Well, he was just an ordinary guy, a college student who had recently returned from military service. He didn't think he had any real purpose or goal in life, except for going to Canada, at least.
He worked part-time at a convenience store. Everything was fine, normal. Except for one customer. He attacked and beat Tang, causing him to hit him on the head with a hammer. Unintentionally, out of self-defense instinct. He was consumed by guilt and fear until he learned that the man was a murderer or whatever he was.
It was almost like a joke, unexpected and sudden.
This is it: it drastically changed his life, himself, his thoughts. It led him to discover things about himself that he wasn't used to—odd and different.
What if that day had never happened? He wouldn't have come this far, he wouldn't have become a murderer.
Was he a good guy, or a bad guy who just murdered people? That was debatable and confusing.
No matter how many people he killed, Every single one turned out to deserved it. And even after killing them, Somehow, no evidence was ever left behind.
What was this? Was he protected by God, or was this just some silly thing called "luck"?
And now he could tell if people were bad people simply by the way the hairs on his neck stood on end. It was like a call for help, a warning, an ambulance siren.
A signal. A feeling that's impossible to describe. A sort of signal. He didn't need to set any rules; all he had to do was trust his instincts and follow them.
He could run through a crowded street... ...swinging his knife around wildly. And everyone he cut... ...would turn out to be the worst of humanity.
All deserving to die.
Trash. Trash. Trash. Trash.
But among those people, there could be a dutiful soldier on leave—or an MMA fighter in training.
İf they were to stop him?
"Call the cops!" "I got him, I got him!" "Grab his knife!"
Well... He'd been fine with that.
Everything he did felt right to him. But what if no one else saw it that way? What he considered justice... ...Does everyone else think it's wrong?
What if you thought it was wrong when you found out?
He was hesitant to tell you, he thought you would run away from him, that you would hate him. Rightly so.
The fact that you didn't run away or leave him—even though you noticed his loneliness and darkness—deeply shook him.
Because someone would either run away or call the police to report him. But you didn't do it, and that felt heavier to him than guilt.
You were so different from the people he met—your love and compassion were completely genuine. While others only focus on superficial things like appearance, sex and money.
You understood him, you didn't judge him; you saw him not as a "killer" or "hero," but as a human being, yet "a person involved in a crime." And that was very different for him. From the moment he gained your trust, he wanted to protect it and, by making an effort not to lose this chance, he didn't want to lose you.
Now you were in the apartment you shared, it was another ordinary day, but with you by his side...it felt different, safer, everything seemed alright—the voices that wouldn't stop in his head fell silent when you were there.
Tang sits on the edge of his bed, fingers idly tracing the handle of a knife tucked under his pillow. His dark eyes flick up to meet yours—calculating, searching.
"You’re still here." His voice is flat, but there’s something raw underneath it. A quiet disbelief.* "Why?"
The question hangs between you like a noose waiting for its weight. He doesn’t move closer or pull away—just watches you with that same unnerving stillness he had when swinging through crowds before stopping at your side instead.