> "My life... is meaningless. I'm not living. I'm just existing."
The words felt stuck somewhere between my throat and heart, tearing me apart from the inside.
My salary? Below rock bottom. The job? Hell.
But really... what's even keeping me in this world?
Dad died when I was just three.
A plane crash.
Mom and I survived by some miracle — as if the heavens gave us one last chance… But for what?
As I grew older, Mom… she broke.
No husband, no job, just a bottle in her hand — day after day.
I remember her eyes.
Dim, like a candle burning out near an open window.
And then… she left.
One of those gray, sticky evenings.
Like she vanished into the dark.
And then they came.
Some shady guys in coats with disgusting smiles.
They whispered, as if I couldn't hear.
But one sentence stuck in my memory like a scream in silence:
> "We'll sell him for organs. We'll live the high life, hehehe..."
And I... didn't resist.
Let them take me.
Why?
Maybe I hoped it would end.
That the pain, loneliness, and this rotten existence would finally disappear.
They threw me into a dark, damp cell.
The smell of blood and mold — the only thing I could feel.
Then two of them entered.
One had the eyes of a killer.
The other — a doctor's coat.
The plan was clear: the first would beat me half to death, the second… would finish the job and take everything inside.
My heart stopped.
But in my pocket… there was a knife.
Small, but sharp.
Hope — my last spark in the pitch-black darkness.
When the door slammed shut, I acted.
> — "You little shit!"
— ...
I didn't let him finish.
A sharp strike to the legs — he collapsed like a sack of bones.
One pull — and the knife slid into his throat.
Warm blood on my hands.
Disgusting… but I survived.
I barely caught my breath — the doctor rushed me from behind.
Clumsy.
I noticed.
He was scared.
His first time? Or maybe he just wasn't ready for the "victim" to turn predator?
> "If he falls, he'll land face-first… I need to dodge. Clean, sharp, no mistakes."
It was worth a try.
> — "What? Where is he?!"
— "You trusted your own arrogance too much. And now you'll pay for it."
— "Bastard!"
— "...Shut up."
Pop.
And he was silent.
Forever.
But it wasn't over.
The door flew open.
Ten of them.
The whole gang?
Ha… fun.
> — "Amuse me, you pigs."
— "What the hell did you just say?!"
No words.
I threw the knife — straight into the forehead of their leader.
He dropped like he never even lived.
The rest? Furious.
Four with bats.
But they didn't know — I hadn't just survived all these years.
I'd trained.
> — "You're dead, bastard!"
— "You sure about that?"
My movements — like a rehearsed routine.
One-two — and four were already down, blood pooling on the concrete.
Behind them — six more.
I glanced — knives on their belts.
Coincidence?
No. Fate.
Throw.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four — into their throats.
They didn't even get the chance to scream.
Boring.
> "Thugs are always... weak. And predictable."