American comics: Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who worry about their fathers!.

Chapter 984 Rorschach and the Pharaoh enter the Padric Universe!
The prisoner lunged at the iron bars, his dirty fingers gripping the bars tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"Come on! Come in if you dare! Watch me rip your guts out and tie them into a pretty bow! Come on!"

He shook the iron fence wildly and roared.

The prison guard expressionlessly pulled out his baton, the tip of which sparked and crackled slightly.

The prison guard took a step forward, raised his baton, and just as the tip of the baton, filled with high-voltage electricity, was about to pierce the prisoner's chest.

A dark shadow crashed down from the shadow above the prison guard's head.

Before the prison guards could even utter a muffled groan, the dark figure had already landed on the ground.

With a loud "bang," a clean and swift chop to the side of the prison guard's carotid artery struck him, leaving him completely unprepared.

The prison guard's heavy body slammed straight to the ground, his helmet hitting the concrete with a hollow, dull thud.

The stun baton flew out of his hand and bounced twice on the ground.

An absolute silence fell over the area, instantly silencing the entire C zone.

The prisoner, who had been screaming, was now like a chicken with its neck choked, all sounds stuck in his throat, leaving only heavy breathing.

The dark figure that suddenly appeared was wearing a badly worn dark coat, the rough fabric seemingly soaked in the filth of countless rainy nights and alleyways.

But what's most unsettling is that face.

No, that wasn't a face, but a mask that covered the entire head.

On the pure white background, the ink stains, like living creatures with evil lives, endlessly writhe and change on the surface of the mask.

The ever-changing swirling ink on the mask turned slightly toward the stiff prisoner behind the iron bars.

"key."

The masked man pulled a bunch of brass keys from the waist of the unconscious prison guard, the metal clashing together with a crisp, ringing sound.

He gripped the key ring, swaying it slightly, his gaze fixed on the prisoner in the cage.

"Do you want to figure it out?"

The madness on the prisoner's face had long since faded, leaving only muscles contorted with extreme fear.

He stared intently at the mask, his body involuntarily shrinking back.

He recognized the ink!

That was a curse that had long been declared dead!

It's Rorschach!
"no no……!"

The prisoner made incomprehensible hoarse sounds from his throat.

He turned abruptly and scrambled toward the deepest, foul-smelling corner of the cell, wishing he could bury himself inside the cold concrete wall, curl up in a ball, trembling, and never look at the cell door again.

The flowing ink-stained mask seemed to carry a barely perceptible hint of mockery.

Ignoring the terrified prisoners, Rorschach walked straight to another solitary cell deeper in Section C.

Above the heavy iron gate, a small metal plaque reflected the light in the dim light: "Manson Erica, codename: Marionette".

The key turned again, and Rorschach opened the even heavier prison door.

The woman in the cell sprang up the moment the door opened, her back pressed against the cold wall.

She was wearing a drab prison uniform, her figure was thin, and her dull blonde hair was messily plastered to her sweaty forehead.

When the woman's gaze fell upon the white mask with its ever-changing ink stains at the doorway, all her guard was instantly replaced by an even stronger shock and disbelief.

"Rorschach?"

Erica Manson stared at him in shock. "Impossible... They said you were dead! Burned to ashes!"

"Marionette".

Luo Xia's hoarse voice rang out again, directly revealing her code name.

He took a step forward and entered the narrow space of the prison cell.

He then removed his mask, revealing a black face.

"I need you."

Erica, who was not Rorschach's black friend, leaned against the wall, her fingers digging deeply into the rough surface.

The shock receded like a tide, replaced by a deep sense of vigilance and a hint of anger at being fooled.

"Ha!" she scoffed briefly. "Need me? You? Wearing a dead man's mask and swindling people?"

Her eyes turned fierce and mocking as she scanned the other person up and down. "I don't care who you are, you fool, but you'd better pray that the real Rorschach is forever in his grave. If he finds out you're wearing his skin... he'll crush you inch by inch and make you regret ever being born!"

Faced with these sharp accusations and threats, the figure at the door did not respond with any physical movement.

Only the chaotic ink stain on the mask seemed to flow at a slightly faster pace.

Silence spread through the cramped cell, so heavy that you could almost hear the dust settling on the floor.

A few seconds later, the man wearing the ink-stained mask slowly raised one hand.

The hand, encased in a rough black glove, moved with unusually steady motion.

Instead of removing his mask, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

Erica's muscles tensed instantly, and she instinctively assumed a defensive stance, leaning slightly forward like a mother leopard ready to pounce. However, what her opponent pulled out was not a weapon.

That's a photo.

A hand wearing a black glove steadily handed the photo to Erica.

The distance was very close, and the dim light from the bulb on the top of the cell was enough for her to see every detail in the picture.

The photo is a little wrinkled, with the edges slightly curled up.

The picture above shows a little boy, no more than five or six years old, with light blond hair like Erica.

All of Erica Manson's ferocity and wariness shattered at that moment, like glass struck by a heavy blow.

Her eyes widened suddenly, and her breath caught in her throat as if an invisible, cold giant hand had gripped her throat.

The color drained rapidly from her face, leaving behind a deathly pale ashes.

She stared intently at the photo.

"he……!"

Erica glared at him angrily. "What did you do to him? Where is my son?!"

She suddenly raised her head and questioned him.

"He is in a safe place."

Rorschach's voice was flat and monotone, as if he were stating a fact that had nothing to do with him.

The hand wearing a black glove held the photograph steadily, the fingertips remaining perfectly still.

“If you don’t cooperate, then he is in danger.”

Erica's chest heaved as she looked at her son's innocent and carefree face in the photo, then at the ink-stained mask.

Finally, the strength supporting her spine seemed to be drained away in an instant, and she slid down the cold wall and curled up on the dirty floor.

When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and weak, filled with utter resignation: "Fine... I'll go with you."

She took a deep breath and said, "But I have one condition, Marcos, my husband, 'Mime,' he must come out with me."

Rorschach, or rather the second Rorschach, was silent for a moment, then nodded in agreement, "Okay."

The two stopped in front of a specially made, thickened iron door deeper inside Zone C.

There was no observation window on the door, only a heavy food delivery opening.

The second-generation Rorschach inserts the key into the lock and turns it.

The heavy door hinges slowly opened inward.

The sight inside the door made Erica hold her breath instantly, a chill running from her feet to the top of her head.

This place doesn't resemble a prison cell; it's more like a nightmare theater smeared with blood and madness.

The dim, flickering lights cast long, distorted shadows on everything.

Two unusually tall prisoners lay on the ground, one lying on his back with his neck twisted at an impossible angle, his cervical vertebrae piercing his skin and exposed, his face frozen in astonishment.

The other was huddled in the corner, his chest deeply sunken, the sharp ends of his broken ribs piercing through his prison uniform.

In the center of this bloody mess stood a man.

He was wearing the same drab prison uniform, but he stood ramrod straight.

Hearing the door open, the man stopped what he was doing and slowly turned around.

Marcos Metz, codenamed "Mime".

The mime's gaze bypassed Erica and landed directly on the white mask covered in ink stains.

"Rorschach?"

Erica shook her head. "No, he's not the real Rorschach, but it doesn't matter. He's taking us out, and we'll work together."

After listening to his wife's explanation, Mime couldn't help but turn his head slightly, his gaze once again falling on the second-generation Rorschach.

That white mask covered in endless ink stains left a deep impression on him.

"Then I'll have to bring my weapon."

As he spoke, the mime walked to the corner and said to Rorschach, "My belt and pistol are here."

As he spoke, he put on the belt in a pantomime-like manner, and then clipped a non-existent pistol onto it.

Watching the performance of the "mime," the second-generation Rorschach couldn't help but complain, "Your husband seems to be quite ill."

An hour later, Rorschach led the two to a secret base.

Here, the couple met the real mastermind, the wanted Pharaoh.

The pharaoh, coughing and pale-faced, stated his demands directly to the couple.

That means he needs to find Dr. Manhattan!

Dr. Manhattan is not in this universe, so he needs the help of the couple.

"But we don't know anything about this, how can we help you?"

(End of this chapter)