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墨書 Inktalez
Rain's gaze was firmly locked onto Carter, a flicker of excitement and determination flashing in his eyes. He raised a megaphone, his tone tinged with urgency. "Friend, what is your name?"
As he spoke, he had already taken a step forward, preparing to exit the SUV.
"Sir, please remain in the vehicle."
His security personnel quickly moved in, blocking the door. A burly bodyguard wearing headphones leaned in and whispered, "There are too many people here; it's not safe. Let us handle this—"
But Rain paid no attention.
He forcefully placed his hand on the bodyguard's shoulder, his voice firm. "What are you stopping me from doing? This man before us is a true hero!"
He raised his voice, shouting to everyone present, "Why do you doubt him? Why is it that a man who has sacrificed for his country is now regarded as an outcast by a bunch of well-dressed scoundrels?"
The crowd instantly became agitated. Some who had previously questioned Carter's identity began to shift their attitudes, murmuring among themselves, "He's right... We should respect these soldiers..." "The government doesn't care about these veterans at all..."
The security personnel exchanged helpless glances; they knew Rain's personality well. Once he set his mind on something, no one could change it. Finally, the lead bodyguard stepped aside slightly, allowing him a path.
Without hesitation, Rain stepped out of the vehicle and onto the hard asphalt, striding directly toward Carter.
He advanced with purpose, his eyes fixed on Carter, completely ignoring the commotion around them.
Carter stood still, his body slightly tense. He wasn't accustomed to being the center of attention, but now all eyes in the crowd were on him, causing his heart to race uncontrollably.
Rain halted in front of him, scrutinizing him closely.
Then he extended his hand, his demeanor sincere and his voice low yet powerful. "Soldier, tell me your name. Your unit and your soldier number."
He spoke with an indescribable weight and respect in his tone, as if he were requesting a long-forgotten name. It felt as though this was not merely a routine inquiry, but a long-overdue acknowledgment—an acknowledgment of those abandoned soldiers, those who had once fought valiantly for this country, yet had been forgotten by society.
Carter stared at Rain's outstretched hand, a surge of indescribable emotions rising within him. His fingers curled slightly, and then, taking a deep breath, he slowly extended his hand and grasped Rain's palm.
"Carter Black," he began, his voice slightly hoarse but steady. "108th Infantry Regiment, soldier number 254-09-721."
In that moment, the crowd around them fell into a brief silence.
Then, applause erupted—sporadic at first, then growing louder, like an unexpected wave crashing in.
The applause came suddenly, echoing down the street and causing Carter's eardrums to thrum with the intensity. He froze for a moment, his fingers rigidly resting in Rain's palm, momentarily forgetting whether he should withdraw them.
He had never been treated like this in all these years.
He had long grown accustomed to indifference, to being overlooked, to existing as a ghost cast into the shadows by society. Yet now, these hands reaching out and these voices shouting were pulling him back into a world he had nearly forgotten.
Were they… applauding for him?
Someone nearby whistled; several young people excitedly raised their fists and shouted, "Our hero!"
"Cheer for Carter!"
Some clapped enthusiastically, while others in the corner shouted, "Finally, someone is willing to speak the truth!"
These voices were chaotic and fervent, even bordering on frenzied. But Carter could only stand there, rigidly enduring it all. His mind was blank; he didn’t know how to react. Even his feet felt as if they were nailed to the ground, unable to move.
At that moment, he felt as if he had been thrown into a completely unfamiliar realm.
He should have felt proud, right?
But why did he only feel... unreal?
Rain picked up the megaphone and surveyed the crowd that was still applauding. His gaze held a deep sense of satisfaction, as if everything had been calculated in advance, yet at the same time, it radiated an earnest enthusiasm that was impossible to doubt.
He raised his hand, signaling for the crowd to quiet down, then spoke in a steady tone: "Look at yourselves. I don’t even need to say anything; you are already willing to applaud and cheer for this hero. This means our society—still has hope."
Some in the crowd nodded, whispering to each other, while others excitedly waved their fists again.
Rain's gaze returned to Carter, his tone growing more somber, carrying an almost mournful plea: "But what we need to know now is—Mr. Carter,"
He paused for a moment, then with a heavy voice, asked clearly:
"How has our government treated you?"
These words hit Carter like a lead weight, crashing into his stomach.
Everyone turned to him, waiting for his response.
Carter felt as if something was blocking his chest; years of repression and anger surged like a torrent trapped in a narrow pipe. Now, Rain had twisted the valve open with a single question—
Could he continue to remain silent?
Rain did not wait any longer; he directly shoved the megaphone into Carter's hands. The force behind it made Carter instinctively catch it, his fingertips feeling the cold metal.
"Speak, warrior," Rain said softly, his tone devoid of any coercion, instead carrying a sincere request. "I know you have suffered for too long."
Carter suddenly lifted his head, locking eyes with Rain.
In his gaze—those deep, resolute eyes—there was no deceit, no calculation, only a kind of almost pitying empathy and understanding.
At that moment, Carter felt as if his throat was being tightly gripped, the air in his chest blocked and difficult to breathe.
His hand holding the megaphone trembled slightly, fingers gripping the handle uncontrollably, as if clinging to the last piece of driftwood.
He wanted to speak; there were so many things he wanted to say. The anger, resentment, disappointment, and pain that had accumulated over the years all pressed against his throat, desperate to burst forth.
But what should he say?
Where should he begin?
Should he start from the year he stepped into the military camp at eighteen, enduring harsh training?
Or from the year he turned twenty when he first saw the battlefield, witnessing the dismembered bodies of his comrades, brain matter splattered across the mud?
Should he recount the moment he held a rifle, aimed at the enemy, and pulled the trigger only to realize he was just another pawn being manipulated?
Or should it begin from the day he was discharged?
On that day, he thought he would return to a country worth fighting for, only to discover that his name was not on any list of recognition. No one thanked him, no one remembered him. The government did not provide the compensation he deserved, did not offer him a stable job, nor even a simple "thank you for your service."
He was a warrior, yet felt like a disposable tool, like a rusty firearm discarded in the military's junkyard, unwanted even in the second-hand market.
How could he express these feelings?
He trembled as he raised the megaphone, and everyone around him was watching, waiting for him to speak.
He had never been the center of so much attention before, never had the chance to stand in such a place, surrounded by so many who were eager to support and listen to him.
His throat felt tight, nearly choking him, and his heart raced as if it were about to burst from his chest. He forced himself to take a deep breath and slightly parted his lips—
But the words caught in his throat, unable to escape.
He closed his eyes, gripping the megaphone tightly as a whirlwind of thoughts swirled chaotically in his mind.
What should he say?
How could he say it?
He was not a speaker; he was merely a forgotten soldier.
Yet in that moment, he knew he could no longer remain silent.
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