It was midnight, around 12:30 AM. I was walking down a street for a tea break, since I was working night shift. My colleagues always chose the main road or the highway to get to the tea shop, but I wasn’t really interested in following them that day. I liked walking through the more horrifying, dreadful street (the one most people avoided at night, thanks to the high number of drug users and suicide cases reported there). Because I didn’t believe in ghosts, and I wasn’t afraid of death.
Further down the road, I saw two guys, fully drunk, shouting and howling like dogs. Then I noticed a light coming from a scooter — it looked like a girl, someone who seemed new to my hometown. She wore a helmet, dressed like a bike-taxi rider. The two guys stopped her and started bullying and harassing her. She cursed back at them, scolding them with bad words, but somehow, they touched her inappropriately.
As a middle-class guy, I understood the weight behind her situation the pain her family probably carried, and why she was risking her safety just to do her job.
I don’t know where the anger came from — it hit me like Kratos. I took off my ID card, tied a handkerchief over my face, and pulled my hoodie up over my head. I took out a ballpoint pen, walked straight toward the guy who had touched her, flicked the cap onto the ground, and stabbed the pen into his neck, his hand, his chest again and again, like something feeding on rage. His blood spilled out, plop, plop, splattering onto my face. The other guy was too drunk to even stand straight, swaying and howling like a dog, barely conscious. I spotted a soft wire lying nearby — something used to tie things and grabbed it. I drove it through one cheek, pulling it through to the other side, then tied the wire tight around his mouth, sealing it shut.
Both of them screamed in pain. Then, one by one, they went unconscious.
I thought she was completely shaken, so I took her scooter and set it on its side stand. She was clearly broken and fearful, but I have to say — she was bold and clever. She broke his fingers, snapping them like mutton chukka, and threw them toward the dogs nearby.
I told her, “Please come and rest in my office. If anyone asks you about tonight, just tell them I’m your cousin brother.” She said okay.
But before that, my mind was already flickering with a plan — we needed to frame this so it looked like both guys had simply fought each other and passed out.
My inner voice — I call him Kattapa — kicked in, like I was playing one of those forensic games, something like Murder Cleaner. Kattapa told me to frame it properly. There was some dirty water nearby, so I washed the pen. I took it and pressed it into the hand of the guy whose mouth I’d tied shut, then removed the wire from his mouth and placed it near the other guy — the one I’d stabbed with the pen. I was certain neither of them was dead, just unconscious. Given how much they’d been drinking and how many drugs they’d clearly taken, they likely wouldn’t remember any of it until someone told them. I staged it to look like they’d fought each other while drunk — so the police wouldn’t suspect a third person was involved.
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