I sat in the defendant's seat. A man in a suit sat beside me.
"Relax," he said kindly. "The state has provided you with a lawyer. I'll help you."
I gave a faint smile, thinking there might still be hope.
The trial went on for a long time, and heated arguments began to erupt. I stayed silent, only answering questions when they were directed at me, afraid that saying too much would only make things worse.
"Since childhood, the defendant has been known to have anger issues," the prosecutor said. "He was isolated at school, showing antisocial tendencies that could develop into psychopathy."
I frowned, feeling uncomfortable as someone dissected my childhood.
"We will also present a witness who knew the defendant."
A man was called into the courtroom and walked toward the witness stand. He wore casual clothes. His face looked familiar—and irritating.
I recognized him immediately.
"We attended the same school," the man said from the witness stand. "When we were kids, Lucian often bullied and hit me. I have to say, he was already troublesome back then. But eventually things turned around—he started getting isolated because of his behavior and bad temper."
"That's not what really happened!" I stood up, my emotions boiling over. The memories from the past made me sick to my stomach.
"At the time, I only hit you once, then you started chasing me. I did it repeatedly so you would chase me. I was just a kid—I didn't know that counted as violence. I thought it was just playing, like a game of tag."
"That's not all," he shot back, his voice rising. "You also mocked me and made others bully me too."
"No," I argued. "From the start, other people were already talking badly about you. Then we noticed something whenever we changed clothes for PE—you always wore green underwear. I thought it was funny, so I joked about it, saying you never changed your underwear."
His face flushed red. Shame flickered across his expression before he shouted, "That doesn't change the fact that you bullied me! But over time, the others realized how bad you were, and in the end, you were the one who got isolated!"
I clenched my fists. Disgust. Pure disgust, dealing with someone who didn't even understand the meaning of gratitude.
"Others?" I said coldly. "Which others? They were nothing but hypocrites. Do you remember who first invited you to play soccer? If I hadn't included you and helped you blend in, you'd still be a loner even now."
"No," he replied without hesitation. "They befriended me out of pity. They realized how rotten you were. That's why they started hanging out with me—and cut you off."
"Hahaha. You're really stupid."
I laughed.
A hollow, bitter laugh.
I fell silent, not wanting to continue arguing with a fool. This is exactly why I never wanted to be kind, let alone help others.
In reality, all humans are evil. If they're not, then they're either stupid or hypocritical—and hypocrisy makes them worse than outright evil.
It's true, when I was young I often got angry and lashed out at others without realizing it. But as I grew older, I understood the reason—my parents fought constantly, smashing things around me since I was little. I unconsciously carried that emotion with me to school.
Then they began to distance themselves from me.
Not just because of my attitude, but because they knew I was easy to bully. They mocked my poverty and many other things. That only made me angrier, until I started getting into random fights—and eventually, I was completely isolated.
From then on, I covered my loneliness by reading books in the library during breaks. It was the only place where no one would bother me.
"It's clear that the defendant has mental issues that triggered this murder," the prosecutor's voice cut in, drawing everyone's attention. "Furthermore, we have strong additional evidence."
A holographic screen lit up.
A scene began to play.
There I was, standing by the river. I turned toward the water—toward someone who appeared to be drowning—then walked away as if nothing had happened.
My face instantly turned pale. A chill ran down my spine to the tips of my fingers. Whispers began to spread behind me.
"After witnessing the incident, the defendant made no attempt to help or call for assistance—"
"Wait!" I shouted, my voice breaking. "This has to be staged! If not, how could you capture this but not the real killer?!"
"Actually," the prosecutor replied calmly, "at that time, the cameras were being hacked. However, authorities managed to secure two recordings. The first shows the perpetrator leaving the scene, and the other shows the perpetrator enjoying the victim's death."
"So," he continued, "do you have any further objections?"
Silence filled the room.
I turned to the lawyer beside me.
He only shook his head slowly.
"In that case," the judge's voice echoed, "it has been confirmed that the defendant is the serial killer who has terrorized the city for several years. Therefore, the court sentences the defendant to death."
Tok.
The gavel struck the desk.
"No! I'm not guilty!" I screamed hysterically as they dragged me out of the courtroom. "Someone planned all of this!"
I struggled.
"Please! Someone! Right—Theo! Say something! And you, sir—please, explain it to them!" I shouted to my coworker and the old man I had served before. They had been called as witnesses, but their presence meant nothing in the trial.
I hoped they would defend me, or at least do something to show my innocence.
They looked at me with blank expressions. Not a single word. My heart filled with disappointment and deep fear.
Slowly, I was dragged away, leaving behind the room that had decided the end of my life.
I don't know how much time passed after that.
Narrow corridors, the smell of metal, the repetitive sound of footsteps—it all felt like a nightmare that was too real. The handcuffs were replaced with cold chains. Every step I took, the scraping sound echoed, as if reminding me that I was no longer considered human.
The only good thing I'd gotten lately was the large lobster and tuna steak I had eaten earlier. At least I managed to fulfill one simple wishlist—eating a huge lobster once in my life.
Before that, even though I actually had enough money to enjoy food like that anytime, I always held back. I tried to save as much money as possible to invest.
Some people talk about the 30–30–30–10 financial rule.To me, that was stupid.
If I could survive on 200 dollars, or even zero dollars a month, living frugally and staying with my parents, then why waste money on useless things?
Wouldn't it make more sense to use all of it to rotate capital or invest?
That way, money would circulate faster.
And if someday I felt I couldn't manage too much idle capital, I could just put it into stocks—like Palantir or BYD. Then, when the timing was right, I'd pull it out again as business capital.
And ironically, all the stocks I converted into goods for trading ended up being seized and swallowed by those greedy people.
Eventually, I was brought to an open field.
The air was cold. The sky was gray, with no sun. A pillar stood in the center of the area, solid and cold—the execution post.
I was shoved toward it.
My back was pressed against rough wood, my hands tied behind me. The bindings were so tight that it felt like the blood in my arms had stopped flowing. My chest rose and fell unevenly. My breathing was heavy.
In front of me, several men stood in formation.
They wore dark uniforms.
In their hands were long-barreled rifles, aimed straight at me.
In the distance, I heard the wind. No cheers. No curses. Just an eerie silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
So this is how it ends.
I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. My legs trembled slightly, terrified of death.
If I had saved that person back then, would this have happened? If I had been kind all this time, would people have believed me and stood on my side?
"In accordance with the court's verdict," a man said flatly, "the convict will be executed now. Do you have any last words?"
I stayed silent. There was nothing I wanted to say. I was going to die anyway—no matter what words I spoke. So why bother?
"If you have no final words, we will proceed with the execution." The man raised his hand while observing me. "I hope in your next life, you'll become a good person."
"HAHAHAHA!" I laughed when I heard that.
The man paused mid-motion, watching me.
From the beginning, there was no point in being a good person. All my life, I tried to be kind, only to be taken advantage of. I helped someone, and that person treated me like an enemy.
I taught someone how to do business, and they betrayed and scammed me. I shared what I had, but they wanted more and kept demanding greater sacrifices. So what was the point of being kind?
From the start, being indifferent and selfish wasn't the mistake. The mistake was that I did it half-heartedly. If only I had been more selfish, more ruthless, if only I had been willing to sacrifice others for my own benefit—like the person who put me in this situation.
Then I wouldn't have had to endure all the suffering I went through.
Yes, being evil, hypocritical, and selfish isn't wrong. What was wrong was me, for expecting others not to be that way.
A smile formed on my lips as I looked at the man in front of me. "If there's a next life, I'll become a villain."
The man frowned and began to swing his hand down.
"Fire."
The shooters cocked their rifles.
The metallic sound pierced my ears.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Not to pray. I didn't believe in justice, let alone God.
There was only one thought in my mind—
I am not guilty.
And this world… deserves to rot.
The sound of gunshots exploded at once.
Darkness swallowed my vision.
And at the moment my consciousness completely collapsed—
I felt my body falling.
But not to the ground.
Instead, into a deep, heavy, and cold darkness… as if buried beneath earth and stone.