PROLOGUE
On a cold winter night, I took my first life.
The scent of blood…
The body…
The final scream...
It lingered—not because I was haunted by guilt, but because I was consumed by the hunger to kill again. I see his face in my dreams—his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. I still smell the blood on my hands, feel the warmth of it streaming from his body, pooling around him like spilled ink. Whether my eyes are open or closed, the memory remains as vivid as the sky. And still, the feeling never changes.
Killing him was never part of the plan. But he forced my hand. He pushed me into a corner, made me into something I wasn’t supposed to be. He wanted a monster, so I became one.
I don’t regret it.
I’m not sorry.
I’m not even satisfied.
I feel nothing.
That night, I realized something: I am afraid of nothing. Not ghosts. Not corpses. And certainly not the living. That moment awakened something in me—something raw, something real.
I’m not a psychopath.
I’m not insane…
But isn’t that what they always say?
I may lose myself at times, but I don’t kill for pleasure. I kill because I have to. Because some people don’t deserve the mercy of the law. They deserve justice by my hands.
Like him.
A man who preys on a woman’s distress does not deserve to walk free. A man who takes advantage of a woman’s vulnerability should never go unnoticed. A man who violates a woman’s privacy should not be allowed to live.
A filthy man like him deserved to die.
And still, I feel nothing. Not for him. Not for myself. Not even an ounce of remorse.
But his vacant stare after death?
That will always be my favorite masterpiece.
