unfazed, his gaze like a cold blade fixed on his target—the bar at the street corner. He paid no mind to the sudden downpour, allowing the rain to soak through his hat and shoulders, cascading down his bulky frame. His mind was filled with wicked whispers, and the dark power within him surged stronger, igniting an exhilarating thrill.
"This is it..." he thought to himself, a faint smirk curling at the corners of his mouth.
Outside the bar, several young figures loitered at the entrance, their youthful frames clad in flashy trendy attire, faces adorned with disdainful smiles as they smoked and joked around. They were high school students, likely underage for drinking, yet they gathered here without a care in the world, as if breaking the law made them appear cooler and more rebellious. Their eyes brimmed with provocation and contempt, exuding a senseless disdain for everything and everyone around them.
One boy laughed loudly at passing pedestrians, deliberately sticking out his foot to trip someone by. The others erupted in raucous laughter as if celebrating a grand victory. They were fearless, believing they had everything under control, completely unaware they were teetering on the edge of fate. They thought that underage drinking was a symbol of "coolness," as if every sip of alcohol could bolster their masculinity.
Hunter stood silently at the street corner, observing it all with indifference. His gaze was cold and unfeeling, filled with contempt and disgust. To him, these young high schoolers were nothing but foolish kids who had yet to grasp the realities of life; their arrogance and bravado were merely products of ignorance. For Hunter, they were perfect sacrificial targets—naive, arrogant, and utterly unsuspecting. Their fearlessness and childishness amused him slightly, but that amusement carried an eerie undertone.
As the rain fell heavier, the streetlights flickered in the downpour, illuminating Hunter's face hidden beneath his black trench coat and hat brim. His steps grew more resolute; each one seemed to foreshadow an impending fate. The noise from inside the bar grew louder, mingling with the raucous laughter and taunts from these youths. The dark power within Hunter swelled further, yearning for the impending carnage.
"It's them..." Hunter murmured to himself, his eyes growing colder. His hands instinctively pressed against the knife handle in his pocket, feeling its sharp blade prick against his palm. That familiar urge to kill coursed through him.
During this time, Hunter had meticulously researched each member of this group of delinquents, ultimately fixing his gaze on a boy named Marbury. Marbury had dark skin and a slender build; he blended into the crowd without standing out. He always kept his head down, lingering at the edges of the group with an expression that betrayed an unmistakable sense of confusion and awkwardness. Unlike others who sought to show off bravado, Marbury struggled to embody that carefree attitude; instead, he seemed lost in a chaotic fog within himself.
Hunter targeted him not for any superficial differences but because of Marbury's internal struggles and vulnerabilities—the hesitance and confusion about his own sexuality deeply intrigued Hunter. It was evident that Marbury had tendencies toward homosexuality, which seemed to be why he faced rejection among this group of delinquents. He didn’t belong but tried desperately to fit in. He sought to follow those who appeared strong—the leader—almost overly reliant on him. Marbury’s gaze often unconsciously followed that leading delinquent as if he were Marbury's hope and goal.
Hunter understood that Marbury’s involvement with this group wasn’t born from genuine malice or desire but rather from a longing to be close to that leader—to find a place for himself in this rebellious environment. Yet fundamentally, he wasn’t "bad" enough; he lacked an inherent desire for violence or provocation. Instead, confusion and self-doubt filled him. This lack of "badness," combined with some peculiar behaviors in his character, rendered him an outcast among these delinquents.
When others boisterously taunted or provoked passersby, Marbury always appeared somewhat restrained; he would occasionally muster up a dry joke in hopes of drawing attention but often received only indifferent stares or ridicule in return. This deepened his loneliness. His actions were always half a beat behind; his laughter never quite natural; sometimes even his gestures seemed odd enough to push others further away from him. He often trailed behind them without ever truly integrating into their ranks—as if he could be cast aside at any moment.
The Hunter carefully observed every move of Marbury, a glimmer of satisfaction flashing in his eyes. This was the perfect sacrifice. Marbury was lonely, fragile, and filled with inner struggles and fears, making him the ideal target for the Sacrificial Ritual. The Hunter understood that Marbury longed to fit in but could never truly adapt to this world filled with violence and bullying. This inner conflict made him appear even more helpless in the eyes of others.
"Marbury... you are perfect," the Hunter whispered to himself, a cold smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
In this invisible game of hunting, Marbury was clearly unguarded. His loneliness and confusion rendered him a lamb in this dark slaughter, and the Hunter was ready to lead him into an inescapable destruction.
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