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墨書 Inktalez
Mark's slaughter resembled a meticulously choreographed performance, each step swift and precise, every bullet carrying the intent of destruction. His movements were clean and decisive, devoid of any hesitation. The gunfire echoed outside the warehouse, each shot marking the end of a life, while smoke and flames served as the backdrop to his stage, with the scattered bodies on the ground standing as grim testimony to the massacre.
Meanwhile, far away at the surveillance station, Cat 199 watched the entire process with great delight. As he stared at the screen, he grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed it into his mouth, his tone light as if he were watching a Hollywood blockbuster.
"Wow~ Master Mark, your shooting skills are simply impeccable, meow~!" he exclaimed, counting down the number of survivors with a voice altered for effect, laced with mockery and excitement. "Only eight left, meow~... now it's seven... oh dear, another one down, six left, meow~!"
The sound of Mark's gunfire became the rhythm for Cat 199's countdown; with each pull of the trigger, the number of enemies on screen dropped. The wails and screams of the thugs seemed to serve as the background music for this countdown, while Cat 199's tone grew increasingly relaxed, as if narrating Mark's killing spree.
"Five left, meow~! Hmm, now four! Wow~ this shooting is pure art!" Cat 199 chuckled lightly, taking a sip from his drink, his voice brimming with ease.
As the enemy count dwindled, fear thickened in the air. The surviving thugs had completely broken down; their gunfire became sporadic and feeble, with more choosing to hide rather than retaliate. They knew this man was beyond their reach; his coldness and precision surpassed human capability.
Soon enough, Cat 199 counted down to the last one. "Wow meow~ only one left, Master! Let me guess how you're going to deal with him?" His voice was filled with eager anticipation and excitement, as if this massacre was merely entertainment for him.
Mark did not respond. He held his gun firmly, his gaze icy as he walked toward the last surviving thug. The man cowered behind a battered cover, curled up in a ball with his hands over his head, trembling uncontrollably. His gun had long since fallen to the ground; sweat drenched his face while despair and terror filled his eyes.
"What should I do... what should I do..." he mumbled to himself, his voice shaking so much it was barely audible. He had been completely consumed by fear; there was no courage left to resist—only an overwhelming instinct to survive.
Mark slowly raised his gun, its dark muzzle aimed at where the thug was hiding. His steps were steady and slow, as if prolonging a deliberate judgment that allowed the other to fully sense death approaching. A slight smirk curled at the corners of his mouth, revealing a cold arc.
"The game is over," he said softly, his voice chillingly calm as if pronouncing the other’s fate.
Mark's raised gun paused mid-air before slowly lowering again. He took a deep breath; his gaze pierced through the cover where the last thug cowered like a blade cutting through flesh. His voice was low and frigid yet thunderous: "Come out—!"
The thug suddenly trembled, his whole body jolting as if electrocuted, his hands involuntarily raised. He slowly peered out from behind cover, his movements stiff and slow, his face etched with fear, lips quivering uncontrollably. His pants were already soaked, urine seeping down his legs and pooling on the floor, emitting a foul odor. With his head bowed, his legs shook like leaves in a storm, unable to even stand steady.
Mark looked at the man with a glimmer of cold disdain in his eyes. He took a few steps forward, gradually closing the distance until only a few paces separated them. The thug kept his head down, too afraid to meet Mark's gaze, resembling a bowstring ready to snap at any moment.
"You are the last one," Mark said coldly, his tone devoid of any emotion yet chilling enough to send shivers down the spine.
The thug's lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something, but his throat felt constricted, and no sound emerged. He merely nodded instinctively, trembling in place.
Unexpectedly, Mark laughed—a low, icy laugh that carried an unsettling sense of pressure. He pointed his gun toward the warehouse exit, his tone casual yet laced with an undeniable command: "Get out. Leave this place and survive. Remember to tell everyone about tonight. Let them know what happens to those who dare cross me."
The thug paused for a moment, seemingly not comprehending Mark's words. But when he realized he still had a chance to live, the fear in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of joy. He nodded vigorously, repeatedly saying, "Thank you... thank you! I... I will... I definitely will!"
He stumbled around and moved his numb legs as he desperately ran toward the warehouse exit. His steps were unsteady, nearly causing him to fall several times.
Mark watched as the thug clumsily made his way toward the exit, his gait awkward and his back pitiful. As the sound of his footsteps faded away, Mark's previously cold gaze darkened suddenly, an indescribable irritation swelling within him. The man was running like a wounded dog—utterly devoid of dignity.
His hand involuntarily lifted, gripping the gun tightly as he aimed at the thug's back, slowly lowering it to target his legs. His finger gently pressed against the trigger without hesitation.
"Bang!"
The bullet struck the man's right leg with precision, piercing through the knee instantly. The thug's body lurched forward violently like a puppet with its strings cut, crashing heavily to the ground. He let out a terrified scream, clutching his injured leg as excruciating pain sent cold sweat pouring down his face, leaving him pale as a ghost. He collapsed on the ground and struggled to turn his head, looking at Mark with wide eyes filled with terror, lips trembling.
"Why... why did you do this...?" His voice was thick with confusion and despair. "You said you would let me go..."
However, the response he received was not an explanation, but another gunshot.
"Bang!"
The second bullet struck his left leg with precision, and this time the impact elicited a scream from him as his body convulsed on the ground. His legs were rendered immobile, and blood quickly spread across the floor, staining it a vivid red. Fear filled his eyes as he muttered repeatedly, "Why... why...?"
Mark slowly approached, his steps steady and silent, the handgun still firmly in his grip, its muzzle slightly lowered. He bent down, looking down at the man lying on the ground with a cold and mocking gaze, as if observing something utterly worthless.
"Because you ran like an idiot," he said softly, his tone calm as if stating a fact. A cruel smile curled at the corners of his mouth, as if mocking the other's helplessness and despair.
The thug froze for a moment, the terror and pain on his face intensifying. His eyes were filled with desperation and pleading, but Mark remained unmoved, standing there looking down at him with a gaze as cold as winter's ice. In that moment, Mark resembled a judge presiding over another's fate, mercilessly toying with the life and death of his opponent.
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