Nightfall.

The moonlight quietly illuminated a small alley. There, a shadow of a man trudged along, his body trembling, drained of strength. He leaned against the wall to keep himself from collapsing.

Blood seeped from his wounds, staining his shirt crimson. He lowered his gaze to examine the gaping wound in his abdomen. At some point, the path he walked had been speckled with red drops on the ground.

"If only I had time to erase the trail."

The injury muddled his thoughts. The man shook his head slightly, trying to regain clarity. A faint, wry smile crossed his face as he realized his body wasn’t what it used to be.

It made sense. Even for a professional assassin, retiring for three long years had dulled his senses. Middle age crept up on him, and if he were just a few years younger, wounds like these wouldn’t have started robbing him of his consciousness.

But still…

He blinked, clenched his teeth, and pressed hard against the wound to stem the bleeding. He muttered under his breath:

"Just survive today… I can get to another country, and then… open a café..."

Yes, even though he lacked any talent in brewing or managing, the idea of running a café didn’t seem bad. Once, he saw a family of three running a small café in front of a park—not bustling with customers but enough to lead a warm, simple life.

The life was so peaceful that even a notorious hitman like him (though retired as a coffee shop owner) gradually became a dull blade. Effortlessly, he plunged a knife into his opponent's neck, ending a life.

Since that day, that café never reopened.

"Why am I thinking about that?"

Biting his tongue gently, he quickened his pace. Perhaps now, his fate resembled that of the café owner—another victim being hunted.

Why was it like this? Was it because he had assassinated too many people, to the point where everyone wanted him dead?

Indeed, though he lacked a concrete name, almost everyone who had blood on their hands knew of his existence. A man of extraordinary physical strength, coupled with the expertise to disguise himself and kill without leaving a trace. Skills honed over years of practice.

"At least, that’s what they say."

In reality, the man had a name. But it had been so long since he last used it. A very ordinary name, even common in this world—Jack.

He had no family or friends to whom he could reveal his real name.

If Jack could live his life over again, he certainly wouldn’t become this. If, on that fateful night, he had found an intruder in his café—even if that intruder killed innocent people—Jack wouldn’t have intervened. If he had another chance, he would hide in the bedroom and say nothing.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

If he had been that cowardly, maybe the killer would still be alive, and Jack wouldn’t have discovered his own talent for taking lives.

Jack’s desires were simple: he wanted to live a fulfilled life.

He had tried countless jobs. Yet, Jack’s lack of social skills left him without friends or a lover. He wasn’t smart enough to graduate from university. He once aspired to be an author, but the story he poured days and nights into writing turned out to be worth no more than an expired meal.

He worked as a bootblack, a street guitarist earning spare change, and even a painter. No matter how often he changed professions, Jack treated every job with utmost sincerity, respecting and dedicating himself fully to it.

But that didn’t make things better. It only made Jack a persistent failure - unemployed and surviving on scraps earned from construction work.

At 26, Jack had saved enough after three years of ceaseless effort to open a café. Although business was poor, he managed to sustain himself.

That same year, however, an intruder broke into his café at midnight. The man threatened to kill another customer there and even threatened Jack himself.

At that moment, Jack didn’t want to die. The café, newly opened, had become something he cherished. He didn’t want to lose everything just like that.

So, he killed the intruder. The man managed to slit the customer’s throat but couldn’t withstand Jack’s fury. That night, Jack found his purpose.

He seemed to excel at killing.

Soldiers, who appeared robust, fell so easily to Jack. Securely guarded locations, impenetrable by even a single ant, were no obstacle to him. Despite his frail appearance, Jack’s killing techniques were horrifyingly precise. Whoever he set his sights on was as good as dead.

It was as if Jack had found his talent—a disease that seeped into his soul, eroding his humanity and dragging him deeper into the abyss.

If an employer exploited workers, should he kill them?

If someone sparked a revolution leading to hundreds of thousands of deaths, should he kill them?

If someone intended to commit murder, should he kill them?

Jack once declined a contract to assassinate a revolutionary aiming to overthrow a dictator. Foolishly, Jack thought that if the revolution succeeded, the country would become peaceful, and its people would no longer suffer under tyranny. Right?

No.

War erupted, painting the nation red with blood. Though the revolution might succeed, countless innocent lives were lost—all because of Jack’s decision. He had believed the uprising would lead to a better life for the people but unknowingly fanned the flames of war.

"You should have killed him!"

"You could have stopped this!"

Night after night, voices echoed in Jack’s mind, tormenting him relentlessly. There was no peace, only self-reproach and curses. Why was it like this? He was just an ordinary man who wanted to open a café. He had merely stumbled upon a talent for killing, so why was he forced to make such grave moral choices?

Kill, or don’t kill?

Jack never found joy in his life. His talent for murder was like a demon clinging to him, leading him to disregard his morals and make a living off others’ deaths. Alcohol, women, drugs - perhaps they could numb his pain.

But now… none of that mattered.

Jack’s body grew cold. Death was near.

His life had been meaningless. No family, no friends, no significant relationships. No hobbies, no one to help. Apart from enemies, Jack had nothing left.

If only… If only…

A fleeting thought passed through Jack’s mind as he stepped out of the dark alley. The soft light stung his eyes, and he squinted. Lifting his head, he realized dawn had broken.

"So warm."

Jack thought to himself, a small chuckle escaping his lips. His line of work had him awake through many nights and asleep during the day. Yet, he had never truly taken in a sunrise like this.

The world was so beautiful, and its lone stain was Jack himself.

Exhaustion enveloped Jack. He glanced at a tall building in the distance. Even from 700 meters away, he recognized the sniper aiming at him. Of course, the target was none other than a half-dead man like himself.

"That’s fine." Jack thought fleetingly. He smiled, his eyes closing slightly. How comfortable, how liberating it felt not to make any more choices. This sensation, intoxicating and consuming, overtook him.

The first rays of sunlight appeared. A life was fading away.

A gunshot rang out. The soul was gone.