Chapter 20: Come to work

"We killed him," Anchors said miserably.

"But the process wasn't easy. Chris... he turned into something like a perfect demon. I don't even know what else to call it. He had fewer than ten wounds on his body, but he was drenched in blood. It was like nothing even hurt him. We were stunned, couldn't take him down alone. In contrast, he killed a few of our brothers, wounded even more.

Mr. John had a can of pepper spray—sprayed it right into his face. It nearly tore his belt off. But even then, he didn't stop. With that blood-soaked blade in his hand, he kept crawling toward us. We could see his spine—half of it—still somehow holding his body together.

Worse than anything..."

Anchors held his breath. His bloodshot eyes were filled with terror—half from memory, half from blood loss.

"He was smiling," Anchors whispered. "I'll never forget it. His body mangled, held together by his damn spine... but he was laughing, hysterically, until someone finally shattered his skull."

Cid listened quietly. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, lit a new one, and exhaled slowly.

"We thought it was over, but it wasn't," Anchors continued with a gasp. "Next came Yoshida's group. I wasn't there, but I heard what happened. During an unloading mission, Yoshida snapped—picked up a crowbar and smashed someone's head in. Killed seven more after that. They say he only stopped after being shot full of holes. But even as he died, he was laughing. Just like Chris."

He trembled. "It was like a virus. That insane laughter—contagious, haunting. They bashed in heads, tore people apart, but they couldn't stop laughing."

"Then, two days ago, another friend of ours went mad. Started laughing, grabbed a wine bottle, and cracked it over someone's skull. And the next day? Another guy just dropped dead. No warning, no signs."

Cid remained calm, still smoking.

"We're all going crazy. We live in fear now—watching everyone around us, even our closest brothers. One wrong move and you're out. Doesn't matter if it was nothing—we react first."

He added bitterly, "One poor guy just wanted to take a piss. Someone thought he was reaching for a weapon and knocked him out cold. Gave him a concussion."

"I see," Cid muttered. Then after a pause, he asked, "That wanderer... after you killed him, where did you leave the body?"

Anchors hesitated, then gritted his teeth. "His name was Zenin. Just a poor bastard from the slums. Got evicted last month. Boss didn't approve, but I took a few of our guys and we staked his body—superstition, maybe. We were haunted by all that had happened. Thought it might help."

"And? Did you dig him up later?"

"No." Anchors shook his head slowly, eyes wide with fear. "We went back. There was cement. Just cement. No body. It was the right spot. But he was gone."

"Oh?" Cid raised an eyebrow.

"It's true," Anchors said, trembling. "I swear, it's Chris. Or whatever he is now. Maybe a ghost. Maybe something worse. But he's out there. Watching us. And he won't stop until we're all dead."

"Sounds fun," Cid smirked. "Alright, last question. I want the address of that construction site, your gang's HQ, and your boss."

Terror loosened Anchors' tongue. He babbled everything without hesitation. Loyalty? That could wait. Survival came first.

After he was done, Cid relaxed and stepped off his chest.

"Pleasure chatting," Cid said, smiling.

Beatrix watched, disturbed by what he saw. Something about Cid's soft tone made it feel like a friendly conversation. Like a teacher explaining a fun fact to a kid.

"Oh, one more thing," Cid added, turning back. "If you lied... next time, I'll cut off your other leg."

Anchors blinked. Other leg?

He didn't have time to process. Two precise shots, both legs ruined. Screaming in agony, he passed out.

"Long wait," Cid said as he returned to the driver's seat, turning on the engine.

He glanced at Beatrix. "Was that too much for you?"

He was a bit shaken. It was his first time seeing real blood like this.

"Don't worry. They're not good people," Cid said casually. "They've done far worse."

"Not that," Beatrix said, "Just... doing it in public like this? Doesn't it attract attention?"

"Relax," Cid chuckled. "Internal Affairs will clean it up. Agent Nine handles all that."

"So... the higher-ups don't care?"

"They do. You'll get written up, maybe demoted. The usual paperwork hell. Takes two or three days to fill it all out. I hate it."

Beatrix frowned. That explained a lot.

"That's why I left the police force," Cid added. "Back then, I couldn't control my temper. There was this pedophile... smug bastard. I snapped. Broke his neck during interrogation."

Beatrix: "..."

"So yeah, they fired me. But later someone found out I had special talents. Got recruited to Nine."

He chuckled. "Good thing, too. Anchors should live—the ambulance came in time. He was cooperative."

Beatrix stayed silent. His definition of "cooperative" had been forever changed.

"Next, we're going to raid their base?" he asked.

"Nope. Our mission is to identify and destroy the source. According to Anchors, that's likely the wanderer they buried in cement."

"But if it's contagious... shouldn't we alert the health department?"

"That's their job, not ours," Cid said. "We just report what we find. They handle containment."

"So... maybe lock down the area?" Beatrix asked.

"Doubt it'll get that far. It's not that infectious—only triggers in people with strong negative emotions. People with darkness inside."

"Like the students yesterday?"

"Exactly. They had mild exposure. They'll recover. This thing mostly spreads among the gangs. Control them, you control the spread."

"And the contraband? The cement piles? Should we report those too?"

"Sure, but don't expect action," Cid shrugged. "This kind of thing happens all the time. A wanderer disappears—no one cares. No one wants this job. I should know—I used to be one of them."

He lit another cigarette. Beatrix quietly slid his window open a little.

"So where to next?"

"Cement pile. Tomorrow. For now—time to clock in."

Beatrix: "..."