Zhou Lin

Chapter 14 God of Killing

What does death mean to people?

Is it the cessation of physiological functions or the process of the soul leaving the body?

Is it sacred, or is it not worth mentioning?

These questions have troubled me for a while.

Because...I often have to deal with death.

Of course, it is not me who experiences death, but others, those whom I seek out.

…………

My name is Jack Anderson, and I am a killer, a very ordinary killer.

In the killer profession, there are many people with distinctive personalities and strong personal styles: for example, some people will keep themselves in a certain image for more than ten years, and they will look that way whenever they appear in front of others; People will use iconic and unique weapons to commit crimes, or engrave on bullets, and the police will know that the murder is from them as soon as they see the body; there are even guys who only commit crimes in certain weather, in order to maintain their own records , before each job, the client is required to provide the target’s travel schedule and local weather forecast.

But no matter what, they are still considered excellent killers, because only masters can have the so-called "style", and those who even struggle to complete tasks are not qualified to do other unnecessary things.

Compared with my peers, I seem very boring.

I can use any image to carry out tasks, and I can also use any weapons or even daily necessities that I can get at hand to kill people.

Time, place, environment, none of these matter.

For the killer, the only thing that matters is completing the mission.

The only thing required is concentration.

I don’t need style, let alone belief. Killing is just a job for me; just like washing dishes, driving, and welding, I do these and am good at it, not because I love it, just because I love it. Just for money.

I complete what I should do, and then get corresponding rewards; I don’t invest any personal feelings, and I don’t do any self-persuasion... I don’t ask too much, don’t talk too much, just get the things done and get paid. This is my understanding of work. .

And when I worked quietly like this for twenty years, I realized belatedly that I, like those guys with distinctive styles, had a nickname.

They call me - the God of Death.

When a person is called a "god" because of his hard work, I think it's almost time for him to retire.

So, I quit.

As long as I keep a low profile, the money I have earned over the years will be enough to make me live a prosperous life for the rest of my life.

With this idea in mind, I took out the false identity I had already arranged, cut off all ties with the past, moved to a middle-class community in a second-tier city, and lived a comfortable life alone.

Although I could also live in isolation and rely on various door-to-door services, but I did not do that because it would attract attention.

The real low-key is moderation; it can neither be too arrogant nor too closed-minded.

Therefore, over the years, I have maintained regular outing time almost every day, going for walks and shopping nearby... I also participated in some charity activities organized by the community, and occasionally appeared at community churches.

I'm that kind neighbor you meet on a walk and nod, but you can't name him. You just turn your head and you forget him.

After retirement, I just want to live an ordinary life; this kind of life makes me feel safe, happy and satisfied.

Originally... it was supposed to be like this.

Until one time, when I was volunteering under a community arrangement, I met an old man.

She was an old lady in her eighties who lived on the edge of the lower city. She lived in a small house of more than ten square meters and relied on the relief supplies sent by the community every day.

Her husband died twenty years ago, and she has no children to take care of her. In the past twenty years, she has only been accompanied by loneliness.

The old woman has lost the ability to stand on her feet, which is not unusual for her age; she crawls to the toilet every day on a mat she sewn. And the only food she ate was cold, almost expired canned food.

The only electrical appliance in her house was a light bulb... not to mention a TV or a radio, not even a telephone.

I asked her why she didn't seek help from others. According to her situation, there should be a special institution to take her in.

She told me that those institutions were for unaccompanied elderly people, but she would not go because she also had a son.

More than 20 years ago, her son left home to work in another city, but later lost contact with her. She wanted to stay here and wait for her son to come back.

She was afraid that if she left, her son would not be able to find her when he came back.

I tried to ask her about her son's name and some basic information that she could remember, but she suddenly started chatting and told me a lot. As an old man who can't even remember what happened a few minutes ago, she has a clear memory of her son and can talk about it endlessly.

Obviously, this memory and the hope of being reunited with her son are the only comfort this lonely old man has left over the years, and they are also the motivation for her to stay here.

However, I know that her son will not come back.

Because, I killed him.

That was the first job I took - every killer will remember the first person he killed as a killer, and I was no exception.

I didn't say anything when I left the old man's residence.

I didn't tell the old man that her gangster son was wanted on the road and killed twenty years ago for embezzling gang goods.

I didn't try to persuade her to leave here.

In this way, she can still have hope, and her son can still live in her memories and hopes.

…………

What does death mean to people?

I'm no longer bothered by this problem.

The heaviness of life does not lie in the impact it can have on the world, but in who it has let down and who it has fulfilled when it passes away.

It seems that I can't retire just yet.