Blackstone Code

“They’re just placating us!”

At the cabinet meeting, Mr. Truman slammed the newspaper on the table without hesitation, the sound sharp and loud.

The front page showed photos taken by an official photographer in Sugra last week. They had been sent to major media outlets across the Federation and appeared on the front page this morning.

There was no doubt those with sacks over their heads were not the people they were looking for. The brutal images were unedited, though the Federation’s media toned them down slightly to avoid excessive gore.

Unexpected by Sugra’s liaison, this only fueled the Federation’s anger, sparking a rising tide of public outcry.

Mr. Truman glared at each handpicked cabinet member, his eyes cold and ruthless. “They’re not only deceiving us and brushing us off—they’re openly defying us!”

“Look at these images. I see no shame in them at all. They’re not apologizing; they’re fighting back through these actions!”

A newly appointed cabinet member glanced quickly at the president and whispered, “Mr. Truman, isn’t your statement a bit exaggerated…? They killed those bandits. That means they’ve submitted. There’s no need to push further.”

The president remained silent, seemingly deep in thought—because he was.

He wasn’t truly a hardliner. Otherwise, he’d already be discussing military action against that country.

Like most elder politicians his age, he was a conservative at heart. To win elections, he had to play the radical role.

He was weighing whether to end this now. He didn’t want to start a war right after taking office. This wasn’t just radical—it was madness.

What would Congress think? The governors? The military? The people?

The silence made him realize everyone was waiting for his decision. Snapping back, the secretary slid over the meeting minutes, which he skimmed.

“Maintain a firm stance, but no concrete action. I just took office, and many local officials are still transitioning. Now is not the time for big moves.”

Mr. Truman had expected this. He knew the president better than anyone—a man who seemed radical but was actually very conservative.

He quietly warned, “The people won’t accept this, Mr. President.”

“The people?” The president laughed. “Since when did the presidential office need the people’s approval?” He tilted his head slightly and smiled again. “Just joking. I’ll consider this carefully.”

“I know a wise saying: Don’t force others, don’t force yourself. That should be our stance.”

Mr. Truman didn’t press further and sat back.

Honestly, he was disappointed with the president’s softness when firmness was needed.

The Federation’s defeat of Gephra had greatly boosted its international status, evident in deepening cooperation with other countries.

Now, a small nation provokes the Federation, and the Federation’s lack of response only made it seem like that naval battle was just a fluke.

On the battlefield, the Federation wasn’t a match for Gephra.

It wasn’t about sending troops yet; merely showing resolve—like sending warships to patrol—would suffice.

But the president refused even that, prioritizing stability. It was deeply disappointing.

Of course, it was understandable. With the campaign pressure gone, the president could be himself again.

Some things were better discussed privately, and Mr. Truman planned to do so.

As he said, many interpretations surfaced about the photo—none positive.

A popular view was: The Next One.

“If you notice the composition, from the viewpoint outside to the execution platform, there’s a passage.”

“There’s nothing on it because it’s a path to death. Only those awaiting execution walk there.”

“The surrounding people are all staring at me’ a surreal technique showing that I am the next to lose my head.”

“Many say the photo causes discomfort and anxiety because of this composition.”

“It doesn’t let us view the event objectively. Instead, it makes us the next victim. Undoubtedly, they are using this image to defy our demands and government.”

“Notice the blood on the ground? It means they’re not afraid to shed blood—and if we escalate, blood will be spilled there.”

“Those seemingly innocent children chasing severed heads—the scene makes it easy to imagine my own head being kicked around as a trophy.”

“Our demands aren’t wrong—bringing killers to justice and execution is basic. We’re not asking too much.”

“But such reasonable demands are met with savage brutality. Sugra is the most incomprehensible country I know.”

“Most importantly, those with sacks on their heads might not even be the real culprits.”

“Maybe they’re scapegoats picked randomly, and the real killers escape justice. This is just to placate us.”

“I want to tell the officials in Sugra: I don’t want empty gestures. I want truth and justice.”

On TV, invited commentators analyzed the photo’s composition and meaning in detail, convincing many viewers.

The biggest problem: no one knew who the beheaded were, making identity verification impossible.

Public opinion surged again. Many marched outside the Sugra delegation’s residence. Emotions ran high, which was exactly what some wanted.

Two days later, Lynch met the returning team from Sugra at Blackstone Security headquarters and saw the girl.

He examined photos and files. Each person had a name, age, and alleged deeds.

Money could buy anything in this world—if it couldn’t, it meant the money wasn’t enough.

The last images were of abused girls and the girl before him—each with a hole in their heads.

Lynch glanced at the photo on the last page, then looked up at the girl standing nearby.

He quickly withdrew his gaze and turned to the team.

“No trouble encountered?” He closed the files and the operation report.

Blackstone Security was a professional military organization. After every mission, a report was submitted detailing the operation and assessments of any firefights.

The captain shook his head. “No resistance.”

In other words, it was a small-scale massacre… no, a baptism of justice.

Lynch nodded. “Nice work. Everyone gets two weeks off. Your pay will be deposited before the bank closes this afternoon. Any questions?”

The captain shook his head. He expected Lynch to ask why they brought the girl back, but Lynch didn’t. Clearly, he already knew.

“Dismissed. Try not to eat too many high-calorie foods during your break. The colonel complains every time you come back heavier by a few pounds.”

The captain and team laughed; eating was a way to relieve stress.

They quickly said goodbye and left the room.

Lynch looked at the girl. “Can you take off your clothes?”

She bit her lip, lowered her head, and started undressing.

It was still February; the weather was cold. Though the office had heating, people didn’t wear fewer clothes because of it.

She took off her coat but didn’t know where to put it. Lynch smiled politely and extended his arm. “You can give it to me for safekeeping.”

The girl recognized he was important. She didn’t resist and handed him the coat.

“Keep going…”

Soon, at Lynch’s request, she stood before him in only her underwear.

The room’s refined décor and the suited man before her made her feel a bit embarrassed.

She hugged herself to cover up, but Lynch wasn’t satisfied.

“Take off your underwear too…”

The girl hesitated but decided to comply. The captain told her that whether she stayed in the Federation depended on Mr. Lynch.

When everything was revealed before Lynch, a slight smile appeared on his face.

He wasn’t looking at the girl or her body, but at the marks of destruction etched like a painting.

Burns from cigarettes, cuts, fresh bleeding wounds, torn flesh.

The best way to fuel an angry society’s rage is to give their anger a moral high ground.

Perfect.