Chapter 6 – The Situation of Rosemarie Post
Johan's boots scraped softly against the wet stone, the sound echoing in the narrow, lightless alley. A wall of darkness stretched ahead, swallowing everything in its path. He stopped, just for a moment. His eyes narrowed.
From the void, a silhouette emerged.
Tall. Slim. Impossibly poised.
Johan's instincts kicked in—he stepped back, weight shifting to the ball of his rear foot.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, voice low, ready for trouble.
The figure moved forward, letting the dim light catch his features. His hair was a waterfall of pure white, flowing freely onto his shoulders like snow rolling off a cliff. Emerald-green eyes glimmered beneath the brim of his hat—though only one was open, the right eye burning faintly with an unnatural hue. Both wrists bore golden bracelets studded with fine, needle-like spikes, glinting faintly whenever he moved.
He placed the hat—adorned with a long blue and green feather—back atop his head. Then, as if performing on an invisible stage, he straightened his spine and adjusted his posture.
That smile… it was calm, even pleasant. But Johan saw the tension behind it.
The man's left eye remained shut. The right stayed half-lidded, glowing faintly like a jewel buried in deep moss.
He set one hand gently over his heart.
"My name is—" he began, pausing deliberately, as though the space between words was as important as the words themselves.
"Daniel Joanne D'Arby. Just a… normal roadside beggar."
He tilted his head, the feather on his hat bobbing slightly, then brought the hat forward and lowered himself into a courtly bow—one knee bent, one leg stretched behind him, left arm out to the side like a duelist.
In a voice that was almost a whisper, yet cut through the alley air like a blade, he asked:
"Can you spare me… a dollar?"
Johan hesitated only briefly before reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out a crisp five-dollar bill and dropped it into the hat.
"I don't have change," Johan muttered. "You can keep it."
D'Arby's smile curled slightly wider—not the grin of a man grateful for money, but the grin of someone who had measured a person and found their worth.
He slid the bill into his chest pocket, replacing the hat on his head with theatrical precision.
Johan turned, hefting his bag onto his shoulder. He was halfway down the street when D'Arby's voice followed him.
"Mr. Goodman," the man said, his tone now silk wrapped around steel, "since you've given me a treat… I'll give you a piece of advice."
Johan kept walking. He didn't turn, didn't even flinch.
D'Arby pivoted back toward the alley, stepping slowly into the gloom. Just before the shadows claimed him entirely, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Be careful of everything… in Rosemarie Post."
Johan raised a hand in a lazy wave. D'Arby, in return, lifted his hat in farewell.
"We'll meet again, Mr. Goodman," he said, smiling in that same foxlike way before fading into darkness.
---
The road ahead was long and cracked, the wind dry as it blew between skeletal buildings. Eventually, Johan came to the boundary—a half-collapsed wooden board bearing the words:
⟨ROSEMARIE POST⟩
He stood there for several seconds, eyes scanning the edges of the town. The silence was… unnatural. Still, he stepped forward.
The moment his boot crossed the threshold, a wave of heaviness hit him.
It wasn't just the smell—it was the air. Thick. Suffocating. Like breathing through wet cloth.
Johan walked on until another board came into view, leaning at a broken angle. It simply read:
⟨Rosemarie⟩
He moved toward it… and then stopped cold.
His pupils contracted. His jaw tightened. His forehead creased into sharp lines.
The town was not abandoned. But it might as well have been.
Rubble and dirt coated every inch of ground.
Shattered walls leaned on each other like drunks ready to collapse.
The stench of feces, rotting animals, and human waste clung to the streets like a curse.
And yet… people lived here.
They were skeletal shadows of humanity. Skin stretched over bones, eyes sunken deep into their sockets.
Children sat motionless, their heads resting on their mothers' laps. The mothers did nothing—not because they didn't care, but because something in them was already dead.
The light of day barely reached past the crooked rooftops, leaving whole streets trapped in twilight.
Johan's stomach turned. He almost gagged, but swallowed it down.
He uncapped a bottle of clean water from his bag, took a drink, and washed his mouth.
Everything in him screamed to turn back. But then—
He remembered his father's last words:
"LIBERATE THE NEEDED."
Johan tightened his grip on the bottle. His foot crossed fully into Rosemarie.
---
The pressure here was physical. A slow, invisible hand pressing against his chest.
He approached a man leaning against a wall. But the moment Johan got close, the man's eyes went wide—and he bolted inside a building without a word.
In fact… everyone did.
Windows slammed shut. Curtains were drawn. Mothers pulled children inside, clutching them close. Within seconds, the street was empty. Silent.
Johan froze, scanning for movement. Every doorway now seemed like a watchful eye.
He adjusted his bag and kept walking, but then—
A voice.
Small. Desperate.
"Help!"
A girl—no older than five—was running toward him. Her tiny feet slapped the broken pavement, her big maroon gown dragging behind her like a cape. Her pink hair trailed down to her waist, uneven and messy.
And then Johan saw the rest.
His breath hitched. His brow furrowed sharply.
Her right arm was gone—just a heavily bandaged stump. Her right eye was missing, the socket wrapped in stained cloth.
She stumbled, and Johan sprinted forward, catching her before she hit the ground.
"Who are you? What happened—"
But the girl could barely speak. Her small chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.
"Please… save… my… sister… please… water…"
Her voice was fading.
And then she went limp in his arms.
---
Johan turned toward the street.
Dozens of faces peered from cracked doorways. Not one moved to help. Not one spoke.
His teeth bared. His eyebrows knitted together so tightly they nearly touched. The veins at his temples throbbed. His jaw clenched until his molars ached.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't a shout—it was a growl, shaking with restrained fury.
"You… fuckers."
The air in Rosemarie seemed to tighten further, as if the whole town itself had just taken a breath.
---
To be continued→