Half a day later.
After visiting most of the gun shops in Chinatown, Rorschach temporarily gave up.
Based on what Rorschach had learned, as someone who followed the law.
Unless he went abroad, to Mexico or the Middle East.
Or started a company and won the favor of arms dealers through massive business contracts.
There was no way to open up a channel.
To quickly acquire large quantities of firearms.
In other words, aside from robbing an arms dealer's warehouse.
The only way Rorschach could obtain a large number of guns domestically.
Was through gangs.
After all, snakes had snake paths, and rats had rat paths.
Every gang controlled one or more gun-smuggling routes.
Thus, the entire matter returned to square one again.
However... it wasn't as if there had been no progress.
Rorschach had not come away empty-handed during his trip.
After spending five hundred dollars to fit the Plasma Pistol with a suitable shoulder holster.
Rorschach successfully got a phone number for a private gun dealer from a gun shop owner.
And according to the gun shop owner's Whispers.
The other party had no gang connections.
Still, he should not bother the dealer with small orders of fewer than a hundred guns, lest he cause unnecessary misunderstandings.
And be mistaken for a cop setting a trap.
Rorschach was only half convinced.
But he did not reject the gun shop owner's goodwill.
He chose to write down the number.
This counted as finding a non-gang smuggling channel.
As for whether it was real, Rorschach would have to judge for himself.
At that moment, Rorschach was walking down the street and planned to go home first.
A pile of matters still awaited his attention.
He needed to inspect the restaurant renovations and offer his aunt suggestions for improvements.
The make-up exams from Midtown High School were also waiting for him...
Ah, my bicycle!
Rorschach's spinning thoughts abruptly stopped him in his tracks.
He slapped his forehead hard with a frustrated expression.
Perhaps because of his sturdy build and reckless gesture.
The pedestrians around him immediately backed several yards away.
Avoiding the jumpy Rorschach.
Rorschach stood where he was and took a deep breath.
Then he walked forward without looking around.
As long as he wasn't embarrassed, the embarrassed ones would be everyone else...
As for the bicycle, given New York's current public safety situation.
If it had been parked outside the school for more than a day, it was definitely gone.
Rorschach helplessly accepted reality.
After walking past another block.
Rorschach's gaze accidentally fell upon a motorcycle dealership beside the street.
After hesitating briefly, Rorschach instantly decided to upgrade his ride.
He stepped into the dealership, but before he could inspect the merchandise.
A dark-haired white man in a suit hurried over.
"Hello, sir. What kind of vehicle are you looking to buy? Do you have a model in mind?"
The white salesman wore a brilliant smile and asked with great enthusiasm.
Facing the question, Rorschach shook his head and politely said:
"I don't know much about motorcycles. My only requirement is range."
After hearing Rorschach's words.
The white salesman immediately became even more enthusiastic.
He gestured with one hand and led Rorschach to a display platform.
Pointing at a luxury motorcycle slowly rotating atop it.
"Handcrafted by veteran masters of a luxury brand. Every metal component on this tough, rugged body has been assembled by hand... the base model is only five hundred thousand!"
"Uh... my second requirement is that it should be cheaper."
The pragmatic Rorschach could not help twitching the corner of his mouth.
He was not a fanatical motorcycle enthusiast.
To him, any motorcycle was merely a tool for committing crimes... and getting around.
Besides, the world of the rich was still far too distant from Mr. Rorschach, the millionaire.
Maybe he could fleece Stark sometime in the future...
"Ah, no problem. Let's look at this one. It's our newest spring model... the same color scheme as Iron Man is a trend young people are chasing. It's one hundred thousand, and we welcome credit card installment payments. You can get up to ten percent off!"
Unfortunately, faced with the white salesman's desperate sales pitch.
Rorschach could not help taking a deep breath.
He now deeply regretted entering this shop.
As if wanting to end this torment as soon as possible.
Rorschach narrowed his eyes and quickly swept his gaze over the various motorcycles around him.
Then he decisively pointed at a vehicle that suited his tough-guy image.
"That one! How much is it?"
"Um..."
For a moment, the smile on the white salesman's face seemed to freeze.
Still, he displayed absolute professionalism.
"This is a scooter beloved by women and gentlemen with... physiques like yours. It's what people commonly call a Little Lamb..."
"It costs only five thousand."
"But no matter what, it doesn't meet your first requirement..."
A trace of helplessness appeared in the white salesman's eyes as he forced a smile.
However, Rorschach merely smiled faintly.
"It's fine. It's cheap... Give me two for now. We'll talk after I use them up!"
"Use... use them up?"
The white salesman seemed unable to comprehend the nonsense coming out of Rorschach's mouth.
But being able to successfully sell merchandise was a good thing.
Once Rorschach pulled a stack of cash from his pocket.
The white salesman had no more complaints.
After all, the customer was God.
--
Hell's Kitchen, Baby Department Store.
A large number of FBI forensic personnel.
Wearing white protective suits, moved in and out of the department store's lobby.
They attempted to extract more physical evidence from the rubble covering the ground.
In the weed-choked parking lot.
A white police cruiser parked among numerous black vehicles stood out conspicuously.
Captain George Stacy of the NYPD was sitting in the driver's seat.
He held a cup of coffee while reading through the documents spread across the steering wheel.
As the liaison responsible for coordinating between the police and the FBI.
George had basic authorization to know the details of the case.
Twenty hours after the incident.
Although the DNA testing had not yet been completed, dental records.
Had allowed the FBI to identify the true identities of every deceased victim.
The Slavs' Tracksuit Gang.
Aside from the missing leader, Fatty Bobby, the rest of the dead were mostly gang core members.
If nothing unexpected happened.
The Tracksuit Gang had already become NYPD history.
George took a sip of coffee and subconsciously flipped through the documents.
Then his brows instantly furrowed.
His hand trembled, and he nearly spilled the coffee over himself.
Although George had already seen the children's corpses with his own eyes.
Seeing them again in the photographs.
Was still more than George could bear.
As a father himself, he simply could not imagine.
If his beloved daughter suffered the same fate.
Whether he could still cling to the belief in justice brought by the law...
Perhaps gathering evidence at the crime scene was difficult.
Yet the case itself was actually simple enough to understand.
Even a newly hired rookie.
Could easily discover the hidden truth within.
Revenge.
Bloody revenge.
Bloody revenge for the dead children.
Had a vigilante who had fought crime for years finally crossed that blurred line because he could no longer bear the pain and rage?
George's brows remained tightly furrowed.
He stared blankly at a photograph in the files showing the remains of a club-like weapon.
Thanks to April Kim Jisoo for the 500-point reward!
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