Chapter 1 "Hunter"
1. Appearance
When he woke to the sound of his phone ringing, it was already 11 a.m., sunlight pouring fiercely through the window.
It was the third alert, calling for him with desperate insistence, but he kept his eyes closed and did not move.
If he ignored it long enough, it would surely give up on its own.
But the alert was stubborn. It kept vibrating, harassing him without mercy.
Unable to remain drifting in sleep any longer, irritation surged up inside him. With a sharp, annoyed motion, he grabbed the phone.
[Incident]
Location: Montreasure Bank, Stonefield Branch
Subject: Male, mid-50s
Casualties: 5 dead
The alert, having delivered its message, disappeared without another sound.
He barely managed to lift his heavy body from the bed.
Unkempt hair.
Eyes still half-closed.
With his right hand, he groped across the table for a cigarette and a lighter.
The flint sparked—whoosh—and a flame burst forth. He brought the cigarette to the fire and inhaled deeply, his cheeks hollowing as smoke filled his lungs. The paper crackled as it burned, glowing red.
Gray, hazy smoke drifted from his mouth.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
His mind was empty.
He stood up and gathered the items on the desk.
A long coat.
A handgun.
Three or four bullets.
He lifted the gun and examined it from different angles. Reflected sunlight slid along the barrel, momentarily blinding him.
Engraved into the metal, in sunken letters, was a single word:
"STIGMA."
He opened the cylinder and leaned close to one of the six chambers. Through the dark hole, he saw a poster on the wall beyond—a woman smiling brightly, baring her white teeth and gums, as if nothing in the world could trouble her.
He picked up the bullets and loaded them one by one into the chambers.
Each click brought with it an unexplainable sense of satisfaction. When the last bullet slid into place, he stroked one round with his thumb several times.
(It would probably be today's first bullet.)
He snapped the cylinder shut. The solid, satisfying sound seemed to mark the end of his preparation.
He put on the long coat.
A yellow daisy blooming by the window glowed brilliantly in the sunlight.
He stubbed out the burned cigarette in the ashtray.
Quietly, he opened the door, stepped into the flood of sunlight, and went outside.
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It was an ordinary morning, no different from any other.
The bank was crowded, and with so many people came long waiting times. A man holding a number ticket in one hand, waiting for his turn, dozed off briefly. When he woke, his number had already been called and passed.
Flustered, he grabbed his bag and rushed to the counter, shoving aside the person ahead of him and thrusting his ticket toward the teller.
The teller, clearly displeased, firmly told him to take another number.
Was it anger at the teller's cold response?
Or resentment over all the time he had wasted waiting?
The man suddenly began to scream at the top of his lungs. His eyes turned bloodshot, veins bulging from his neck and crawling up his face as his body convulsed.
The teller froze, as if seeing a seizure for the first time.
The man twisted and shook violently. The sound of bones snapping echoed as he groaned in agony. Blood poured from his eyes and mouth, and the veins covering his skin darkened to a deep, purplish red.
As the man writhed uncontrollably, the teller glanced desperately toward the security guard standing near the entrance, silently pleading for help. But before the guard could even take a step, the man suddenly raised his right arm high into the air and brought it crashing down onto the teller's head.
The teller's head separated from his body and fell to the lobby floor. Blood erupted from the severed neck like a fountain.
Screams exploded from all directions. The bank descended into chaos.
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An hour had passed since the incident, yet no rescuers had arrived.
The people hiding inside the bank found their breathing growing faster and more frantic. If this continued, fear alone would be enough to make them lose consciousness.
Then, from a counter deep inside the bank, a phone began to vibrate.
Anxious glances darted around as people silently cursed the unseen owner of the phone.
In one corner, a trembling employee stared at his vibrating phone. For the first few seconds, his eyes widened as he prayed desperately for the call to stop.
But the vibration went on relentlessly.
As if realizing he would be the next victim, the employee rose from his seat with an oddly calm expression.
He turned his head and looked at the madman.
When their eyes met, the distorted creature bared its sharp teeth.
It wore the shape of a human—but it was no longer human.
At the horrifying sight, all strength drained from his body.
So this is what it feels like at the end, he thought. A deep sadness welled up inside him. Tears filled his eyes.
Just as the madman's hand shot forward toward his head—
The bank's front door quietly opened.
A man in a long coat walked in slowly.
As if unaware of the situation, he pulled a number ticket and pressed the button on the nearby coffee machine. A paper cup dropped. The machine hummed as coffee poured out.
The madman shrieked with rage at the sudden intrusion and charged toward the man.
[Gunshot]
With a single sharp report, a large hole appeared in the madman's skull.
The creature that had been killing people with lightning speed only moments before collapsed lifelessly to the floor.
The entire scene had unfolded in an instant. The people stood speechless, as if struck from behind.
When the coffee machine beeped to signal completion, the man calmly picked up the cup and took a sip. Tilting his head slightly, he set the cup down on the shelf and turned to leave, as though nothing had happened.
At that moment, one person gathered the courage to step forward and ask:
"…Are you a police officer?"
The man paused, seeming to consider the question for a moment. Then, with a bitter smile, he replied:
"Just a passing hunter."