Sirens screamed sharply through the streets, tearing at the air.
By the time Rorschach rushed to the scene, police tape had already sealed off the area.
He looked up. A body bag lay motionless on the ground.
As for who was inside, that phone call earlier had already told him.
"Boss."
"Chief."
"Rorschach…"
Seeing him arrive, the homicide squad members seemed to find something solid to cling to. They called out to him by different titles and quickly gathered around.
A female officer with reddened eyes explained hoarsely, "We were spread out in the North Side following leads on the murder case. Martin went alone back to the station to request K‑9 support, but he was ambushed on the way. When we got there… he'd already been shot."
Rorschach stood there in silence, eyes fixed on the dark body bag ahead.
It was a long time before he finally patted the woman's shoulder in a small gesture of comfort, then stepped over the tape and walked up to the corpse.
He slowly unzipped the bag. Martin's blood‑smeared face appeared.
Entry wound in the back of the skull, bullet exiting the forehead. Rope burns on the wrists. Dust and scrape marks on both knees.
Clearly, Martin had been forced to kneel and then executed with a shot from behind.
Classic Mexican cartel style.
Looking at the young face in the bag, even Rorschach—long used to death—felt a brief sense of unreality.
He remembered that Martin had joined Homicide before him and had not exactly welcomed the "parachuted" team lead at first. But after they cracked a few cases together, Martin's attitude had changed.
He had started calling him "boss" with a grin every day and handled every assignment Rorschach gave him with real effort.
Because of that, Rorschach had invited Martin over for drinks more than once. Maybe it was that closeness that had put Martin in Gus's crosshairs.
"Sorry, brother."
He reached out, trying to wipe the blood from Martin's face, but the dried stains clung hard to his skin. No matter how he tried, they would not come off.
Just then, a clean handkerchief appeared in front of him. Ginny had caught up, her eyes full of worry.
She had expected Rorschach to explode in rage. His silence, though, made her even more uneasy.
"Because of that call?" she asked softly. "What are you going to do?"
Rorschach carefully wiped Martin's face, studying the young, peaceful features. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
——————————
Out in the suburbs, at a food processing plant.
Gus turned off the tap and dried his hands with meticulous care.
He could not even remember the last time he had personally pulled a trigger. But to make Rorschach understand the cost of crossing him, he did not mind sending those around the cop into the dark one by one.
"Let me go, motherf*cker!"
A young, furious voice cursed from behind him—Frank's youngest son, Carl.
Even with his hands and feet tied, Carl's face showed no fear at all. He just kept swearing at Gus and Mike at the top of his lungs.
Mike cuffed him hard on the head to shut him up.
Then he turned to Gus, expression dark. "The one closest to Rorschach at the Gallaghers' is that Fiona woman, right? She was his first love. If you want to hurt him, isn't grabbing Fiona more direct? Why go after a kid?"
"You really think a cop like Rorschach is going to lose sleep over some promiscuous woman dying?"
Gus looked down at Carl, still struggling and shouting, and sneered. "In that Gallagher house, this kid is the only one who's stayed close to him over the years. Rorschach even paid his tuition this semester. Now, because of his choices, another innocent life is about to vanish."
Hearing that, Carl finally put it together.
They had grabbed him to get at Rorschach.
"You motherfcking n***r!" Carl spat. "You kill me and Rorschach will come for you. He'll avenge me!"
Gus did not even bother to respond. He just took out his phone and accepted the pistol one of his men handed him.
He was going to execute the boy himself, record it, and send the video to Rorschach—let him taste that loss all over again.
But just as he was about to pull the trigger, Mike suddenly stepped between them.
Gus's face went cold in an instant. He was about to erupt when Mike leaned in and whispered a few words in his ear.
When Mike finished, Gus's eyes changed, and the way he looked at Carl turned… odd.
"Him? Isn't he a little old? Looks over ten already," he said, hesitant.
"He's older than what they usually want, but better something than nothing."
Mike could not stand the thought of killing a child. He forced himself to argue. "If you shoot him now, all you get is Rorschach going berserk. If we ship him to New York instead, that hits two birds with one stone."
Seeing Gus still wavering, Mike pressed on. "The cops are all over the missing kids. Moving ten at once like before is impossible. But it's just one boy—any random car can take him. And it gives us something to show New York."
Gus looked at Carl again. The boy was still cursing him, but the man's mouth curled in a faint smile. "Mouth's foul, but he's a cute kid…"
He nodded slightly, holstered the gun, and waved. "Send a crew. Get him to New York, same drop spot as always."
"So soon? Not locking him up a few days first?" Mike was surprised.
"The longer we wait, the more that mutt Rorschach will be hunting. I know him. He'll be out for blood. Get the kid out of here before he becomes a problem."
"…Got it."
A few minutes later.
Mike grabbed Carl by the scruff and dragged him toward the waiting car.
He glanced at the armed escorts around them, frowned, then bent close enough to murmur, "If you get a chance on the road, run. As far and as fast as you can. If they get you all the way to New York… you're on your own."
He hesitated, then pulled an energy bar from his pocket and shoved it into Carl's hands.
"New York?" Carl stared at him. "What the f*ck? Why are you sending me to New York?!"
Mike sighed to himself. He had wanted to buy some time, maybe find a chance to get the kid out. He had not counted on Gus moving this fast.
He spoke quietly. "There are some very rich, very powerful men over there. They like boys your age. And that bar? Don't eat it. If you want to survive in New York, you'd better start using it as a dildo and get some practice."
"What?"
Carl barely had time to react before they shoved him into the trunk.
In the dark, he replayed Mike's words and felt the thick, hard energy bar in his hands.
A second later, understanding hit him—and his scream of despair tore through the metal.
(End of Chapter)
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