Genesis. Volume 2

October 4, 1986. Detroit. Morning. They left the motel at exactly nine. The air in Detroit was heavy, damp, stubbornly reeking of soot—whether from distant factory stacks or from the asphalt itself, which had absorbed years of motor oil and exhaust fumes. The cold cut to the bone. Max immediately shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his fingers finding the familiar folding knife, and walked slightly ahead. Arthur followed, glancing repeatedly at the scrap of paper with Marcus's address. "Jim's Diner," Arthur muttered, pocketing the note. "It's close, about four blocks." They walked along the cracked sidewalk. Low brick boxes of buildings stretched around them, their display windows gray and boarded up. The walls were covered in local graffiti—crudely painted skulls snarling here, unfamiliar names and slogans in black there. Max's eyes caught a fresh inscription in bright red paint on a solid fence: "Free? No." He paused for a second, studying the jagged drips, then quickly caught up with the others. "This city feels like a terminally ill patient," Lisa said, shuddering from the damp and burying her chin deeper into her collar. "One that just doesn't want to get better." "More like one that can't anymore," Emma replied quietly. They reached an intersection. The old traffic light overhead wasn't working—just blinked a dismal yellow. Cars sped past at full throttle, blasting them with foul exhaust; the drivers didn't even glance sideways, as if desperate to get out of here as fast as possible. Max remembered their own Brookfield: there, drivers slowed down at every crosswalk out of courtesy, even if the street was empty. Here, everything was drenched in some kind of angry, jittery haste mixed with raw exhaustion. Right across the street, at the entrance to a closed-down snack bar, a local crew was hanging out—four guys and a couple of girls. Teenagers, about their age. The guys showed off in battered leather jackets; the girls wore heavy, almost war-paint makeup. One of them—with a torn sleeve and closely shaved temples—noticed their group and lifted his chin. "Hey, tourists!" he shouted, twisting his mouth into a mocking grin. "What are you doing here? Nothing to see. Get lost." Emma stopped short and stared him down without blinking. "We're not tourists." "Then who are you?" The guy snorted and spat noisily onto the cracked asphalt at his feet. "Cops, maybe? Think you're detectives?" "Hey, shut your mouth," Max stepped forward, but Arthur immediately grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. "We're just going to a diner," Arthur said calmly, without any edge, looking straight at the shaved-headed guy. "We don't want any trouble." The local gave them an appraising look. His eyes swept over the boys, lingered on Jenny, then slid over Lisa. He exhaled loudly through his nose. "Alright, move along. Just don't come whining later if something happens. You've been warned. Lousy do-gooders." He lost interest and turned back to his friends. The group quickly moved on. Max could feel their heavy, unfriendly stares drilling into their backs, but luckily, no one followed. "What a rotten dump," Max muttered through his teeth once they were far enough that the teenagers were out of sight. "It's not rotten," Jenny shook her head, looking at her feet. "Just crushed. Strangers aren't welcome here because strangers usually mean trouble." "Or they bring the trouble themselves," Emma added. The conversation died. Max pulled a crumpled notebook from his back pocket and quickly jotted down with a pencil stub: "Detroit—a city without a face. Everyone's angry because they're scared. Or scared because they're angry. Hell if I know." He scribbled a couple of lines and shoved the notebook back. The streets grew wider, but no cleaner—small debris and scraps of old newspapers littered the walls. Here and there, fresh graffiti made with good, expensive paint stood out on the bricks. Lisa stopped in front of one. On a gray wall, a large white mask was painted with completely empty, black eye sockets. Just below, a neat inscription read: "You're next." "Threatening someone?" Arthur stepped closer, studying the sharp outlines. "Maybe warning them," Lisa said quietly. "Come on, it's just ordinary tagging," Max shoved his hands back in his pockets. "You wouldn't see that back in Brookfield." "In Brookfield, everyone knows each other by sight," Emma turned back to look at the drawing. "There's no need to hide. Here, it's every man for himself. So they paint—to at least make a statement." "Statement about who?" Jenny asked. "About those who are still trying to survive. Or about those who've already broken." They passed an old abandoned gas station. The "GAS" sign barely hung on its rusty brackets, the letters completely faded from rain. Through the shattered window, they could make out an empty hall and a crooked shelf where a couple of tin cans sat gathering dust. On the concrete doorstep, curled up, slept a man in a filthy, greasy coat. Emma jingled some change as she walked and tossed a couple of coins his way, but the vagrant didn't even twitch. "Everyone's so sleepy," Max grumbled, shrugging. "Walking and sleeping at the same time." "More like they're dead inside," Lisa replied. "Enough with the doom and gloom," Arthur cut her off. "It's a normal city. Alive. Just breathing hard." They turned into another alley and finally spotted the crooked sign reading "Jim's." The first neon letter "J" had long burned out, and the remaining three flickered dimly and intermittently, emitting a faint crackle. The diner itself looked tiny and pretty shabby, its windows coated in a layer of gray dust. Arthur raised his hand to check his watch. "Right on time. He should already be inside." "Alright, let's go," Max took a step toward the door and reached for the peeling handle. "Wait, hold on," Jenny abruptly grabbed his sleeve. She slowly turned around, peering into the gray haze of the street. "I feel... I don't know how to explain it. Like someone's watching us. A very familiar feeling." Far behind them, on the other side of the road, a man in a long gray coat stood motionless by a lamppost. His collar was turned up so high his face was almost invisible. He didn't move—just stood like a stone statue, staring fixedly in their direction. Lisa pointed: "Do you see him?" "Yeah," Arthur squinted. "Don't stare at him. Let's go." "Do you think it's him?" Max instantly tensed, his fingers gripping the knife in his pocket. "The Feaster?" "Feasters don't show themselves in the middle of the street like that," Emma said sharply, though her voice trembled almost imperceptibly. "They lurk in corners. Waiting for the right moment. This one... just some gawker. Or a local crazy." As if hearing them, the man by the lamppost slowly turned and walked unhurriedly deeper into the block. They all exhaled at once, as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. "Alright, let's go in," Arthur commanded. A tin bell jingled sharply above the door. Immediately, a thick, acrid smell of burnt onions, old frying oil, and cheap tobacco smoke hit their noses. Inside, it was warm, but somehow unwelcoming. Arthur quickly scanned the dimly lit room: almost all the tables were empty; behind the counter, a sullen bartender with a faded blue dragon tattoo on his forearm looked bored. And in the farthest corner, right by a window with a heavy iron grille, sat a guy in a worn-out army jacket. He was completely bald, and his shoulders seemed too slumped, as if weighed down by an invisible burden. "Marcus?" Arthur called quietly, stepping deeper into the room. The guy slowly raised his head.