I was pushed into the corridor of the arena; the collar weighed on my neck like an inescapable fact. Before the medics could reach me, I still stared into the void; it looked back from my eyes, but not with sight one can see — with an inner silence that whispered like an old echo that never fades:
— "You are the one who chose your ruin."
Does Kim believe that? Did he truly choose destruction? He had not wanted life like this; he had never wished his fate to be writhing between people's faces like a reed crushed underfoot. He had one small, simple wish — perhaps a childish one — that was denied him. Life had not been kind. Yes, kindness is handed out to many, but when it came to him it showed its pride; it raised itself above him: why had his days been so long and so harsh?
He wondered: is man born only to live and then to die? What is the hidden truth behind this life? What is the purpose? Could purpose be to be someone's support? Or are you only a number in a merciless equation — born to be a secondary character, a tool for the hero to step over — an idea that melts the heart when the world shows its hard face.
Kim had walked alone through life. He did not seek companionship nor feared solitude. He was his own companion, his own completion. He never searched for someone to fill his void; he filled others' voids. He gave them what they lacked even when that left him emptier. Despite people treating him with extreme cruelty, he remained a believer — believing that light would one day wipe away the darkness's sins, that his suffering was a test of faith.
But what if the shadows screamed the truth? What if they whispered to him to become someone else so he would not fall into the delusion cloaked by blinding light? Light can guide you in darkness, but if it becomes your unquestioned guide in absolute daylight — isn't that a flaw? Not everyone who urges you to correct your mistakes is virtuous; many say that only to entertain themselves and drag your soul into a cheap laugh.
If someone loses their place in existence, will anyone care for their death? Thousands die each day; would you rush to save them if they were strangers? Probably not. If the dead are your mother, father, sibling, child, or partner — then things change. That is the cruelty of human nature: closeness breeds compassion; distance births oblivion.
Imagine this: you, your friend, and your brother are out at night when fate waits with a sudden calamity. The friend has minutes, the brother a moment determines his fate — who do you pick? Naturally, you pick your brother; blood guides the decision. The friend—maybe your conscience will spare him because he tried. In real life, many pretend to help to climb the ladder of salvation at their convenience; they toy with your life while laughing behind a mask of mercy.
Clinging to morality your whole life can become a comforting lie. He had lost his father at a young age — they left him as a child; his mother struggled until exhaustion. Had the child known his mother's toil, he would never have smiled. Money does not come as a gift but as toil and sleepless nights; there is no justice, only labor for small reward. If he had known that as a child, he would never have dared to curse life with a smile.
Survival in this world — and in other worlds, if they exist — becomes a matter of surviving by any means, and yet you turn into something worse. This was what Kim never believed. From the outside he smiled, but after the incident his smile became a warning: those who smile too much in his world drive you to a swift death with prolonged torment.
In the heart of the cell, amid the collar's whine and the distant murmurs of the jailers, that smile revealed itself not as comfort but as a trap. Every smile fed by lust for others' cost is a promise of a death that delays only to torture you. Thus Kim learned life's cruelest lesson: do not chase a light that never questions; do not give your heart to the one who smiles to ease the weight — for in his world the smile often births a slow, merciless death.
—
Kim opened his eyes. Pain no longer dominated him; instead there was a strange stillness, as if something inside him had changed. He looked at his shaking hands. Had he been dreaming? He wept like a small child regretting his mistakes — but how much life remains to weep for one's past? Then he spoke:
— "Was I really searching for salvation? How naïve… Salvation was an illusion. The truth is, I was not created to be a victim, nor a hero… but something else."
He lifted his head; shadows in the cell began to move around him as if listening to his new vows.
— "From now on, I will not be the one who runs after meaning… I will make it.
From now on… I will not live inside the game; I will be the one who writes its rules."