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墨書 Inktalez
Emma stepped out of the room, still struggling to suppress the wave of nausea rising in her chest when she felt a steady and piercing gaze fixed upon her, like an invisible weight that she could not ignore.
She looked up to see the Detective Sharp standing at the end of the corridor, quietly observing her.
His figure was partially shrouded in the dim red light of the brothel, the outline of his black trench coat blending into the mottled wall behind him, as if he were a moving shadow. His dark skin appeared indistinct under the light, with only his deeply set eyes shining with a sharp glint, reminiscent of a hound that had spent years navigating through darkness—exhausted yet ever alert.
He furrowed his brow slightly, his voice low and gravelly. "Stop looking at that. Come here."
His tone was laced with a husky rasp, like burnt ashes or the weariness left behind after an overly long interrogation.
Without waiting for Emma to respond, he turned and walked deeper into the corridor, his steps steady and resolute, as if confronting the ghosts within this brothel. He knew she would follow—this was not a command but an unspoken understanding.
Emma pressed her lips together, suppressing the sticky feeling in her throat, and stepped forward to follow him.
The soles of her shoes sank into the carpet, which had darkened with age and absorbed too much accumulated grime; each step brought an indescribable dampness. The corridor was narrow, the air thick like an over-fermented cloth—stifling, humid, and reeking of decay. The doors on either side were tightly shut, faint wisps of smoke and cheap perfume seeping through the cracks, as if each door concealed something that should not be seen—transactions, arguments, cries, or perhaps a silent death.
In just five short steps, the living room came into view.
And then—bodies.
Two corpses lay sprawled on the floor, their robust forms contorted in bizarre positions as if they had tried to struggle in their final moments.
Pools of blood spread outwards, the dark red liquid slowly seeping into the old carpet like melting tar, dragging this space deeper into filth. The air was thick with a strong metallic scent mixed with the cheap rose perfume characteristic of brothels, making the scene all the more absurd—a celebration of death tinged with a strange sweetness.
Emma's gaze swept over the two bodies as her mind quickly pieced together fragmented memories before her brow shot up in shock.
—The Poe Brothers?
She stared at the lifeless bodies on the floor, her mind flashing back to those old file photographs and the countless names discussed in meetings.
These two had been involved in drug trafficking, pimping, kidnapping, and murder—every crime imaginable. The police had pursued them for over a decade but had never managed to bring them to justice. They were like two rats that had crawled out of filthy sewers, cunning and elusive, always managing to slip away from police traps, even emerging unscathed from numerous raids.
And now—
Here they lay, sprawled in the parlor of this brothel, blood staining the carpet, their eyes wide open as if they couldn’t comprehend how they had met their end.
Emma's throat felt dry, and she muttered under her breath, "Damn."
What was this?
Retribution?
Or was there a predator even colder and more ruthless than the Poe Brothers that had quietly entered the scene?
Sharp stood beside the two corpses, gazing down at the blood-soaked Poe Brothers with a furrowed brow, as if faced with a game that should have been wrapped up long ago but had been overturned by someone else. He shook his head, his voice laced with fatigue and frustration as he muttered, "Damn it... After all these years of chasing them, we can't even get our hands on them, and now someone else has come in and taken care of it."
His tone reflected the helplessness of a game gone awry and irritation at this breach of procedural justice. After all the effort the police had put in, they hadn’t even had the chance to slap handcuffs on these two villains before they were brutally sent to hell.
Meanwhile, an officer was busy at work, snapping photos with a camera, capturing every detail of the scene—the angles of blood splatter, the positions of the bodies, scuff marks on the furniture, and even those blood-soaked bills on the floor—all needed to be documented for the case file.
Emma stood aside, her brow slightly furrowed as she scrutinized the two bodies, trying to piece together their struggles and pain before death. Their chests were riddled with stab wounds; blood had soaked through their clothing, and dark red edges around the wounds bore witness to the sharp blades that had cut through flesh.
Sharp glanced at her and noticed she was still fixated on the corpses. He pointed to the side and said flatly, "Stop staring; the murder weapon is that kitchen knife."
Emma followed his finger and saw a police officer preparing to pull out a knife deeply embedded in the armrest of the sofa.
The blade was nearly buried in the soft leather, glistening with a dark red sheen, as if intentionally left there as a mark of malice.
This was not an ordinary mark left by a struggle—this was deliberate. The killer had executed the Poe Brothers with this knife and had not discarded it carelessly; instead, they had embedded it deep into the sofa, turning this place into a temporary execution site, a silent declaration.
Emma's gaze returned to the two bodies, and she noticed that the older brother's left hand was missing.
She suddenly recalled the severed hand she had seen in the first room, lying alone in a pool of blood, fingers slightly curled as if it had tried to grasp something before death.
Now, everything clicked into place.
She stood there silently, feeling a wave of nausea rise in her stomach. This was not an ordinary murder; it felt more like a punishment, a cruel act of revenge against these brothers. The killer had not used a gun, sparing them a quick death; instead, they chose a knife, carving into their chests one cut at a time, ultimately severing the older brother's hand as if to ensure he could not leave this world whole even in death.
Emma licked her dry lips and took a deep breath.
This killer was not just here to kill.
They were here to send some kind of message.
Sharp shook his head, his expression darkening, eyes betraying an unmistakable mix of confusion and wariness. He looked at the bodies on the ground and said in a low voice, "This killer is highly skilled; clearly not an ordinary civilian... The possibility of them being a gang member is also slim."
His tone was calm but tinged with frustration, as if he were grappling with an exceptionally tricky puzzle.
"The Poe Brothers have been around in the West Bay area for many years. They didn’t reach this level solely through brute force; they also used their brains. They were always the type to share wealth—doing business well and maintaining good connections. While they weren't exactly respected on the streets, very few genuinely wanted them dead. This method of slaughter... doesn’t seem like a crime of passion; at least it doesn’t fit typical gang methods."
Emma listened, remaining silent, her brow slightly furrowed as her gaze swept over the gruesome scene once more. Her intuition told her that the motives and execution of this massacre were far more complex than they appeared on the surface.
She took a gentle breath, her forehead creasing slightly—something felt off.
The air was thick with the distinct odor of a brothel—the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume, the metallic tang of blood, the musty scent of sweat-soaked carpets, and certain indescribable foulness all mingled together, creating a sticky layer like an invisible film on her skin that made her want to gag.
But beyond that, there was another strange smell.
Something unfamiliar lurked beneath all these familiar scents, faint yet clearly out of place—
A primal, wild odor.
Emma tilted her head slightly and sniffed the air again, trying to discern its source amid the chaotic mix of smells. It was neither tobacco nor gunpowder residue; it didn’t even resemble any industrial chemicals. Instead, it was something closer to nature, as if it came from some living… creature.
A word surfaced in her mind unbidden:
Beast.
Her stomach tightened suddenly, an odd sense of unease creeping up her spine.
This scent was something she had never encountered at any crime scene before.
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