Unexpected

Usually, a lie requires more lies to cover it up.

But Rorschach's lie wove together the real history of this world.

The future that was about to happen, and all kinds of possibilities.

He simply told of things that hadn't happened yet, to make it more convincing.

And compared to Rorschach, who killed as easily as he'd swat a fly, his Aunt, an ordinary person, was far more receptive to a story about a well-known, noble WWII hero rising from his coffin to save the world.

Rorschach was just a small, hot-headed side character in that tale.

Of course, Rorschach didn't expect his Aunt to believe everything.

As long as she stopped being shocked by things beyond common sense—

like his rapidly changing physique in the coming days, or the sudden appearance of unexplained money or gear—

even if she was only half-convinced, she wouldn't report him. She'd choose to cover for him and protect him.

And once Stark publicly revealed himself as a superhero, ushering in the chaotic era where villains and heroes crawled everywhere, Rorschach believed his Aunt would gradually get used to it.

After explaining everything, Rorschach made lunch for his Aunt, who was curled up on the sofa questioning her life.

Then he got busy with other things.

The reinforcement work in the basement was done; the borrowed tools needed to be returned.

The restaurant's renovation and prep work also required Rorschach's hands.

After all, his Aunt's career was still a career—and a kind of emotional anchor.

Even though Rorschach still had a fair amount of money left, he didn't dare take it out for now.

He was afraid too much stimulation would overwhelm his Aunt.

Anger harms the body, could lead to a stroke.

The dutiful Rorschach glanced back at his Aunt before heading out.

He saw her shoving lunch into her mouth with a vengeance, while counting bills with one hand, occasionally muttering vague, indistinct words and chuckling.

Well... that was going smoothly enough, right?

Rorschach breathed a slight sigh of relief.

Then he carefully said goodbye to his Aunt, earning a "don't bother me" eye roll, and walked out the door with a smile.

This was what family meant—and the source of Rorschach's drive to fight.

Rorschach first went to the apartment basement, packed up all the tools and equipment, then easily hoisted them up and returned to the second floor of the building.

Mr. Herman Schultz was the neighbor who had kindly lent Rorschach the tools.

But lately, he'd been stuck at home due to unemployment.

Rorschach knocked on the door and thanked the haggard, unemployed Mr. Schultz.

Then he offered to hire him to renovate the Delicious Chinese Restaurant.

Mr. Schultz, his hands thick with calluses and his frame large, was instantly thrilled—even his dark face showed a hint of brightness.

Just a simple job, and the man lit up immediately.

Rorschach began discussing the timeline and price with him.

And Rorschach refused the lower wage Mr. Schultz deliberately offered, instead giving a price slightly above market rate, as thanks for lending him the tools.

Mr. Schultz was deeply grateful.

After agreeing to meet tomorrow morning to discuss details, Rorschach left the apartment.

The sky over New York was still thick with clouds.

But the rain had gradually thinned, leaving only a persistent drizzle.

Yet on the streets, crowds of people, in twos and threes or larger groups, were all fired up, brimming with fighting spirit.

Even passersby who had no idea what was happening, once they quickly caught the news and understood the situation, joined the protest marches with righteous fury, shouting slogans about protecting children.

Clearly, this storm of public opinion, set in motion by Rorschach himself, was only in its first half.

And the signs were only growing more pronounced.

Rorschach, like an ordinary citizen oblivious to it all, walked against the tide of the crowd, heading toward the nearby supermarket and shopping mall.

Perhaps it was because of Rorschach's sturdy physique.

Or perhaps it was the fierce aura he exuded.

In any case, as Rorschach pressed forward.

The surrounding crowd instinctively made way for him.

As if afraid to brush against Rorschach even slightly.

And Rorschach, absorbed in thinking about what he was about to buy.

Didn't pay much attention.

He simply lowered his head, pulled up the hood of his tracksuit, and quickened his pace.

Rorschach had never had any demands when it came to clothing.

Because in the past, his aunt always brought him shopping.

So, when faced with the dazzling array of clothing types, Rorschach's eyes went blank.

Thus, he could only pick out some clothes and pants that looked sturdy and durable, and told the sales clerk to give him ten of each in the same style.

Rorschach handled the clothing with simple, brute efficiency, then went to buy five pairs of tough, durable military boots.

That way, whether for daily life or for killing and robbery, his needs would be met.

Rorschach carried a large pile of heavy bags and paid the bill cleanly and swiftly.

However, just as a satisfied Rorschach was about to step out of the store.

Two white police officers, sweating profusely and clearly lacking in fitness, suddenly blocked Rorschach's path.

At the same time, a young officer with a face full of freckles cautiously rested one hand on his holster and said with a wary look:

"Sir, please stop any movement immediately! And show us your ID or driver's license!"

Rorschach's brow furrowed slightly.

A cold glint flashed in his eyes, there and gone in an instant.

Then, he slowly revealed a smile.

And asked in a very friendly tone:

"Hello, officer, what seems to be the matter?"

"Nothing major, just someone called in saying they spotted the Tracksuit Gang."

The other, middle-aged police officer scanned Rorschach a few times.

His whole demeanor visibly relaxed, and he said with a smile:

"But clearly, the caller got it wrong—you're no Slav."

Before the words had even faded, Rorschach kept his smile, but the tension in his muscles instantly released.

Just a spur-of-the-moment check—no need to make a big fuss.

His thoughts turned.

Rorschach shook his head slightly and pretended to complain:

"Damn it, I'm just out enjoying a bit of shopping."

The middle-aged officer shrugged helplessly and said:

"Sorry, sir, please show us your ID, and then you can be on your way."

Rorschach put down the things he was carrying.

And pulled out the ID he had on him from his pocket.

The middle-aged officer took it casually, glanced at it a few times, and handed it back to Rorschach.

He said again, full of apology:

"Sorry for interrupting your trip."

Rorschach nodded, picked up his purchases, and left the mall.

Once Rorschach's figure had disappeared into the crowd.

The middle-aged officer walked expressionlessly over to the young officer, who looked dejected, and said in a low voice:

"Age doesn't match. The report said the suspect is between twenty and forty. That young man just now, though he's built strong, is only eighteen—just overdeveloped."

"Aren't we supposed to be catching criminals from the Tracksuit Gang? What's with running around looking for a murder suspect? Didn't you read the report? That suspect is the hero who saved the kid!"

The young officer's face was full of indignation, and he growled in a low voice, suppressing his anger.

"You're too naive. If the guy who took out the gang is a hero, then what does that make us, as police?"

The middle-aged officer let out a cold laugh, his face expressionless.

Then, he suddenly said to the young police officer:

"Forget it, go rest in the car. I'll take a look around and head back."

Watching the young police officer storm out of the mall indignantly, the expressionless Middle-aged Police Officer quickly pulled out his phone and began recording something.

On the phone's open screen, a dense list of over a dozen names had already been entered, along with their ID numbers and home addresses.

These were all the names of suspected individuals he had stopped and checked earlier.

Rorschach's information was also recorded by the Middle-aged Police Officer!

After finishing everything, the Middle-aged Police Officer hesitated for a moment, then chose to send it out.

"Damn it. I need at least triple the black money this month, otherwise, with the situation as it is, the risk of doing things for them is way too high."

The Middle-aged Police Officer muttered to himself.

Writer's block—writing Warhammer content is pure joy, but writing realistic plots is pure agony!

Please collect, please recommend!