"Later, I just took their organs. Kidneys, eyes... everything they didn't need anymore. I sold them for pennies. Ironic, isn't it? Their plan is against them."
I was only six then. six.
But I didn't cry. He didn't shake. He didn't call for help. I was just doing what I had to do. It's like it's all been a part of me since I was born. Maybe it's my father's legacy? Not physically, no. And the spiritual... transmitted through the blood.
> "How did I know where to hit? How did I survive?"
"Instincts? Fate? Or am I just... not human?"
I didn't get much for the organs of these hooligans I sold. It was enough for three months of living on the streets. Not enough. Very little.
But I didn't complain.
> "Work? Who needs a six-year-old child? With blood on your hands?"
That's how I lived. More precisely, he was surviving. Day after day. With every yen I spent, I could feel death slowly breathing down my neck. To drown it out… I've been killing. Without pity. Without hesitation.
And so on — until fifteen.
I've been living on the streets for nine years. Every day is like the last. But one day, having saved enough, I bought a house. Little. Two-room apartment. But cozy. And most importantly — close to the school.
"Maybe I should try to go to school?.. Will they take it?"
I was smart. I knew it. Analytics, tactics, calculation — everything seemed to sink into me out of nowhere. It's probably from my mother. Although... and the father could be not just a murderer, but a real master.
> "Let's say... 70% — I got the fighting instinct from my father. 50% is from mother mind. Why 50 and not 100? Because maybe the mind is also from the father. Killers can be too smart."
Now I'm living. For real.
House.
Work.
Study.
A bartender in a small cafe. A senior in high school.
> "Today is an ordinary day. Boring. Dim. But I... like it."