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墨書 Inktalez
The atmosphere in the restaurant was dim and oppressive, as if shrouded in heavy shadows. The deep brown wooden floor was marred by scratches and stains, with water marks visible in the corners where something had been dragged. The walls were a cold, concrete gray, rough and uneven, resembling a hastily brushed surface that appeared shabby and half-hearted. The yellowish light struggled to filter down from the fixtures on the ceiling, casting a dull sheen over the space and making everything seem even more bleak.
A window in the kitchen was open, revealing a cook inside whose figure was obscured by thick steam and smoke. His white uniform was stained beyond recognition, covered in years of grime and deep brown juices, as if those marks were permanent imprints. The cook moved with a mechanical numbness, wielding a ladle to scoop thick soup from a large pot into one plastic tray after another. The soup itself was murky in color, nearly devoid of any visible ingredients, save for a few sparse strands of vegetable fibers floating on the surface.
Others stood in a line at the counter, holding trays and waiting silently. The queue moved slowly, but no one appeared impatient; all wore blank expressions, seemingly accustomed to this wait. Each tray contained the same unappetizing meal—a bowl of tasteless soup, a few lifeless potato chunks, a piece of chicken breast flattened to near transparency, and several yellowed florets of cauliflower. The entire meal lacked appeal, yet the people in line showed no hesitation as they collected their trays and headed to their tables, as if completing a daily ritual.
A silver-gray long table occupied the center of the restaurant, its surface marked by countless knife and fork scratches and remnants of dried food. A few individuals sat there, focused on eating dry toast. The edges of the toast were charred, its interior cracked; biting into it produced a hard crunch. They occasionally exchanged a few words but mostly ate in silence, wearing faint smiles as if trying to add some warmth to this monotonous routine.
Everything in the restaurant felt heavy and stifling, as if even the air was permeated with an indiscernible gloom. Yet these people seemed accustomed to it, heads bowed over their food, their gazes occasionally drifting or sharpening—indifferent to it all and powerless to change their circumstances.
Even with such dismal fare, life wasn’t just about eating, right? Some might say, "Not eating will surely lead to death, but as long as there’s food available, you can basically survive." So having something to eat wasn’t too bad after all. A few patrons in the restaurant thought this way as they poked at their plates with forks while chatting lightly, trying to find some joy amidst this dreary lunch.
One person sat at the silver-gray table poking at the cold potato chunks with his fork, lazily swinging his legs. With an air of nonchalance, he remarked, "I heard Seventy-One has been rated C-Class Danger." He jabbed at a potato chunk and chuckled before adding, "Which means it’s completely harmless."
The man across from him had just stuffed a piece of dry toast into his mouth when he heard this comment; he let out a scoff. After chewing for a moment and wiping his mouth with his hand, he replied dismissively, "That guy? You must be joking; what’s the difference between him and us? He’s just gone mad."
"Hey, madness is better than danger," another chimed in as he lifted his plate to sip from the nearly tasteless soup. He grimaced as he swallowed before continuing, "But speaking of which, he’s so far gone that he can’t even control his bowels; I heard he made quite a mess in his cage last night... ugh, it stank like hell."
Everyone laughed at this remark; though their laughter carried an undertone of awkwardness and disgust, it at least brought some life into the dreary restaurant.
The man playing with his potato chunks raised an eyebrow dismissively. "If you ask me, these so-called C-Class Danger subjects aren’t worth our resources. We still have to eat this crap while he gets special treatment—who knows? He might even have gourmet meals." His voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Gourmet meals? Give me a break." The man who had scoffed earlier set down his toast and tapped his plate with his fork for emphasis. "If our meals are like this, what could he possibly be eating? Probably something less nutritious than this flattened chicken."
Laughter erupted among them again; for once, the atmosphere lightened slightly. But after their laughter faded away, the conversation shifted back to Seventy-One.
"Honestly," the person playing with the potato suddenly stopped smiling, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "How did he end up like this?" His voice lowered, sounding almost like he was talking to himself, yet also questioning those around him.
One person put down their fork and leaned closer to a few others, their eyes gleaming with a mix of unspoken excitement and fear. "Don't you know? Seventy-One was captured by Number Forty-Three!"
As soon as the words left his mouth, the previously lazy group immediately halted their actions. One person, still chewing on a piece of toast, froze and stared blankly at the speaker; another dropped a chunk of potato back onto their plate with a look of shock; while the individual in the corner widened their eyes in disbelief and asked, "Number Forty-Three? Are you serious?"
The speaker nodded solemnly, his gaze darkening as he lowered his voice even further. "Yes, it's Forty-Three. I have a friend who works internally; the information is reliable."
The group exchanged glances, their expressions shifting to one of shock and unease. "Number Forty-Three..." one murmured, his voice trembling uncontrollably. He set down his cup and wiped his mouth vigorously, as if trying to steady himself. "That's the embodiment of all that's terrible and evil in this world..."
"Are you sure?" another asked urgently, as if trying to deny this possibility, though his face betrayed his inner turmoil. He tapped his fingers on the table, seeking some comfort. "Hasn't the Association already issued the strictest manhunt for Forty-Three? If it really involves Forty-Three, how could they let Seventy-One live?"
The speaker shrugged, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "Live? Hey, maybe that's part of Forty-Three's fun. He wouldn't easily kill his targets; this guy enjoys playing slowly, torturing them bit by bit until they completely break down from the inside out." His tone was laced with unmasked disgust and fear.
The quiet individual in the corner suddenly spoke up, his voice deep and serious. "Don't forget, the Association still hasn't managed to capture Forty-Three." This statement landed like a bombshell, instantly silencing all discussion.
Their faces grew even graver, and the atmosphere thickened with tension. "If even the Association can't handle him..." one murmured, his voice shaking noticeably. "What kind of being is he?"
The person sitting in the center took a deep breath, his tone heavy with an indescribable pressure. "I've heard that every time Forty-Three appears, it marks the beginning of disaster. He doesn't just destroy people; he destroys humanity itself."
The group huddled together, whispering about Number Forty-Three with a mix of terror and curiosity, as if they wanted to dissect this topic from beginning to end while fearing to touch upon its deepest darkness.
"I heard that Forty-Three is a tall, thin woman who looks just like an ordinary person," one said while poking at the potatoes on their plate with a fork, lowering their voice so only those nearby could hear. "If you just glance at her, you wouldn't think there's anything wrong."
The person across from him frowned skeptically. "Can she really be that ordinary?" He set down his cup and gestured with his hands. "But how could she be such a terrifying existence?"
"Ordinary is just on the surface," another person interjected, his tone unusually subdued. "Her true nature only reveals itself during extreme rage and frenzy."
He paused here, seemingly to build suspense, and everyone instinctively focused their attention on him. He looked down at the dry chicken cutlet on his plate and continued, "At that time, her head distorts grotesquely, as if something is pulling at her skull, and her mouth splits into four parts..." His voice grew softer, nearly a whisper by the end.
"Four-part mouth?" one person exclaimed, only to be silenced by the others' glares. He added in a hushed tone, "Just how bizarre would that look..."
"It's not just her mouth; she becomes entirely abnormal," the speaker continued, a hint of uncontrollable fear creeping into his voice. "She adopts a position on all fours, her hands and feet turning sharp like blades, and she grows long, sharp claws."
The table fell silent in an instant, as several people unconsciously looked down at their hands, seemingly imagining the marks those claws would leave if they grazed their skin.
"What about her personality?" someone in the corner asked quietly, a slight tremor in their voice.
"Her personality... is very gentle," the speaker replied with a bitter smile, though that smile was filled with resignation. "In her normal state, she seems like an entirely ordinary woman—perhaps a bit introverted and shy, speaking softly." He paused for a moment before his tone turned somber. "But what makes her truly repulsive is... she has a twisted view of love akin to that of a high school girl."
"What do you mean?" someone couldn't help but ask.
"Yandere." He tossed out the term casually, a look of disgust crossing his face. "She has a pathological obsession with love; if you don't meet her expectations or violate any of her rules, it becomes an absolute disaster."
The people at the table fell silent again; some frowned slightly, others shook their heads, while more revealed unmistakable disgust and unease.
"What rules?" someone asked cautiously.
"No one can fully know her rules," he shook his head, his expression growing darker. "Her rules are numerous and obscure, often changing with her emotions. But once you violate even one of them, there's no negotiation. I've heard... those who break the rules end up with bodies that can't even be found."
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