Their drug business relies on causing crippling addiction in their buyers instead of making a product that people would happily pay for with their own free will. Even if we take the humane side out of the equation, their method is so incredibly stupid and short-sighted.
I would much rather have slightly addicted, or not at all dependent people buy my narcotics that I deliberately make to be 'healthy' in the sense that they leave no lasting harm once absorbed. That way they could remain functioning members of society, and thus have a stable ine, which would earn me more money long-term since they would keep buying for years to e.
As the Consortium is functioning now, they are laying waste to their own territory since the entire Winterwood County is theirs. At least, as far as the criminal side of the world is concerned.
When we reach the nearest house Beatrice takes a look around. She seems to barely make out some guiding points in the dim night which allows her to traverse the dirt road that leads to her old home.
Beatrice starts breathing heavily the moment we step in front of a wooden door that leads to a shabby shack. I can feel her small, weak body trembling with each step. She's about to face the man who nearly destroyed their lives. Panic is starting to take over her.
I stop and place a hand on her shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. "It's going to be alright."
She doesn't say anything, just nods shakily. After a few moments, she starts to calm down. The trembling in her body eases, though I can tell she's still fighting against the rising tide of fear. I give her a few more seconds before turning to the door. It's nothing more than a weak wooden plank on rusty hinges, barely able to close properly.
With a small push, the door creaks open, revealing the darkness within.
Beatrice follows meekly behind me. The air smells musty and stale like it hasn't been cleaned or aired out in months. I glance around the room, my night vision allowing me to perfectly see the sad state of the place. It's a small, dirty, and shabby space, perhaps even worse than the others in the rest of the village. The disgusting walls are covered in grime and dust.
Beatrice fumbles in the dark for a few moments before finding a candle on a shelf near the entrance. She lights it with shaky hands, and the flickering flame casts dim, weak light across the room. It's enough to let her make out the details of the space now. The lounge area bleeds right into the kitchen, just a step further into the house. The entire place feels downright claustrophobic.
Beatrice's eyes fall on the kitchen floor, and I see her body stiffen again. There, sprawled out on the filthy floor, is a man. His face is gaunt, and his body is thin, malnourished. He's snoring loudly, pletely oblivious to our presence. His clothes are smelly and stained, and the strong stench of human waste hangs in the air around him.
This sad excuse of a man is him- their father.
She stares at the man for a long moment while remaining frozen in place, then glances at me with uncertainty, as if she doesn't know what to do. She's silently asking me for help.
Don't mind if I do. I walk up to the man and kick him in the side with just enough force not to hurt him seriously.
He wheezes and jolts awake instantly, then begins a coughing fit. His voice is raspy, dry, and just plain unhealthy.
Once he calms down enough to glance at the intruders, his eyes widen in shock.
Yeah, two masked individuals staring at you at the dead of night isn't ideal. "W-w-who?!"
He can't even form a normal sentence, and I have a suspicion that not just because of the surprise. He looks like a mentally disabled person.
It's just a miserable shell of what was once a human being. His face is gaunt with hollowed cheeks. Deep shadows circle under his bloodshot, lifeless eyes. There's a layer of yellowish grime clinging to his skin, giving him the appearance of someone who hasn't bathed in months. ŔÂɴƟ𝐁Ёȿ
His hair, what little is left of it, is patchy and thinning, with disgusting, greasy strands stuck to his scalp. His lips are cracked and dry, peeling at the edges, and when he opens his mouth to stammer something inprehensible, I get a good look at his teeth- or what remains of them. His gums are swollen and rotting, with black, decaying teeth that are barely hanging on.
Some of them are chipped or missing entirely, and the stench of rot and decay seeps from his mouth, making me want to gag even from this distance.
His eyes are glazed over with an unintelligent haze, making it hard to tell if he's truly registering what's happening around him. His pupils are dilated unnaturally wide, and his movements are sluggish like he's caught in the grip of some horrifying nightmare he can't wake up from. His hands are covered in open wounds, some of which are leaking pus.
The most disturbing part of his appearance, though, is his skin. It looks like it's melting off his body, especially around his face and arms. There are patches where the skin has bee so thin and fragile that it's torn away, revealing the raw, inflamed flesh underneath.
His body is riddled with abscesses and open wounds, the result of years of neglect, abuse, and probably self-inflicted injury in his drug-fueled haze.
He reeks of sweat, piss, and death, a nauseating mixture of odors that clings to him like a second skin. This man is a walking corpse, barely held together by whatever force still animates him- likely the very drugs that are killing him. His breath rattles in his chest with every inhale, wheezing and gurgling.
He looks at me, his eyes wide with fear, but there's a dullness behind that fear- like he's too far gone to fully grasp the severity of the situation.
'Holy fuck. I'm sick. So this is the end result of the drug that the Consortium distributes…' I exclaim inwardly. I was expecting a dying man, yes, but this is just too extreme.
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