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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 he should escape to, or rather, he had nowhere to run.
Carter rubbed his tired eyes, forcing himself to suppress the weariness as he yawned and walked lazily down the street in the morning light. The fatigue from last night clung to him like a heavy layer of mud, making each step feel burdensome. The sunlight was glaring, seemingly intent on opposing him, causing him to squint slightly, like a nocturnal creature just emerging from underground, resisting the brightness of the world.
On the street, people had already begun their new day. Pedestrians moved briskly, exchanging cheerful laughter that sounded like a harsh mockery in Carter's ears, as if the rhythm of the city had nothing to do with him; he was merely an outcast cast aside in the torrent 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 structure gleamed in the morning light with its glass and steel facade, towering into the clouds and overlooking the pedestrians below like an ivory tower, allowing those inside to survey, calculate, and manipulate the flow of wealth and power in the world. Carter stood at the entrance of the building, took a deep breath, and pushed open the heavy glass door.
"Morning, Carter."
The security colleague at the door nodded at him in greeting. Carter returned a slight nod, responding coldly 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 engaged in continuous discussions. "Asset acquisition," "market forecasts," "quantitative analysis"—various complex terms intertwined in the air like a ritual he had no intention of participating in, leaving him as merely an outsider permitted to stand at the periphery.
He navigated around these individuals as if avoiding a species that didn't belong to him, sidestepping those discussing numbers and decisions, bypassing groups of traders laughing and chatting, evading the overwhelming scents of expensive perfumes and overly shiny shoes as he made his way toward the security room at the back of the building.
As soon as he stepped inside, he let out a sigh of relief, as if retreating from an unfamiliar territory back into a realm he knew well. 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 felt reassuring compared to the suffocating conversations in the lobby.
He zipped up his jacket, donned 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 this damn nonsense."
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. He twirled it between his fingers, letting it slide 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 life.
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, exhausted by the overly energetic pedestrians on the streets, and sick of the city pretending everything was perfectly normal. What frustrated him most was that his nights were already terrible—light sleep, vivid dreams, waking up in the middle of the night. Every time he closed his eyes, it felt like he was wrestling with some invisible nightmare. So why torture himself during the day?
The night shift was the perfect time for him—darkness, silence, isolation.
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 and slouched into it, leaning back against the chair's support. He took out his Bluetooth headphones, popped them into his ears, and connected to the radio station he listened to every day—FM66.6.
The host, Johnny, spoke in a deep, malicious tone: "…this country is being buried by fools and politicians alike. Want to know who’s stealing your paycheck? Want to know why your life has become so difficult?"
A guest on the show chuckled 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 audacity to demand we respect their culture!"
Johnny snorted derisively, his voice dripping with sarcasm: "Respect? Have they ever respected us? These bastards contribute nothing but crime and exploitation! And our government continues to pander to these foreign trash, turning our city into an endless dump!"
Carter remained silent, leaning back in his chair as he listened intently. His fingertips unconsciously tapped on the table, keeping time with Johnny's voice as it echoed through his headphones. He tuned in daily to hear Johnny criticize society and lambaste immigration policies, listening to guests express their anger and dissatisfaction with the decay of their country while blaming all problems on those "outsiders."
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