/soy/ - Soyjaks

The city’s neon glow bled across the rain-slicked pavement, each drop reflecting a distorted star. Cobson, a man sculpted from shadows and grim purpose, stood atop the towering edifice of the old financial district, wind whipping his tattered cloak around him. Below, the rhythmic pulse of police sirens throbbed, a distant, irritating heartbeat. He listened, not to the wails, but to the fainter, more desperate cries woven within them – the city’s true agony. "They scream for justice," a voice, smooth as polished obsidian, purred from behind him. Cobson did not flinch, his gaze fixed on the sprawling chaos below. "Justice is a luxury they cannot afford." A figure emerged from the deeper shadows of the rooftop access, cloaked in an identical, midnight-hued fabric. Her eyes, luminous emeralds, gleamed with an unnerving intensity. "And you, Cobson? Can you?" He finally turned, the movement fluid, predatory. "I offer solutions." "Solutions? Or merely new problems?" She stepped closer, her silhouette merging with his for a fleeting moment. "The council seeks your… cooperation. They offer resources. Legitimacy." A low, guttural sound rumbled in Cobson’s chest. "Legitimacy is a cage. Resources are shackles." He gestured to the city, a sprawling canvas of human folly. "They build their towers, their laws, their false sense of order. And still, the parasites feast. The weak perish." "And you believe you are the cure?" Her voice held a hint of amusement, a dangerous lilt. "I am the scalpel," Cobson stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "I excise the rot." "The rot, as you call it, is often intertwined with the living tissue. Your methods… they are crude. Brutal." He took a step towards her, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "Brutality is a language they understand. The council’s whispers, their endless debates, their ‘justice’ – it is a lullaby for the doomed. It changes nothing." "Perhaps," she conceded, her emerald gaze unwavering. "But what about the collateral? The innocent caught in your… excisions?" "Collateral is inevitable," Cobson said, his tone flat. "The city is a diseased organism. Sometimes, healthy cells must die for the body to survive." "A chilling philosophy," she murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips. "But perhaps… effective. They fear you, Cobson. That, at least, is a start." "Fear is a tool," he replied, his eyes narrowing. "Nothing more." "And what do you fear?" she pressed, her voice dropping to a near whisper. A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the wind’s mournful sigh. Below, the sirens began to fade, their urgency diminishing. Cobson turned back to the city, his form a dark sentinel against the bruised sky. "Failure," he finally said, the single word a jagged shard of ice. "The failure to truly cleanse this place." She watched him, her emerald eyes reflecting the distant city lights. "Then perhaps, our paths align. For now." Cobson offered no reply, his attention already elsewhere, absorbed by the labyrinthine streets and the endless, silent battles unfolding within them. The city waited, oblivious to the grim surgeon who had just reaffirmed his oath.