The Vagrant and the Tracksuit Gang

At four in the afternoon, the setting sun enveloped all of New York.

Rorschach's expression was grim, a black baseball cap pulled low on his head.

He carried a gray single-shoulder backpack and stepped out of the apartment building.

Minutes earlier, his aunt had finally fallen asleep, still shaken with lingering fear.

Before drifting off, she had urged Rorschach again.

To clean up the wrecked restaurant and put up a closure notice.

Rorschach obeyed.

Now, he was on his way back to the restaurant.

Only, inside Rorschach's single-shoulder backpack.

There was now a pitch-black, matte Catachan Combat Knife.

The young Rorschach could tolerate any threat.

For instance, Thanos lurking among the distant stars, biding his time.

For instance, Ultron, not yet created, seeking to destroy humanity.

But all of that was conditional on his aunt not being harmed in any way!

Otherwise...

No rest until death!

Moreover, the many things he had seen and heard over the years.

Had already left Rorschach thoroughly disillusioned with the Upper Echelons who maintained order in the city.

Justice.

Fairness.

All of it.

Could only be reclaimed with his own hands!

By the time Rorschach reached the restaurant.

The forensics team promised by the Manhattan Precinct still hadn't arrived.

Perhaps they never would.

After all, a robbery case in Chinatown that caused no loss of life.

And didn't stir up a storm of public opinion.

Would ultimately end up as archived material in the Manhattan Precinct, fading into history.

Rorschach rolled up his sleeves with practiced ease and began cleaning up the debris on the floor.

Anything still usable, he kept to minimize losses.

What was useless, he discarded, counting it as damage.

But not long after.

Rorschach caught sight of a figure pacing back and forth outside the restaurant door.

It was a blond homeless man in tattered clothes, his back hunched.

Rorschach stopped his cleanup.

He walked straight to the door and said:

"Friend, the restaurant's closing for a while. Try the church for some food first."

Before he finished speaking, the scruffy blond homeless man halted in his tracks.

He glanced at Rorschach timidly, his eyes flickering uncertainly.

Then, as if gathering his courage.

He looked up and stammered:

"I, I didn't come for food... When the robbery happened, I... I was sleeping on the street nearby, and I saw those thugs!"

"They were all wearing matching red tracksuits, and their accents didn't sound like locals from New York... They seemed like Slavs!"

Hearing the homeless man's words, Rorschach's eyes narrowed slightly, and he muttered to himself:

"Red tracksuits? Slavs... Could it be the Tracksuit Gang?"

The Tracksuit Gang was a criminal organization active in New York City and its surrounding areas.

Most of its core members were Slavs.

Rorschach's thoughts spun rapidly.

He pondered for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash.

Rorschach peeled off a few twenty-dollar bills and stuffed them into the homeless man's jacket pocket.

"Friend, thank you for the information. This is your payment."

Yet, something beyond Rorschach's imagination occurred.

Before him, the blond homeless man's face flushed red. His fingers trembled as he pinched the bills in his pocket, trying to return them to Rorschach.

"I didn't come for the money!"

"You and your aunt are good people! I'm really happy to eat your food... It makes me feel alive, and just being alive still has meaning!"

Tears seemed to glisten in the blond homeless man's eyes, his emotions surging.

At the same time, he accidentally exposed the inflamed, ulcerated needle marks on his arm.

He was a drug addict.

Rorschach keenly noticed this, but he didn't take back the money he'd given the man.

Rorschach sighed and suddenly asked, "What's your name?"

"I... I'm Robert Reynolds." The blond homeless man hesitated before giving his name.

At the same time, he withdrew the bills and stopped insisting.

"Robert?"

Rorschach felt the name was somehow familiar.

But he quickly dismissed it.

Now, he had more important matters to deal with.

The Tracksuit Gang, the Slavs...

Eugene Paul?

Eugene was a typical Slavic surname...

At this moment, Rorschach narrowed his eyes, a clear clue forming in his mind.

After exchanging a few more pleasantries with Robert, Rorschach casually sent him off.

He turned, closed the door, and locked it.

Rorschach mounted his beloved bicycle.

Heading west.

--

Manhattan Apartment, 403.

A dejected Eugene Paul slumped in the sofa, wallowing in misery, a plastic neck brace fixed around his neck for treatment.

Even though the doctor repeatedly advised no alcohol or tobacco during treatment to speed recovery.

But clearly, Eugene wasn't the type to follow orders.

Eugene carefully sipped his beer, occasionally tilting his gaze to scroll through his phone and kill time.

He tried to ease the physical pain this way.

And the psychological defeat.

He, Eugene—a bully who'd ruled high school for years, built like a tank—

Had been thoroughly beaten up by a nobody delivery boy!

This incident had turned him into a laughingstock among his friends.

Complete loss of face!

"Damn yellow monkey."

Growing irritated, Eugene tossed his phone aside, closed his eyes, and tried to relieve the gloom in his heart.

Knock knock knock—

Just then, a sudden knock at the door interrupted Eugene's meditation.

Eugene opened his eyes in anger and roared:

"Who is it?"

No one answered from outside the door, only a brief pause.

Then the knocking came again.

Knock knock knock—

"Whoever you are, you're dead!"

Cursing, Eugene rose stiffly from the sofa.

One hand supporting his neck, he walked toward the door.

And just as he gripped the handle and turned the lock—

Bang—

Accompanied by a loud crash, the wooden door before Eugene suddenly burst upward and swung wide open!

In an instant, the entire door, carrying immense driving force, slammed heavily into Eugene's chest.

"Ah!"

A scream echoed through the room as Eugene's tall body crashed hard onto the floor.

"Hello there, Eugene."

Footsteps slowly sounded.

Rorschach, wearing a peaked cap, appeared at the door with a smile on his face.

"Who!"

Eugene, enduring sharp pain, struggled to support himself, trying to make out the attacker's face.

Yet, when he finally managed to see the figure before him, his eyes flew wide open.

A terrified yell, like a screaming chicken, rose and fell in waves.

"Don't come any closer—!"

Rorschach said nothing, continuing to advance.

Now, the burly Eugene writhed on the floor like a green caterpillar, struggling desperately.

A few minutes later, unable to bear the physical agony any longer, Eugene lay on the ground with a twisted expression, completely abandoning resistance.

In an instant, Eugene's vision blurred with tears.

He seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

"Rorschach, please spare my life... In New York City, murder is a first-degree felony..."

"Wah..."

"I was wrong, I was really wrong, I shouldn't have bullied classmates... I shouldn't have picked on others..."

"Wah, I was wrong."

Still smiling, Rorschach crouched in front of Eugene.

He looked down at him, his gaze icy.

"I ask, you answer..."

"Understand?"

Sobbing and sniffling, Eugene nodded frantically:

"Understand! Understand!"

"Around three in the afternoon, when you robbed the restaurant, did you fire a gun?"

"Huh?" Eugene froze, his eyes filled only with confusion, "Robbery? Gunfire?"

Rorschach's gaze sharpened.

Eugene, still learning to read expressions, immediately swore:

"I swear to God! I, Eugene, never use a gun when I bully people! Besides, I was still receiving treatment at the hospital in the afternoon!"

Rorschach frowned deeply.

Had he found the wrong person?

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