It was in the alleyway on the way home after school that I ran into that man. I wonder if it was a mistake to take the shortcut because I wanted to see my father, who had just returned from an overseas business trip.

Sure enough, that alley was crawling with thugs or gang members—the kind of people who run rampant doing all sorts of illicit things—and I had walked right into them. Just my luck. Why did it have to be today of all days?

As the pack of guys approached with cigarettes in their mouths, I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't move, paralyzed by the fear that they would hurt me. That's when I heard a dull thud.

A man with a ponytail, wearing a tacky floral shirt, stared at me while casually resting a blood-stained claw hammer on his shoulder. Looking around, I saw that many men had been taken down in that short span of time. The alley wasn't a bloodbath; most were just unconscious or had bloody noses.

Even though he was a stranger, I felt I had to thank him, so I gave a deep bow.

I thought to myself that he was a kind person. And somehow, after that, I started running into him frequently. He'd say things like, 'What if you get surrounded by thugs again?' Using that as an excuse, he was always hovering around me.

Then one day, he told me he had joined some organization, but I just brushed it off. I wonder if that was the problem.

The neighborhood was turned into a shambles because of a certain gang, and even my parents were caught in the crossfire. My father died a gruesome death while trying to protect a young child from getting hurt.

He gave me his own clumsy version of comfort as I grieved, and just as I began to feel myself leaning on him, the world turned cruel.

I found out later that he belonged to the very group that killed my father.

I felt betrayed. Of course, he wasn't the one who killed my father, but the fact that he lived and breathed with those bastards made them all look the same to me back then. I wanted revenge, no matter what. I wanted to know how I could make him suffer every single day.

One day, the man confessed his feelings to me.

As if I had been waiting for that moment, I poured out harsh words at him. I told him I loathed him. That it was sickening for a man like him to confess to me.