4. Carousel
He had been a promising fitness trainer.
People kept praising his big, powerful muscles, saying a body like that was impossible for an Asian.
Everyone envied his physique.
He himself was proud of it.
If things kept going like this, he felt he'd soon be able to make an incredible amount of money.
But his happiness ended right about there.
Becoming famous turned out to be exhausting.
Wherever he went, he stood out.
Before he was known, people hadn't approached him so easily.
But once his name spread, more and more strangers started coming up to him, trying to touch his body.
People he'd never met acted like they knew him well, and it was sometimes disgusting.
But he couldn't scowl in front of them.
He was a public figure now.
The problem was, the rewards of his fame weren't big enough to make up for how uncomfortable it made him.
He had no business of his own, so a few TV appearances and appearance fees were all he had.
He'd received some offers to advertise fitness equipment and other products, but those didn't last long either.
Soon, the advertisers decided female models had more visible impact and replaced him.
What angered him even more was how people had started looking at him like some kind of strange animal instead of a person, asking to take pictures with him.
He was annoyed by everything.
Any attention that didn't help his income or his physical training felt like the dirty buzzing of flies swarming a loaf of bread.
Only then did he realize that fame didn't automatically lead to wealth.
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Not long ago, he'd gotten into a dispute with someone he bumped into while walking down the street.
The other man deliberately provoked him, and it ended in a fistfight.
He slapped the man's cheek twice with his palm.
Naturally, the guy couldn't handle the impact of those huge hands, and the next day, the news branded him as the suspect in an assault case, with the victim given three weeks of recovery time.
Now, he was afraid of people.
Before he became famous, others had feared and respected him.
But now, to them, he was nothing more than an arrogant monster.
The commercials he'd filmed were canceled, and the damages claimed for breach of contract were double what he had been paid.
No place would take him anymore.
He was completely alone in the world.
"What are you brooding over? Just come back to the gym starting tomorrow."
The old coach scratched his wrinkled muscles as he spoke.
A worn-out, shabby gym that had aged along with them.
He wanted to start over.
Boys who came to the gym approached him, asking him to teach them how to train.
They said they admired him and wanted to build a cool body like his.
Yeah. Once everything is forgotten, the only thing that remains is the result of all the blood, sweat, and effort you've poured in.
For him, that was his muscular body.
Things that are truly precious don't disappear easily.
He started training again.
He steeled himself as if he were entering his very first competition, determined to become the best once more.
He entered a few contests, but unlike before, the looks he received weren't all that warm.
Still, it didn't matter.
As long as he had the excellent body he'd built, he was sure he could always make a comeback.
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That day, he was on his way home after finishing up at the gym.
His gym, near Paul Street Crossroads, was surrounded by crowded streets, and on his way home he always had to avoid people's stares.
As usual, he cut through a narrow alley to reach the parking lot.
Then, in front of one shop, a fight broke out, and people started screaming.
He had intended to just walk past, but a woman's desperate wail made him turn his head back.
The woman was being brutally stomped on by a man.
Her face was already so covered in blood it was unrecognizable.
Blood spilled from between her broken teeth as she begged the people around her to save her.
Grabbing her by the hair, a huge man yelled at the onlookers.
No one stepped forward.
No—no one could.
The man was far too big, and his eyes had rolled back in a crazed way that made it clear anyone who tried to stop him would end up just like the woman.
He hurled curses at the terrified crowd, mocking them, shouting as if their helplessness was hilarious.
It was the moment his palm rose again toward the woman's face.
What stopped the man's palm was his hand.
He didn't want to fight.
The man hesitated at the sudden interference, but then immediately cursed and threw a punch at him.
He was beaten down mercilessly.
Or, more precisely, he allowed himself to be beaten down.
He didn't want to be dragged back into the public eye as some violent brute.
The man's kicks were strong enough to break bones.
Once he'd vented his anger enough, he sneered down at him.
The man remembered who he was, and began to spit out all kinds of insults.
"A cowardly body built on drugs."
That last line was something the man never should have said.
He had just insulted the last bit of pride he had left, the very core of his life.
He was furious.
From the depths of his heart, a black rage burst forth—something not of this world, something unstoppable.
He became a madman.
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Time slipped past midnight and into two in the morning.
The streets were quiet.
Dark red blood flowed along the roadside, glinting under the streetlights.
A broken billboard crackled with a distorted electric hum.
There didn't seem to be many people left now.
Most of the hunters who had come to take down the madman were dead or badly injured and gone.
The madman wandered the streets.
He walked with no clear direction.
In the distance, a man appeared in front of him, holding a long silver gun.
When the madman saw him, he scowled and tried to intimidate him.
But the man didn't flinch.
There was no emotion visible on his face at all.
The man stared at him with a blank expression.
In that gaze, the madman felt a kind of unknown death he had never once sensed before.
The madman roared and charged at the man.
His huge right hand swung high and then came crashing down, smashing the concrete where the man had just been.
Dust from the shattered cement billowed thickly, then slowly faded away.
The man was gone.
The madman looked around.
Behind him, as if nothing had happened, the man stood calmly watching him.
The madman felt a surge of shame at having let someone slip behind his back.
He rushed at the man again, in a fury that only grew.
His massive hands attacked without mercy.
Where his sharp nails sliced through the air, the air itself seemed to ripple with force.
But it was as if the man already knew every move in advance; he slipped away from each attack with the tiniest margin of space.
The madman attacked again and again.
Yet the more he swung, the more his strikes felt like meaningless flailing at empty air.
[Gunshot]
A short gunshot rang out, and he froze mid-attack.
The madman felt his left arm grow lighter.
When he turned his head and looked down at the ground, he saw his massive left arm, severed from his body, lying there pathetically.
He felt no pain.
But he felt hollow, and strangely bereft.
A part of his body that had been with him all his life was now gone, and a crushing realization hit him—that it would never come back.
Tears welled in the madman's eyes.
The man watched him silently from a distance for a moment, then disappeared.
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A little while after the fiercest part of the fight had ended, a mechanical tune drifted from somewhere.
It was pure and soft.
Following the sound, he came to a carousel lit by spinning orange lights.
With no one riding it, the carousel turned round and round by itself, endlessly.
The madman stood there, staring blankly at the rotating carousel.
Whether it was the dazzling lights that bewitched him, or the quiet stillness that consumed him, he gazed at it like a man under a spell.
In the carousel reflected in his eyes, the image of a small child forgotten by his memories appeared.
He didn't know if that child was actually himself.
He only knew that, seeing himself now as a monster, he felt something pitiful about it.
The carousel horses moved up and down.
The carriages followed behind them.
Round and round, endlessly.
A child turned to look back and laughed.
A bright, beaming laugh.
[Gunshot]
Dark red blood bloomed like a flower.
His eyes were still fixed on the spinning carousel.
With a faint regret, as if he wanted to hold it in his hand just once—about the size of a fist—he slowly closed his eyes.
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"Yesterday around 8 p.m., the murder incident that took place at Paul Street Crossroads came to an end after more than six hours of struggle, when the madman was shot dead by a civilian hunter.
The man believed to have been the madman is Mr. A, a former celebrity fitness trainer, who had previously been arrested for assaulting a civilian and is thought to have once again failed to control his rage during a similar assault, ultimately leading to this tragedy.
The current estimated death toll, including civilian hunters, stands at 58."
Banner, the owner of an old bar, switched off the TV with the remote as if the noise annoyed him.
There were fewer customers at the bar than before.
Silence settled into the empty seats here and there.
Groups of three or four who used to drink together now sat in ones and twos, quietly knocking back their drinks as if they'd lost their families.
"Damn it. If I hadn't passed out drunk, I would've been the one to finish that bastard."
Mac drained his beer in one long gulp and slammed the glass down on the counter.
A moment later, the bar's front door opened and Anderson walked in.
Everyone inside turned to look at him.
He raised his eyebrows, surprised by the unexpected attention, but when he saw Mac and Banner grinning at the bar, he gave them a nod and took his usual seat in the corner.
"Lucky you made it back alive."
Mac set a fresh, full beer glass in front of him as he spoke.
Anderson glanced at Mac once, then lifted the glass and slowly wet his throat.
"What took you so long? If I'd gone, I would've crushed it in under ten minutes."
Mac threw the words at him in a mocking tone.
Anderson snorted lightly and simply kept drinking his beer.
Soft music began to flow through the bar again.
Episode 1 『 Hunter 』
The End.