[𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌]

НЕЗАВИСИМО ОТ СТОИМОСТИ
( потому что что еще остается? )

There is blood in the wind and a chill in the air.

Somewhere far overhead, a raven calls out. Its wingbeats are the only other sound to piece the eerie silence of the night. Until—

Sirens.

The silence of nightfall shatters in the wake of flashing red and blue lights, casting headache-inducing visual noise into all corners of the dark. In metal chariots, pigs in uniforms speak into radios as their chariots stalk down the narrow streets. Arbiters of justice, supposedly. … What a joke.

Disappearing is easy, in this part of the city. No one comes looking for the missing people, and when they do, they do not care to search for very long. Over the past several months, a trail of bodies has found in this shoddy, run-down neighborhood. All within a day or two of the week’s start, each one never more than an hour or two old at most, all found in some shadowed nook or alley or otherwise darkened or isolated place just around the corner from a public area, and all adorned with a particularly gruesome calling card: a flower, vibrant and intricate, formed out of the victim’s own flesh and blood.

And the police, all these weeks… have done all of nothing.

Yet they’re here now. On the wrong side of town, where their beady eyes so seldom bother to look. At the sound of their sirens, even the roaches scuttle away, the meager number of remaining inhabitants on the street beating a hasty retreat into hidden corners and behind cheap locks and rusting doors. The windows are shut. The neighborhood holds its breath.

One pair of police steps out of their cars while the other pair remains in theirs. The driver in that car has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The officers who’ve left the safety of their car are tense, weapons drawn, grim determination writ clear on their faces for those close or sharp-eyed enough to see it.

It is clear: the uniformed jesters are not here for fun and games. They are searching for something.

They are hunting.

It’s a bad night to be caught out with your hands dripping red.

Matsuda Tsuuka .

by sixsmith.

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