Lynn's finger swiped lightly across the tablet.
On the screen, the handwriting was messy, conveying an anger that threatened to tear the paper apart.
That was Rorschach's "Employee Performance Review Report".
Selene Kayle stood gracefully to the side.
Lynn didn't look up, but simply flipped through the pages with interest. " Soldier Boy, a ghost living in his own propaganda film. Wei, a hammer with a precise price tag. Ha, his word choice is... sharp."
"He's an oddball."
Selene's assessment was very objective.
"But it worked. The liquidation of Bright Light's assets was very clean; the public relations department didn't even need to work overtime. They directly defined this incident as a vicious gangland feud."
"He's like a woodpecker," Selene said, turning and leaning against the edge of her desk. "Always stubbornly tapping at the trunk, determined to peck out the bugs inside. But boss, some bugs, if you peck them out, might kill the whole tree."
"Then let it wither and die."
Lynn answered without hesitation.
"A rotten tree will only attract insects if left unattended. It's better to burn it; the firelight will attract attention, the ashes can be used as fertilizer, and even the leftover charcoal can be packaged as eco-friendly fuel and sold to the middle class. To me, destruction and creation are essentially the same business."
Outside the window, a clap of thunder ripped through the night sky.
The rain in New York was pouring down harder.
Rorschach stood on the edge of the roof, the pattern on his ink-stained mask slowly writhing in the rain.
He was hunting.
Across the street, Ossie, a junior member of the Gambino Family, rushed out of the bar.
Without an umbrella, his suit was soaked, and he scrambled to his feet.
Just a minute ago, Ossie received a phone call.
Then he reacted as if he'd seen a ghost, even spilling the expensive whiskey all over his crotch.
Rorschach didn't move.
He just watched.
He was watching a movie whose ending had already been spoiled.
Two minutes later, Ossie rushed out from the other end of the alley, even more terrified.
He saw something in the darkness that terrified him.
Ossie ran frantically to his car, his hands trembling, and he couldn't get the key into the lock several times.
Several minutes passed before Ossie started the car and sped off like a madman.
Rorschach's grappling hook shot out, silently embedding itself in the wall of another building.
He was like a ghost, drifting between buildings, closely following the reckless car.
Rorschach's Diary.
November 9th.
rain.
The city is trying to purify itself.
A man with the Grim Reaper painted on his chest is Carnage a gang.
Highly efficient, thorough, and leaving no survivors.
He killed not for money, not for fame, and not even for so-called "justice".
Every time he pulled the trigger, it was with a pure, fiery rage.
revenge.
A release of personal emotions.
I am different.
My anger is icy.
I don't want to vent; I want an answer.
An answer that can completely heal this city.
I want to see his method.
Let's see if this reckless and aggressive chemotherapy can kill cancer cells or send patients to their graves first.
Slaughterhouse on the outskirts of the city.
The cartoon cow sign looked eerily funny in the rainy night.
This is the Gambino Family's "garbage disposal site," and also Ossie's last refuge.
When Ossie rushed in, there were already more than a dozen armed thugs huddled inside.
A fat man with a face full of scars walked over and slapped Ossie across the face.
"Useless! You led him here!"
"What can I do! He's a monster! He killed everyone! Old Joe, Big Fool, and Rick kept the books... they're all dead!" Ossie collapsed to the ground, screaming in despair, "Nobody could stop him!"
An alarm suddenly blared throughout the entire Slaughterhouse.
The glaring red lights flashed wildly.
The Slaughterhouse gates were blocked from the outside with heavy objects.
With a "snap," all the lights went out.
Only the red emergency light was spinning, casting a grotesque shadow on the half-eaten pork hanging from the iron hook.
A short scream came from the outer monitoring room, followed by a muffled gunshot.
Inside the cold storage, gang members held submachine guns, their muzzles trembling as they pointed them toward the door.
Cold sweat streamed down their foreheads, dripping into their eyes and stinging painfully, but no one dared to blink.
Fear is contagious.
They have become like rats locked in a cage.
Rorschach stood on the pipes at the top of the cold storage, looking down at everything.
The heavy iron door of the cold storage room suddenly made a loud bang.
A dent appeared on the door.
The second time.
Third time.
The iron gate wasn't pushed open; instead, it was blown away by a directional blast!
The iron gate, like a giant Polaroid camera, slammed the two unlucky guys at the doorway directly onto the opposite wall, turning them into a messy pile of flesh.
"Fire! Kill him!!" the fat man screamed hysterically.
They screamed and fired wildly at the smoke-filled doorway.
The muzzle flashes created a strobe effect in the darkness, briefly illuminating the hanging sacks of flesh and their terrified faces.
There was nothing in the smoke.
Except for two small, red-glowing spheres that rolled in.
Flash.
The intense white light robbed everyone of their sight.
A gang member who was loading a weapon was thrown backward, his chest becoming a bloody, mangled mess of red debris.
He crashed into a row of hanging corpses, causing them to swing back and forth.
The remaining ten or so people tried to use the hanging pieces of meat and metal frames as cover.
A foolish choice.
The intruders are the hunters in the hunting grounds.
He walked through the Slaughterhouse with a clear purpose.
Rorschach adjusted his posture on the pipe, his trench coat a black stain against the rust.
He analyzed the assassin's every move.
This is not the blind rage of Beast.
This was a meticulously planned extinction.
The killing continued.
Methodical, ruthless, and swift.
Every gunshot marks the end of an era.
The screams faded away one by one.
Rorschach adjusted his posture on the pipe, the pattern on the inkblot mask churning violently.
He analyzed the assassin's every move.
This man's method is very effective.
He doesn't negotiate, threaten, or engage in psychological warfare.
He simply erased the problem physically, like erasing pencil marks with an eraser.
An alluring philosophy.
But is this justice?
Or is it simply a more efficient way to commit murder?
Finally, silence returned to the cold storage.
Except for one person, Ossie.
Rorschach's initial target.
He collapsed in a corner, incontinent, and babbled incoherently.
The Punisher stood amidst a dozen new corpses, the barrel of his shotgun still smoking.
Why is this one still alive?
negligence?
No.
He was the most conspicuous target from the very beginning.
The Punisher walked toward Ossie.
His boots made a crisp sound as he stepped on the used bullet casings.
He kicked away the pistol that Ossie was holding in her trembling hand.
Ossie shrank back, his eyes tightly shut.
"Please... I have money. Lots of money. You can take it all."
The Punisher cast Shadow above him, the skull on his chest a death sentence.
He remained silent.
Silence is more terrifying than any threat.
"I have intelligence!"
Ossie blurted it out, her voice trembling.
" The Falcone Family, the Maroni Family... I know their routes, their safe houses! I can give you everything!"
"At that amusement park on 52nd Street, a kid got caught in a shootout last month. A shootout over your new merchandise."
Ossie's face was blank.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about..."
"Her name is Lisa. She's eight years old."
Personal suffering.
The source of the Flame.
It's not a fight for the city.
It was a personal revenge that expanded to an industrial scale.
He is not cleansing the city of its sins.
He was trying to burn away his memories.
"It wasn't me! It was an accident! I'm just a businessman!"
Ossie scrambled backward, her back slamming against the blood-stained wall.
"These things always happen! It's part of the cost of doing business!"
The Punisher reached out and grabbed a clump of Ossie's hair, forcing the man to look at him.
"How much is an eight-year-old girl worth, Ossie? What's the cost?"
He did not wait for an answer.
He used his other hand to pick up a meat hook from the table next to him.
It was heavy, rusty, and had a sinister tip.
Ossie's eyes widened in extreme fear.
He started screaming.
No! No! God, no!
The Punisher ignored him.
He was no longer a soldier or an assassin; he was a priest performing a dark ritual.
Calmly and deliberately, he plunged the tip of the meat hook into Ossie's open, screaming mouth.
The scream was interrupted.
With a nauseating cracking sound, the fleshy hook pierced Ossie's nape.
He kept pushing until the curved part of the meat hook was firmly stuck in the man's throat.
Ossie did not die immediately.
His body was convulsing.
He drowned in his own pool of blood, his eyes wide open.
Rorschach closed his diary and disappeared into the Shadow of the pipes.
Rorschach's Diary.
November 9th.
Continued.
The judgment has been executed.
But he is not a judge.
He was an executioner.
This medicine is too strong, too potent.
It can kill viruses, but it may also kill the host.
but...
In this rotten world, perhaps we need this kind of fiery passion.
At least, it's cleaner than a lie.