Larry had always tried to be someone normal, a solitary young man who adapted to the circumstances of his life. He was independent, rarely placing himself in the hands of strangers.
But truth be told, his life was truly difficult.
When his family was murdered by that man, he lost everything. A part of him died that night, and for a time, he felt guilty for not having died alongside them.
If only he had died, would it really have been better for many people today?
The criminals he had studied became his greatest obsession. He thought that if he could become a judge of death for those murderers, he might find the one who killed his family.
But now, with all these years of experience, he knew he had to be patient to take, sooner or later, a revenge that must be paid in blood.
"I should get some sleep..." Larry muttered softly as he walked toward the elevator of the residential building where he lived.
After a long time, Larry scratched his head, feeling that he was beginning to torment himself again with his own thoughts. As he was thinking of more things, the elevator doors in front of him opened.
Upon exiting, he headed straight to his apartment. Once inside, he suddenly realized just how alone he truly was.
"I'm home..."
After eating something, he decided to go straight to sleep for as long as necessary to recover. He had too many thoughts in his head, and the best way to calm himself was to sleep.
...
For the past fifteen years, Larry had been having the same dream over and over again. In it, he was the real murderer of his parents, siblings, and the life he once had.
His family had been killed by a serial killer who was merely refining his skills. At the time, detectives didn't notice him until Larry secretly began studying him.
Although he was also a victim—having been left alive—it could be said that his luck in not being home that night was something many would have wished for if they knew his story. But Larry hated not being there that night with his family, not sharing their pain, not bleeding alongside them.
Even today, every time he falls asleep, he finds himself in his family's kitchen, where the corpses of his siblings are arranged as if for some kind of ritual.
The blood-written letters on the wall, the faces of his dead family.
"Why?" Larry asked, trapped in his childlike form.
In this dream, he was always a weak child who couldn't even lift his hands to try to approach the murderer.
"Why didn't you kill me too?"
"What's the point of killing you for God? You are the lamb destined to wander aimlessly through the mortal world."
Yes, corruption...
A religious killer, blind to his own sins.
"Aren't you just like me?"
The stench of fresh blood was overpowering. For a long time, Larry had tried to adapt to this environment. This time, he had endured longer than usual, which meant he was becoming less sensitive to emotions.
"I will find you..." Larry growled furiously in his dream. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his fists clenched tightly. But as always, he could do nothing in this nightmare.
At that moment, Larry closed his eyes and opened them in a completely different place.
This time, because of the sound of the rain outside, footsteps were even harder to identify through his hearing.
Even though Larry believed he possessed the divine ability to "locate by sound," he was completely unable to use it at that moment.
He could only curl up inside his parents' wardrobe, silently waiting for what would happen next.
"Please..."
Larry heard the sounds of his parents. Through the cracks in the wooden door, he watched as they were murdered.
Even though he had never witnessed the killing—he hadn't even been home—now, as a criminal profiler who had examined every detail of his family's murder, he could recreate what the killer had done.
Every detail was etched into Larry's mind—the suffering of his family and how they had served as part of that murderer's ritual.
"Wake up..."
Larry jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, discovering he was in his bed. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest. The darkness of his room reminded him of where he had just been in his dreams.
As he looked around, his previously erratic breathing began to calm. His body was soaked in sweat, his hands trembled.
It had been months since he had dreamed of something so vivid and real, and now, this dream was so grim that it had shaken him deeply.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
Larry stomped on the floor with the soles of his feet. In the end, he was always alone.
The rain pattered against the window, rhythmic, monotonous. In the dim light of his apartment, Larry let his memory drag him back to that night once again. The scene had changed over the years, but the pain remained intact, cold as the steel of a well-sharpened scalpel.
Yes, my feelings are still the same.
That man... No, that fanatic, didn't understand that by leaving me alive, he gave me a purpose. He thought he had carried out the will of his god, that his ritual was complete. But no, his work remained unfinished. And I am the living proof of his imperfection.
I always tried to be someone normal. The illusion of normalcy kept me sane for years, but the truth never abandoned me. Every case I studied, every profile I built, every anatomy I learned was a rehearsal for the moment I would catch that killer.
I was not wrong to wait until now.
If I had to kill him, I wouldn't use a gun or a blade. Those are tools of impulsive killers, of clumsy minds. A religious fanatic fears heresy more than death. I would make him face his worst fear—the desecration of his faith.
I would lock him in a room where every wall was covered with altered verses, with blasphemies written in the blood of those he had killed. I wouldn't let him pray; I wouldn't give him the peace of silence. I would whisper in his ear that his god had abandoned him, that his sacrifice was in vain, that he never had a purpose.
I would make him look at his reflection in a distorted mirror, where his image twisted into grotesque versions of himself. Until he could no longer bear it. Until his own faith devoured him from within.
Because it's not about killing him. It's about destroying him. Taking away the only thing that sustains him. Just as he took everything from me.
And when he finally falls to his knees, trembling, realizing that his god does not answer, that his prayers are empty echoes... Then, and only then, will I grant him the mercy that was denied to me. With the same coldness with which he drew those letters on the wall with my family's blood.
Because revenge is not an impulsive act. It is an art.
And I am its artist.