New Mount and Scapegoat

Half a day later.

Rorschach, having visited nearly every gun shop in Chinatown, temporarily chose to give up.

Based on what Rorschach understood, following the law-abiding route meant that unless he went abroad—to Mexico or the Middle East—or set up a company and secured high-value commercial contracts to win over arms dealers, there was no way to open up a channel and quickly acquire a large number of firearms.

In other words, aside from robbing an arms dealer's warehouse, the only way Rorschach could obtain a large quantity of guns domestically was through gangs.

After all, snakes have their paths, and rats have their trails. Every gang controlled one or several gun smuggling routes.

Thus, the whole matter circled back to square one.

But... it wasn't entirely without progress.

Rorschach hadn't come away empty-handed from his journey.

After spending five hundred bucks to fit a suitable shoulder holster for his Plasma Pistol, Rorschach successfully obtained a phone number from a gun shop owner, one connected to a private gun dealer.

And according to the gun shop owner's Whispers, the guy had no gang background.

However, any small deal under a hundred guns wasn't worth bothering him about, to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings—like being mistaken for police bait.

Rorschach was half-convinced.

Still, he didn't refuse the gun shop owner's goodwill.

He chose to jot down the phone number.

This counted as finding a non-gang smuggling channel.

As for whether it was real or fake, that was for Rorschach to judge himself.

At this moment, strolling through the streets, Rorschach planned to head home first.

A pile of things was waiting for him to handle.

The restaurant's renovation work needed his inspection, and he had to give his Aunt suggestions for improvements.

The makeup exams from Midtown High School were also awaiting his attention...

Ah, my bike!

Lost in his Thoughts, Rorschach suddenly stopped in his tracks.

He slapped his forehead in frustration.

Perhaps it was his sturdy build or his abrupt movement.

In an instant, nearby pedestrians scattered several meters away, giving the startled Rorschach a wide berth.

Standing still, Rorschach took a deep breath.

He walked straight ahead without looking sideways.

As long as he wasn't embarrassed, then it was everyone else who was embarrassed...

As for the bike, given New York's current public security situation, leaving it outside school for over a day meant it was definitely gone.

Rorschach reluctantly accepted reality.

After crossing one block, Rorschach's gaze inadvertently landed on a motorcycle shop by the street.

After hesitating for a moment, Rorschach instantly decided to trade in his old gear for something better.

He stepped into the shop, but before he could even browse the merchandise, a black-haired white man in a suit hurriedly approached him.

"Hello, sir, what kind of vehicle are you looking to buy? Any models in mind?"

The white salesman's face beamed with a bright smile as he asked enthusiastically.

Faced with the inquiry, Rorschach shook his head and replied politely.

"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 raised a hand to gesture, leading Rorschach to a display stand.

Pointing at a luxury motorcycle slowly rotating atop it.

"Handcrafted by a master from a luxury brand, every metal part on this tough-guy frame is assembled by hand... The base model is only five hundred thousand!"

"Uh... second requirement: a lower price."

As a pragmatist, Rorschach couldn't help but twitch the corner of his mouth.

He wasn't a passionate motorcycle enthusiast.

Any motorcycle was just a tool for him—for jobs... for getting around.

Besides, the world of the rich was still far too distant for Mr. Millionaire Rorschach.

Maybe he'd get a chance to fleece Stark later...

"Ah, no problem. Take a look at this one—it's the latest spring release... The same color scheme as Iron Man is all the rage with young people. Priced at one hundred thousand, credit card installment plans welcome, up to ten percent off!"

Unfortunately, faced with the white salesman's relentless sales pitch.

Rorschach couldn't help but take a deep breath.

He was now deeply regretting walking into this store.

As if to end this ordeal as quickly as possible.

Rorschach narrowed his eyes and quickly scanned the various motorcycles arranged around the shop.

Then, without hesitation, he pointed at a vehicle that matched his tough-guy vibe.

"That one! How much?"

"Well..."

For a moment, the smile on the white salesman's face seemed to freeze.

Still, he maintained absolute professionalism.

"This is a scooter favored by women and... gentlemen of your build—commonly known as a 'little lamb'..."

"The price is just five thousand."

"But it doesn't meet your first requirement at all..."

A hint of helplessness flickered in the white salesman's eyes as he forced a smile.

Yet Rorschach just smiled faintly:

"No problem, it's cheap... I'll take two for now. I'll decide after I use them!"

"Use... decide after?"

The white salesman seemed unable to comprehend Rorschach's nonsense.

But a sale was a sale, and that 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 is king.

--

Hell's Kitchen, Baby Department Store.

A large number of FBI forensic personnel.

Wearing white protective suits, they moved in and out of the store's lobby.

Trying to extract more evidence from the rubble scattered across the floor.

In the weed-choked parking lot.

A white police car parked among a crowd of black vehicles stood out conspicuously.

Police Captain George Stacy sat in the driver's seat.

A cup of coffee in hand, he flipped through the documents spread out on the steering wheel.

As the liaison between the police and the Bureau.

George had been granted basic access to the case details.

Twenty hours after the incident.

Even though the DNA tests weren't complete, dental records had allowed.

The Bureau to identify all the victims' true identities.

The Slavs' "Tracksuit Gang."

Except for the missing leader, Fatty Bobby, the rest of the dead were basically gang leaders.

If no unexpected events occurred.

The Tracksuit Gang had become history for the NYPD.

George, taking a sip of coffee, subconsciously flipped through the documents.

Then, he instantly furrowed his brow.

His hand trembled slightly, and even the coffee in his cup nearly spilled onto himself.

Even though George had already seen the corpses of those children with his own eyes.

Seeing them again in the photo evidence.

George still couldn't bear it.

As a father himself, he simply couldn't imagine.

If his precious daughter had encountered the same thing.

Whether he could still uphold the belief in justice brought by the law...

Perhaps the crime scene was difficult to investigate.

Yet the case was actually simple and straightforward.

Even a rookie just starting out.

Could easily uncover the hidden truth.

Revenge.

Bloody revenge.

Bloody revenge for the dead children.

A long-time crime-fighting 'vigilante' had finally crossed that blurry line due to unbearable pain and anger?

George, brow deeply furrowed.

Stared blankly at a photo of the remnants of a rod-shaped weapon in the documents, lost in thought.

Thank you for the 500-point tip from April Kim Jisoo!

Thank you for your support!

Please recommend! Please bookmark!