I was a murderer.
It doesn't bother me. You probably disgust me, but after knowing my past—what all has been done to me, what all I have done—I don't know. I never justified it, not to anyone, not even to myself. Lying to myself for some relief from guilt was never my thing. I wasn't guilty anyway. I just know, for a fact, that I'm a murderer.
Yeah, I've killed people. Big deal. People die anyway. Changing the reason doesn't change the result.
The moment he mentioned he knew my past, I snapped back to my usual demeanor, face returning to the default. Because in that moment, the question of how much he knew and how he knew it became far more important than who he was or what he was up to.
"I want you to play a game," he said, handing me a Joker card.
I didn't take it.
"Who are you? The police? A detective?" I asked, almost threatening. "I won't take anything till I know what's going on and—"
I stepped closer to him, right up to his towering height. My eyes locked onto his like blades.
"How much do you know about my past?" I asked gravely.
I made sure the murderer was visible in my eyes.
But he stared right back. Then, scoffing, he stepped back, shaking his head. Amused.
There was something intriguing about him.
If he really did know my past—what I've done—he should be afraid, cautious. But he wasn't. He didn't take it seriously, like I was just a regular guy.
Either he didn't know anything... or he was a monster himself.
"Hah, okay, okay," he said through his snickers. "I'll tell you everything. But not here."
He handed me the card again. This time, he took my hand and pressed it into my palm.
"My number's on the back. If you wanna know, call me."
Then he smiled. That eerie, unsettling smile.
If I were a normal person, I'd probably be trembling.
Because his presence—the pressure he gave off—was suffocating. Darkness.
But I was pitch black myself. All I felt was concern.
And before I could say anything, he turned around and walked out the door.
"Hey, wait!" I called, rushing after him.
But he was gone.
I stood there at the shop's open gate, scanning the street with wary eyes.
This wasn't something I could just brush off with a "meh, fuck it" like I do with everything else.
For the first time in years, I was genuinely concerned.
How much did he know? And how?
I saw Kachiji approaching from a distance and walked back inside.
I turned the card over.
But there was no number.
Instead, it read:
KISS DAISY
"What the fuck?" I muttered, staring at the card, eyes wide with disbelief.
19/12, 12:34 AM
The Karma Game
Level 0 begins.
*
Breaking news: A house in Denkirk City exploded, burned down due to a gas leak. The family members—Mark Sudoko (Father), Melony Sudoko (Mother), and 10-month-old Maja Sudoko—died in the fire. The only living member was the 14-year-old boy, Ken Sudoko.
*
I was frozen in place, the words "Kiss Daisy" burning into my eyes. What the hell does that even mean? I knew what it meant, but it made no sense. It was too—if I say—random. And extreme. I mean, kiss a girl who I hardly ever talk to and have already created a bad energy with because of my visible ignorance toward her, which doesn't matter to me normally but now is concerning. My mind was completely blank.
And most importantly, what has this got to do with the man, Demed, and my past?
"Ken! What's wrong?" Kachiji startled me from behind with a sudden thump on my shoulder. I hadn't noticed he had returned. I put the card in my pocket in a hurry, said, "N-Nothing," hastily, and went into the books aisle. Luckily, he didn't nose in any further.
Normally, my job hours feel like an unskippable ad. I don't hate or love them, I'm just neutral—leading people through the books and staring at the clock, waiting for it to end. But that day felt like a bad hangover. I kept messing up and zoning out, and by the time it was over, I didn't even remember what all had happened in those hours.
It was bothering me. I didn't care about her feelings or shit—what I was worried about was her reaction after the kiss.
See, killing a girl was easier than kissing a girl, because in killing you don't have to worry about any aftermath caused by the victim. They don't complain or protest or cause any trouble, cuz, well, they're dead. As long as you are able to deal with external factors like evidence and shit, you're good. Kissing, on the other hand, has all of the bothersome aftermaths I have to deal with—she might complain to the police, do drama and shit. Too exhausting.
I wished it said "Kill Daisy" instead of "Kiss Daisy." That would have been easier.
The best way I could think of to deal with the situation was to kiss her and then kill her. That looked like the best approach. It didn't say what to do after kissing her, so that wouldn't be a problem. I can deal with cleaning the evidence and making it look like an accident. I have done it before. But at least she will make no problems for me.
The time passed, and I got yelled at a few times—my "head was not in the job today"—but anyway, my time to leave came. And that was when she entered the shop.
The clock was near 4:30, and she entered, bubbly and jumpy as always, full of glowing energy. Annoying. "Hi Kachiji uncle!" she said with a big smile, and he smiled back, saying, "There you are, Daisy!" She kept going on, loud, about some new magazines that we should get, and here I was thinking if I should get a knife or do it with my hands.
Then she turned to me and said with big eyes and a smile, "Hey Ken!"
I was to be as I was every day, so I just nodded nonchalantly and walked to the door, the glow on her face dimming a little due to the cold response—like it always does. I could never understand why she said hey to me every day even though I visibly ignored her. What did she expect?
I put on my hoodie—it was cold—and went out of the shop and started walking home.
On my way, I started thinking about the scenario in my mind, started planning. It had been years since I killed someone. I had left all that behind me. And as I thought about it, those unpleasant memories that I didn't like remembering started interrupting my thoughts. Those scenes of the dead bodies of people I called mother and father lying on the floor, covered in blood and cuts, while I stood there all soaked in red, knife in my hand with blood dripping from it, the TV buzzing static and the glass table shattered. The scenes of the disfigured body of a girl. I don't remember what I was feeling in that moment. They are faint, like a dream. I hadn't had them in years except sometimes in dreams. But they were there.
These were bothersome memories. I didn't feel any remorse—just annoyed because they interrupted my thoughts. I shook them off and started planning my next actions.
That's when a phone call came.