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墨書 Inktalez
Carter Black suddenly broke free from the nightmare, as if he had been forcefully dragged from the depths of the ocean to the surface. The intense feeling of suffocation made his lungs spasm in rapid gasps. His eyes were wide open, the outlines of the room swaying in the darkness like a massive mouth ready to swallow him whole. He lay rigidly on the bed, his heart racing wildly, each beat resonating painfully against his eardrums, urging him to rise and flee. Yet, the surroundings were eerily quiet, with only his hurried breaths echoing in the cold air.
Cold sweat soaked through his back, the damp sheets clinging to his skin—both icy and sticky—like an invisible shackle binding him tightly. He licked his dry lips, a burning sensation clawing at his throat, reminiscent of stomach acid rising, mingled with the bitter taste of last night's alcohol. He cursed impatiently under his breath, rolled over, and reached for the small table beside the bed.
His fingers brushed against a jumble of items—a cigarette pack, a lighter, a handgun that hadn’t been put away, and an empty bottle of whiskey. He opened the cigarette pack to find two crumpled cigarettes remaining. He pulled one out and expertly placed it between his lips. The metallic lid of the lighter flicked open at his fingertips, and as the flame leapt up, he noticed his fingers tremble slightly in its glow.
With a snap, the flame extinguished, and the cigarette tip ignited, releasing a pungent aroma of smoke and nicotine that filled the air. He took a deep drag, letting the warm sting fill his lungs, momentarily calming his chaotic thoughts.
He slowly exhaled the smoke, watching it swirl and twist in the air before dissipating into nothingness.
But the noise in his mind did not fade away. Those fragmented memories and ghosts lurking in the shadows still clung tightly to him like a vine that thrived in darkness, tightening around his neck bit by bit, making it impossible for him to truly breathe.
Irritated, he flicked ash into an empty glass on the table. The sheets were a mess; he simply tossed them aside and stepped barefoot onto the floor, heading toward the balcony.
He pushed open the glass door, and cold air rushed in instantly, carrying with it the unique chill of night that gently caressed his bare skin. This coldness brought him slightly back to reality. Leaning against the balcony railing, he looked down at the sleepless city below.
The lights intertwined like veins of light flowing through asphalt arteries as red and white cars streamed endlessly along the streets. Neon signs flickered erratically, casting vibrant colors onto the wet pavement as if this city wore a glamorous mask to conceal countless dirty wounds beneath.
In the distance stood towering buildings like a group of indifferent giants gazing down upon this steel jungle that would never sleep. The wind whispered through narrow gaps, mingling with smells of asphalt, burnt garbage, and a bitter blend of alcohol and despair.
Yet above all these familiar scents of urban life lingered something unusual.
Carter furrowed his brow and took a deep breath, trying to discern that strange aroma—it was neither smoke nor alcohol nor any common filth found in cities. It was closer to… something primal; a scent from the wilds or forests—a beastly sweetness mixed with dampness—as if some predator was lurking at the edge of civilization, quietly watching this man-made jungle.
He stared into the dark distance as the cigarette between his fingers burned slowly; its ember flickered in the night breeze before finally turning to ash and silently drifting away.
He didn't know where to run, or rather, he had nowhere to escape.
Carter rubbed his tired eyes, fighting off the drowsiness as he yawned and walked lazily down the street under the morning light. The fatigue from last night felt like a heavy layer of mud clinging to his limbs, making each step feel burdensome. The sunlight was glaring, as if it were deliberately opposing him, causing him to squint slightly, like a creature that had just crawled out from underground, resisting the brightness of the world.
On the street, people had already begun their new day. Pedestrians moved briskly, exchanging cheerful laughter as they conversed. To Carter, those sounds felt like a harsh mockery, as if the rhythm of the city had nothing to do with him; he was merely an outsider cast adrift in the flow of time.
But he couldn't be bothered.
He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder and continued toward his destination—the Lianxun Commercial Building.
The building gleamed with the luster of glass and steel in the morning light, towering into the clouds and looking down upon the pedestrians below, like an ivory tower allowing those inside to oversee, calculate, and manipulate the flow of wealth and power in the world. Carter stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and then pushed open the heavy glass door.
"Morning, Carter."
The security guard at the door nodded at him in greeting. Carter returned a slight nod, responding coolly and perfunctorily before walking straight into the lobby.
Inside, people were bustling about; sharply dressed men and elegantly groomed women hurried past, their phones seemingly rooted to their ears as they discussed various topics. "Asset acquisition," "market forecasts," "quantitative analysis"—a myriad of complex terms intertwined in the air like a ritual he had no intention of participating in; he was merely an outsider allowed to stand on the periphery.
He navigated around these individuals as if avoiding a species that didn't belong to him—steering clear of elites discussing numbers and decisions, sidestepping traders laughing and chatting, bypassing the overpowering scents of expensive perfumes and overly shiny shoes—making his way toward the security room at the back of the building.
As soon as he entered, he let out a sigh of relief, as if retreating from unfamiliar territory back into his own domain. He tossed his bag onto a bench, opened a locker, and quickly changed into his daily security uniform. The rough fabric rubbed against his skin, but compared to the suffocating conversations in the lobby just moments ago, this outfit brought him a sense of comfort.
He zipped up his jacket, put on his ID badge, and finally glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall.
The man in the mirror looked just as he always did—exhausted, indifferent, and out of place in this world.
He scoffed and muttered under his breath, "Another day of bullshit."
Then, he turned and walked toward the patrol area, preparing to face the extravagant world within the building that had nothing to do with him.
Carter sauntered over to his desk, casually fiddling with the patrol baton in his hand, spinning it between his fingers as it glided back and forth in his palm like a trivial toy. This motion had become an unconscious habit for him, providing a rhythm he could rely on amidst the monotony of his daily routine.
He needed to switch to the night shift.
The thought lingered in his mind. He was fed up with the agony of morning shifts, tired of the blinding sunlight, weary of the overly energetic pedestrians on the street, and sick of the city pretending everything was perfectly normal. What irritated him most was that his nights were already a mess—shallow sleep, vivid dreams, waking up in the middle of the night; every time he closed his eyes felt like a tug-of-war with some invisible nightmare. If that was the case, why torture himself during the day?
The night shift was the perfect time for him—dark, quiet, and isolated from the world.
As he pondered this, he reached the security desk and casually dropped the baton onto the table with a thud. He pulled out a chair, slouched into it, leaned back against the backrest, and took out his Bluetooth headphones. He plugged them into his ears and connected to the radio station he listened to every day—FM 66.6.
The host, Johnny, spoke in a deep, malicious tone: "This country is being buried by fools and politicians. Want to know who’s stealing your paycheck? Want to know why your life has become so difficult?"
A guest on-site laughed heartily before responding, "Who else could it be? Those yellow-skinned, brown-skinned, black-skinned bastards! They come here, take our jobs and resources, and then have the nerve to demand we respect their culture!"
Johnny snorted derisively, his tone dripping with sarcasm: "Respect? Have they ever respected us? These bastards do nothing but take advantage and commit crimes; what have they ever contributed to society? Meanwhile, our government continues to pander to these foreign trash, turning our city into a borderless dump!"
Carter remained silent, leaning back in his chair as he listened quietly. His fingertips unconsciously tapped on the table, keeping time with Johnny's voice. He listened daily to this radio station as Johnny lambasted society and railed against immigration policies, hearing guests express their anger and dissatisfaction with the decay of their country while blaming all problems on those "outsiders."
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