The Safe House for the Bright Light is located in an apartment in Brooklyn.
There was no doorbell, no knocking.
With a "click," the door lock was violently broken, and the door panel opened inward.
Mark Litt, also known as the Bright Light, is reclining on the sofa.
He was shirtless, his expensive trousers were crumpled, his eyes were unfocused, and his pupils were dilated.
A disheveled blonde woman straddled it, and when she saw the dark figure suddenly appear at the door, she shuddered, screamed, and quickly stood up, almost falling to the ground.
"Get out."
Hearing the voice behind him, Mark Litt waved his hand impatiently, "Didn't you hear me? Get lost!"
The woman scrambled to grab her clothes and ran away from Rorschach, not daring to look at him even once.
Mark then slowly sat up straight, turned his head, and squinted at the uninvited guest.
A dirty trench coat.
A top hat.
There was also a face with constantly shifting black ink stains.
"What the hell is this?" Mark scoffed. "Tell me, how do you want to die?"
Rorschach ignored him and walked straight to the coffee table.
Scattered on it were bottles, white powder, and a small syringe.
He took the USB drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the laptop on the table.
"What do you want? Checking up on me?"
Mark found it somewhat amusing.
"Kid, I'm a hero. Vought spent millions to make me famous, who do you think you are?"
The screen lit up.
A shaky video started playing.
Flames, screams, terrified faces.
An out-of-control, scorching beam of light swept across the street without warning, igniting a car and engulfing a mother holding her child nearby in Flame.
In the video, the face of the Bright Light is distorted and ferocious due to the effects of the drugs. There is no panic in his eyes, only a kind of manic pleasure after the release.
Mark's smile vanished.
"This is slander! It's fabricated!"
He stood up, even forgetting that he was barely clothed.
Rorschach pulled out the USB drive and put it back in his pocket.
"The company needs a report," he said. "A report that portrays you as a hero, gloriously sacrificing yourself to save the people."
"Sacrifice? You're one of the company's employees?"
Mark paused for a moment, then laughed.
"Hahahaha! You want me to sacrifice myself? Do you know how much money I make for the company in a year? Do you know how many fans are waiting for my autograph? You dog, did you misunderstand the orders from above?"
He extended his right hand, and light began to gather in his palm.
"I'll show you right now what the difference is between a hero and a janitor!"
The light is about to shine out.
Rorschach moved.
He didn't dodge; he charged forward.
As I stepped onto the coffee table, the glass shattered beneath my feet.
Before Mark could react, Rorschach had already closed in on him.
With his left hand, he grabbed the wrist of the man's right hand, which was gathering energy, and with his right elbow, he slammed it hard against the inside of the man's elbow joint at a tricky angle.
"Snap!"
Fragments of bone protruded from the body.
Mark's scream was choked back by his own out-of-control energy.
The ball of light exploded instantly due to the interruption of energy transmission, scorching his right arm black.
"Aaaaaah!"
The pain and burns brought Mark back to reality from the drug's euphoria.
He tried to retaliate with his other hand, but Rorschach was faster.
A knee strike landed squarely on his abdomen.
Rorschach released his grip, letting him kneel on the ground, then stepped on his back, pressing his face hard into the shards of broken glass and white powder.
"Now, listen to me."
Rorschach's voice came from above his head.
"Ugh... How dare you... The company won't let you get away with this..."
Mark made a vague threat.
Rorschach pressed down slightly with his feet.
"Click."
Mark let out a muffled groan, his body convulsed violently, and he could no longer utter a word.
The company has given you a task.
Rorschach said, " Eastern Europe, the stronghold of a separatist armed group. They've taken a group of hostages. You need to go and rescue them."
He paused.
"If you detonate the bomb and die with them, the public relations department will portray you as a martyr who sacrificed himself for peace. Your family will receive a generous compensation, and your name will be engraved on Vought's Wall of Fame."
This is your script. Your ending.
Mark lay on the ground, his body trembling uncontrollably.
He finally understood.
This is the execution notice.
"No... no... I can't die..."
Tears streamed down his face as he let the shards of glass cut into his skin, leaving streaks of blood.
"I can explain! It was an accident! It was the medicine... it was a problem with the medicine! It wasn't my fault!"
"I know," Rorschach said.
He took out his phone from his pocket, pulled up a document, and waved it in front of Mark.
[Common drug supplier: Mickey " Candyman " Cohen, Warehouse Number Three, Hell's Kitchen Dock District]
"After you die, I will go after him," Rorschach said. "I will judge him in my own way. Then the people who sold him the raw materials, the people who protected him... no one in the chain will be spared."
"Using other people's blood to buy your own medicine."
Rorschach repeated what he had said to the man who sold the videos.
"Now, use your life to wash away the blood of others."
"Please... don't kill me..."
Mark was utterly devastated.
He's not the only one doing this.
Why not ask someone else?
Why did you have to come looking for me?
"I don't want to die! I'll do anything! I can give you money! Lots of money!"
Your money is dirty.
Rorschach released his foot.
He looked at Mark Litt, who was sprawled on the ground like a lump of mud, the pattern on his ink-stained mask slowly flowing, as if he were thinking.
You don't want to die.
"I don't want to die..."
Mark's face was pressed against the shards of glass, a mess of tears, snot, and expensive white powder.
He was a dying dog who, smelling the scent of his owner loosening his chain, began wagging his tail frantically.
"I... I can do anything! I can change! I'll never touch those things again! I can become a real hero!"
Rorschach looked at him.
The patterns on the ink-stained mask change slowly and symmetrically.
He remained silent.
This silence terrified Mark even more.
He felt like meat on a chopping board, with the other person considering whether to smash it with the back of a knife or slice it.
"You said it."
Mark looked up, his eyes gleaming with ecstatic joy.
I said it! I said it! I swear!
"Very good."
Rorschach removed his foot from him, took a step back, and looked down at him.
"The company doesn't need a drug addict, but perhaps it needs a warrior who knows how to atone."
"A warrior! Yes! I am a warrior!"
Mark scrambled to his feet, ignoring his broken arm and the bloodstains on his face, and nodded frantically.
"Mickey ' Candyman ' Cohen. Warehouse Number Three, Hell's Kitchen Dock District. He sold you drugs that made you lose control and kill innocent people."
Rorschach stated calmly.
"It's him! It's all his fault! If it weren't for his medicine..."
"Now, I'm giving you a chance to atone for your sins."
Rorschach interrupted him.
Go kill him.
Mark's expression turned to surprise.
"Wh... what?"
"Kill him. And everyone in his warehouse."
"Clean that up to prove you still have value, prove you're not just a piece of trash who can only kneel and beg for mercy."
Mark opened his mouth, his astonishment turning into terror.
Mickey Cohen, the " Candyman "?
That infamous madman from Hell's Kitchen?
He keeps a group of outlaws under his command, as well as other Metahuman live in the shadows.
Let him go alone?
"My... my hand is broken..."
Mark pointed to his charred, severed right arm, his voice trembling, "I need treatment... I need support... I'm all alone..."
"You have another hand," Rorschach said. "Your abilities come from your body, not from just one hand."
"But... but they have so many of them! They have heavy firepower! This isn't fair! They're sending me to my death!"
"Your previous mission was also to your death."
Rorschach reminded him.
"In that ending, you will become a hero; in this, you will atone for your sins."
He looked at Mark's uncertain face and said, "This is your choice."
choose?
No, this is not a choice.
Mark's brain was working at lightning speed.
On one hand, there was the option of going to Eastern Europe, where, under the company's arrangement, he "gloriously sacrificed" himself.
That process was controllable; it was all an act. There might still be a glimmer of hope.
Even if there's nothing wrong, you'll die with dignity, and your family will receive money.
On the other hand, they're now going to take on a gang's stronghold one-on-one.
He will die, die like a stray Wild Dogs, his body will be thrown into the Hudson River, and his name won't even be on the news the next day.
He didn't want to die.
He just didn't want to die.
"No... I can't do it..."
Mark finally broke down, his legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees.
"Please, this isn't my job! I'm a hero, I'm a star! Fighting and killing are for people like you... people like you! I... I can give you money!"
His voice grew softer and softer under Rorschach's gaze.
He saw the pattern on the ink-stained mask stop changing.
Ultimately, it settled into a perfectly symmetrical butterfly.
Rorschach understood.
This so-called "hero" had neither the courage to die as a warrior nor the awareness to atone for his sins.
All he wanted was to live without paying a price.
Using other people's blood to exchange for their own medicine.
Using someone else's life to save your own.
Rotten, utterly rotten.
It has no value.
"I see."
Rorschach nodded slowly.
Mark, thinking he had agreed to the deal, wore a relieved smile.
"Thank you! Thank you..."
"Click."
The head of the Bright Light drooped at an eerie angle, and the smile on his face was frozen in that moment forever.
Rorschach released his grip, letting the still-warm body fall limply to the ground.
He walked to the window and opened it.
Rainwater mixed with the night wind rushed in, washing away the decadent smell in the room.
"It's me."
"Oh?" Selene's voice was tinged with amusement. "Finished so quickly? Have you chosen the script? Is it a martyr from Eastern Europe, or a tragic hero from Hell's Kitchen?"
The product is now unusable.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the communication.
"In the literal sense?"
"We need cleaners on site."
Rorschach did not give a direct answer.
"Interesting. You're even less rule-abiding than I thought. I like it."
She paused for a moment.
"The cleaner will be here in five minutes. Also, Rorschach..."
"Um."
"Don't leave a tail behind, I mean any kind of tail."
"Clear."
The communication was disconnected.
Rorschach put away the communicator and took out a notebook wrapped in oilcloth and a pen from the inside pocket of his trench coat.
He turned to a new page and, by the dim light from the window, wrote down today's record on the paper.
Rorschach's Diary.
October 26th.
Continued.
He was given two choices.
The death of a hero, or the atonement of a sinner.
He chose the third path.
Wagging its tail and begging for mercy.
Incorrect answer.
The trial has been concluded.
Selene is testing me.
She gave me a chain, wanting to see if I would bite.
She will see it.
Bright Light is just a symptom.
The lesion is in Warehouse Number Three of Hell's Kitchen.
Mickey " Candyman " Cohen.
The trial will begin with him.
After finishing writing, Rorschach closed the diary and put it back in his pocket.
He glanced at the corpse on the ground and the USB drive, but didn't touch it again.
The "cleaner" will take care of everything.
They would destroy the USB drive, making it look like an accident or a revenge killing by some villain.
Bright Light will disappear silently from Vought's hero list.
It was as if he had never existed.