I sat on the defendant's bench. A man in a suit sat beside me.
"Relax," he said kindly. "The state has provided a lawyer for you. I'll help you."
I gave a faint smile, thinking there might still be hope.
The trial dragged on. Heated arguments began to erupt. I stayed silent, only answering questions when necessary, afraid that saying too much would only make things worse.
"Since childhood, the defendant has been known to be short-tempered," the prosecutor said. "Isolated at school, showing antisocial tendencies that could develop into psychopathy."
I frowned, uncomfortable with someone digging into my childhood.
"We have also brought in a friend of 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 used to attend 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 bad from a young age. But at some point, the situation reversed—he started getting isolated because of his behavior and terrible temper."
"That's not what really happened!" I stood up, emotions boiling over. Just remembering the past made me feel sick.
"Back then, I only hit you once, and then you started chasing me. I kept doing it so you'd chase me again. I was still a kid—I didn't know that counted as violence. I thought it was just playing around, like tag."
"Not only that," he shot back quickly, his voice rising. "You mocked me and got others to bully me too."
"No," I argued. "From the start, people were already talking badly about you. Then we noticed something every time 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 turned red. Shame flashed across it before he finally shouted, "Even so! The fact is, 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. Disgusted. Absolutely disgusted by someone who didn't even understand the meaning of gratitude.
"Others?" I said coldly. "Which others? They were all hypocrites. Did you forget who was the first to invite you to play soccer? If I hadn't brought you in and helped you socialize, 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 became friends with me—and pushed you away."
"Hahaha. You're really stupid."
I laughed.
A hollow, bitter laugh.
I fell silent, unwilling to continue arguing with an idiot. This is exactly why I never wanted to be kind, let alone help others.
In truth, all humans are evil. If not, then they're just fools or hypocrites—and hypocrisy makes them worse than outright evil.
Yes, when I was young, I often got angry and unconsciously took it out on others. But as I grew older, I realized the reason—my parents fought constantly, breaking things around me since I was little. I carried those emotions to school without realizing it.
Then they started distancing themselves from me.
Not just because of my attitude, but because they knew I was easy to bully. They mocked my poverty and other things. That only made me angrier, until I started fighting at random—and eventually, I was truly isolated.
From then on, I covered my loneliness by reading books in the library during breaks. Because that 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. "In addition, we have strong supporting evidence."
The holographic screen lit up.
A scene began to play.
There I was, standing by a riverbank. I looked toward the water—toward someone who appeared to be drowning—then walked away as if nothing had happened.
My face instantly went pale. A chill ran from my spine to my fingertips. From behind, whispers began to spread.
"After witnessing the incident, the defendant showed no intention of helping or calling for assistance—"
"Wait!" I shouted, my voice breaking. "This has to be staged! If not, how could you capture that footage but not catch the real killer?!"
"Actually," the prosecutor replied calmly, "at the time, the camera was being hacked. However, the 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 determined that the defendant is the serial killer who has terrorized the city for several years. Therefore, the court sentences the defendant to death."
Thud.
The gavel struck the table.
"No! I'm innocent!" I screamed hysterically as they dragged me out of the courtroom. "Someone must have planned all of this!"
I struggled.
"Please! Someone! Theo—right, Theo! Say something! And you, old man—please, explain it to them!" I shouted at my coworker and the elderly man I had helped before. They had been invited as witnesses, but it made no difference 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 deep disappointment and 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 repeated sound of footsteps—everything felt like a nightmare that was too real. The handcuffs on my wrists 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 had lately was the large lobster and tuna steak I ate 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 talked about the 30–30–30–10 financial rule.To me, that was stupid.
If I could survive on $200—or even $0 a month—by living frugally and staying with my parents, then why waste money on useless things?
Wasn't it more rational to use all of it to run a business or invest?
That way, money could circulate faster.
If one day I felt overwhelmed managing too much leftover capital, I could just put it into stocks—like Palantir or BYD. Then, when the timing was right, I'd pull it back out as business capital.
And ironically, all the stocks I turned into trading goods ended up confiscated and swallowed by those greedy people.
Eventually, I was brought to an open field.
The air was cold. The sky was gray, without the sun. A single pole stood at the center, solid and lifeless—the execution post.
I was pushed toward it.
My back was pressed against rough wood, my hands tied behind me. The bindings were so tight that the blood in my arms felt cut off. 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. Only 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, afraid of death.
If I had helped that person back then, would this have happened? If I had been kind all this time, would people have believed me and taken my side?
"According to the court's ruling," a flat voice said, "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 said, raising his hand while watching me. "I hope in your next life, you'll be a good person."
"HAHAHAHA!" I laughed when I heard that.
The man paused mid-motion, staring at me.
From the beginning, being a good person was pointless. Throughout my life, I tried to be kind, and all it did was get me used. I helped someone, and they treated me like their 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 even more. So what was the point of being kind?
From the start, being indifferent and selfish wasn't a mistake. The mistake was that I did it halfway. If only I had been more selfish, more ruthless, if only I had been willing to sacrifice others for my own gain—just like the people who put me in this situation.
Then I wouldn't have had to suffer everything I went through.
That's right. Being evil, hypocritical, and selfish isn't wrong. What was wrong was expecting others not to be.
A smile formed on my lips as I looked at the man in front of me. "If there is a next life, I'll become a villain."
The man frowned and swung his hand down.
"Fire."
The shooters cocked their rifles.
The sound of metal 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 gunshots exploded at once.
Darkness swallowed my vision.
And just as my consciousness completely collapsed—
I felt my body falling.
But not to the ground.
Instead, into a deep, heavy, and cold darkness… like being buried beneath earth and stone.