"Did they give you trouble later?" The policewoman's voice snapped me back to the present. Today she wasn't in uniform—she wore a neat black tracksuit that made her skin look even paler.
Luna—twenty-three, graduated from the police academy last year, no boyfriend. All neighborhood gossip, of course.
With her skills, any man would probably keep his distance. No wonder she was single.
"What are you smiling at?" Luna tapped the table, her large eyes fixed on me.
"N—nothing. Those thugs haven't shown up in a long time," I stammered.
"You're a grown man. If someone hits you, why don't you fight back? Bullies only pick on the weak. The more you look like you want to avoid trouble, the more they'll take advantage."
"I've never fought since I was a kid. I think violence is wrong." I gave my usual goofy grin.
Come on—an egg tart baker bakes egg tarts all day; you wouldn't expect him to go home and make egg tarts for himself. Violence and gore belong to the night. In ordinary life I keep things peaceful; I'm as mild as you'd like me to be.
"He's such a coward. Don't be fooled by his height—he's got less guts than me," Chloe jabbed while wiping a table.
I shot her a glare; she stuck out her tongue.
"Want me to teach you a couple moves? So next time someone bothers you you can defend yourself?" Luna smiled, clearly amused by our faces.
"Is it hard? Will I get hurt?"
"Aren't you a man? Come with me."
The summer breeze was pleasant; Luna smelled nice. We walked about ten minutes and reached a grassy patch in a park.
"Imagine you're that thug. I'll teach you some basic fighting techniques. Try to attack me as much as you can. Watch my hands." Luna stepped back and signaled me to start.
"I don't know how to hit people."
"Pretend you're shooting a fight scene. The director only cares if you can hit my face."
"All right—be careful then."
I clumsily lunged to grab Luna's arm, but she slipped away effortlessly.
"Focus!" Luna raised her voice.
I sighed inwardly—never imagined I'd be put in such an awkward spot. If I fought seriously, I could subdue her in two seconds, but she'd figure me out; if I didn't, I had to convincingly fail while seeming to try. Every minute tested my acting.
I sped up a little. Luna's face showed approval. I caught her smooth, jade-like forearm—but she stiffened it and used two fingers to twist my wrist. I stumbled, and she pinned me to the ground; my neck and left arm were immobilized. The pain was barely a scratch, but I screamed as if I'd been struck—fully in character.
"Learned it?" Luna asked, smiling.
"No." I rubbed my arm.
"You're hopeless…"
Dusk fell. After about an hour of "training," Luna wiped sweat from her brow and said, "That's enough for today. I'll teach you more tomorrow."
"Can I skip it?" I whined.
"No!"
We left the park. Outside a florist's shop Luna suddenly stopped. Whether from exercise or something else, her cheeks were flushed.
"You… go buy me a bouquet," she said.
"What? I got beaten up for this and now I have to buy you flowers?" I protested, still dazed by her expression.
"Shut up. Consider it tuition."
Luna's face turned redder; she shoved me, and I nearly walked into the glass door of the flower shop.
This target was called Silas—a professional "anti-fraud" activist. He usually picked on small vendors, finding flaws in their products and then threatening to report them unless they paid him hush money. This time the news had gone viral; netizens were even digging up his personal information. To avoid attention, Silas was hiding out in his young lover's apartment.
"Baby, change your stockings, I'll be out in three minutes…" Silas hummed in the bathroom. The provocatively dressed woman couldn't answer—she'd already been knocked out on the sofa.
I glanced at my watch. No rush. Let him finish his shower.
Death is like a train to the end of the line; a ticket collector needs patience.
Silas came out, frantic, wearing nothing but a towel—his beer belly spilling over—and I frowned. He saw me sitting in the chair, panicked, and grabbed the nearby lamp.
"Who are you? How did you get in?!"
"Silas, I suggest you stay calm. Don't hurt yourself."
"Are you leaving or not? I'm calling the cops!" He reached for his phone.
I shot forward like an arrow. He swung the lamp wildly. I punched it; plastic shards flew like a blown-up balloon. Silas tried to resist, but a strike to the back of his neck quickly sent him rolling his eyes and collapsing to the floor.
Troublesome.
A single bullet would've solved this, yet this handsome young man had to make it so complicated. How twisted was his mind?
I bound Silas, pulled out the prepared tools, and injected venom into his artery. I waited quietly for him to awaken.
In less than ten minutes, his face turned gray. Violent coughing pulled him from unconsciousness; veins in his neck throbbed like struggling worms, terrifying in their intensity.
"Wh-what… what do you want?" Silas coughed violently.
"Silas, do you enjoy tormenting the poor?" I read mechanically from the note. "Your knowledge and expertise could create value for society, but you've turned it into a tool for profit. You've desecrated the identity of an intellectual. Now, we'll play a game. I injected you with Ophiophagus microvenom. Among these ten bottles, one contains the antidote. You're a professional fraud hunter—surely you can find the real antidote among the fakes?"
"Please, spare me! I can give you money—name your price…" Silas gasped, calves cramping.
"Better hurry. This venom kills in fifteen minutes." I freed his left hand so he could pick a bottle.
Silas coughed and inspected the bottles. He chose one, twisted the cap, and drank. Wrong choice. It was another poison. He vomited—first waste, then clear liquid, finally blood.
"Ahhhhhhh!" Silas screamed. The venom fully took effect.
"You have one more chance." I pressed my hat down. Even for a seasoned killer, this method felt excessive.
Trembling, Silas picked another bottle, struggled with the cap, drank, and clawed at his face as though invisible worms were crawling over it. Bloodied, he collapsed dramatically, still wrong.
I sighed, carrying the unconscious woman on the sofa out to the elevator. If she woke to see this… she'd probably go insane.
"Perfect. You're exceptional, Mr. K. I can't find the words to praise you enough." The young man admired photos of Silas's corpse while sipping fine red wine.
Incomprehensible sadism.
"Mr. K, to show my appreciation, I want a long-term partnership. Do you offer custom or membership services? I'll pay any price."
Who enjoys torturing people as entertainment?
Worse, he had a self-deceptive sense of "righteous justice," believing he was making the world a better place.
"No," I said coldly.
"What a pity." He paused, then bounced back into excitement. "There's too much trash in this world for one person to clean. Mr. K, introduce me to your peers. I can start a Justice Foundation—and you can be the chair."
His gestures grew animated. His left glove slipped, revealing five metal fingers.
I knew who he was. No wonder his face seemed familiar.
Vincent—the eldest son of House of Qin Consortium. Six months ago, a sensational scandal erupted exposing his crimes. Police mobilized fully, but he vanished. It turned out Orin, a man from House of Qin Consortium, had kidnapped him, cut off the five fingers of his left hand, forced him to record a confession, then shot himself. To survive, Vincent reportedly ate Orin's corpse during ten waterless, rice-less days. Rescued by the police, he suffered a mental breakdown and was institutionalized.
In the hospital, he even killed his younger brother Victor. Under societal pressure, the hospital performed unprecedented psychological surgery. The procedure reportedly succeeded, erasing all of Vincent's evil personalities, leaving only a righteous, implanted scientific persona.
After that, news of Vincent disappeared. Rumors said he was imprisoned, still hospitalized, or abroad. Public interest waned, and with the new Consortium chairman, Weekend, in the spotlight, Vincent was gradually forgotten.
Who would have guessed he had been quietly lying low in this city?
Judging by his current state, who would dare claim his mental illness had truly been cured?