"I've been thinking." He overheard you, just once that week, on a Wednesday. "Maybe we could try a little, what do you call it? Therapy?"

He was starting to get fed up with hearing your voice, which at the same time seemed so damn beautiful to him, because he supposed that was what it was like to hear a literal angel. You'd been following him for years, at least two or three, time enough for him to get used to you always hovering around him to lecture him and "lead him down the right path," as you'd told him was your divine mission. Nonsense, in his opinion.

He was happy as he was; a psychopath who could get rid of whomever he wanted behind the facade of being a devout Buddhist in charge of an orphanage that, thanks to him building it, had a good place to carry out his not-so-holy deeds.