Working as a police officer in Mexico

Port-au-Prince was originally a city of despair, but now, after the baptism of bombings, only crows remain standing on the ruins, cawing, their eyes watching the surroundings, chilling to the bone.

The sky was stained with a yellow and gray-black meld of smoke, heavy as if it might press down directly, and the shattered remains of buildings lay scattered like toppled blocks. The once towering buildings were left only with charred frameworks, steel bars exposed like grotesque skeletons, precariously leaning.

The walls were full of huge gaps from explosions, rubble and bricks covered the ground, each step made a heartbreaking crunch.

The fire continued to burn in the corners of the ruins, greedily consuming everything that could burn. The flames twisted and jumped in the wind, crackling, like demons laughing crazily.

Thick smoke roiled up from the fires, blotting out the sun, emitting a pungent scorched smell, making breathing difficult, eyes tearing up from the irritating smoke.

The streets were a chaotic mess, pocked with countless bomb craters.

The once tidy roads were filled with large and small pits, like the uneven surface of the Moon, and the cars by the roadside were unrecognizable; some flipped by bombs, bodies twisted and deformed, glass shattered into countless pieces that glinted coldly, still emitting the smell of burnt rubber and metal.

On these ruins lay numerous corpses of gang members scattered.

Some were blown apart with limbs incomplete, shards of bodies scattered around; some were burnt black, reduced to charred lumps, barely distinguishable as once human. There were also injured ones, groaning painfully in the ruins, their weak cries for help drowned out by the roar of flames and the rumble of collapsing buildings.

The survivors walked aimlessly through the ruins, their gazes empty and despairing.

Their faces were smeared with dust, bloodstains, and tear marks, hair disheveled, clothes tattered.

The children clung tightly to their parents' legs, crying out in terror, their cries seeming to be the most helpless accusation of this disaster.

Haiti...

The place abandoned by God.

Major Fritz Klingenberg wore a gas mask, his breathing particularly heavy in the enclosed space.

As the fog on the respirator cleared with each breath, in one inhale, it was clean again.

His eyelids trembled slightly.

"Murderers!"

"You are murderers!!"

A middle-aged man squatting nearby suddenly stood up and rushed at the patrol team, clawing and roaring.

The soldier next to him was about to raise his gun when Fritz reached out to stop him; the middle-aged man grabbed his collar, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with despair.

"You are murderers, murderers, you'll die horribly, die horribly!!"

Fritz Klingenberg glanced at the tattoo on his neck, a "Double Pupil."

From Haiti's "Two-Eyed Gang."

Mostly relying on smuggling, trafficking, and transporting human organs and working for drug traffickers as middlemen.

"Are you... the only one left in your family?" Fritz Klingenberg asked uncomfortable.

The middle-aged man's lips trembled, heart-wrenching, "My child, my wife, they are all dead! They are all dead!!!"

Bang—

A sudden gunshot.

The skull of the middle-aged man bursts open, as if his bones had been removed, collapsing directly to the ground.

Fritz Klingenberg held a Mk25 pistol, standard for officers.

His expression was grim, "No need to thank me, sending your whole family to reunite."

Great, met a good man.

"Search, kill any with gang tattoos on sight!"

"Yes!"

The soldiers behind him shouted loudly, voices high and full of morale.

They were a violent institution!

The matter of benevolence can be left to the Red Cross.

Oh...

They were too busy partying? What? The leaders busy with prostitution?

Then there's no choice, only God to turn to.

Rely on Americans?

No way, no way, Americans can even jinx the Pope, can't handle them.

Not only Fritz Klingenberg, but the 1st Marine Division also broke into pieces, targeting gangs that were bombed into cowardice for extermination.

To completely break their spirit.

As for whether they will retaliate or form so-called guerrilla units against the Mexican Army.

Don't think too much...

If gangs had faith, they wouldn't be tyrants, let them crawl in the grass, they simply don't have the ability, understand?

Haiti itself is very sensitive.

When the Mexican Air Force bombed, powerful European nations like the United Kingdom, France, and Germany immediately knew.

But peculiarly...

Even the United Kingdom, which always criticized Victor Tyrant, quieted down a lot.

Only Spain, being bullied badly, continued to shout.

Meanwhile, the renowned Amnesty International held a press conference in New York specifically. The bespectacled Secretary-General Simone Graham poked his finger on the table: "This is a massacre! A massacre! An estimated 20,000 people died in this attack. We protest and condemn, urging Mexico for rectification!"

A reporter below raised his hand.

Simone Graham pointed to him, "Please speak."

"Sir, how do you protest and condemn, just with words? Have you considered taking up arms to fight for local gangs in Haiti?"

Hearing this, other reporters enjoying the spectacle couldn't help but laugh.

Simone Graham's face immediately turned green, "Which media are you from?"

The reporter pointed to his chest, "American Gossip Weekly."

American...

The father, after all.

But Simone Graham remained firm, "Are the lives of gang members not lives? Aren't they also living under the same sky?"