4. The Carousel
He was a promising personal trainer.
People praised him everywhere, saying his massive, imposing physique was something you simply didn't see in an Asian man. Everyone envied his body, and he was proud of it himself. If things continued this way, he felt as though enormous wealth was just around the corner.
But his happiness ended exactly there.
Fame was exhausting. No matter where he went, he stood out. Before he became famous, people hesitated to approach him. After his name spread, strangers began closing in—trying to touch his body as if they had the right. Their familiarity, the way they acted like they knew him, was sometimes disgusting.
Yet he couldn't scowl in front of them.
He was a public figure.
Worse, the rewards of fame weren't great enough to cancel out its disgust. He didn't own a business. A few TV appearances and appearance fees were all he had. There were a couple of offers—fitness equipment, small commercial shoots—but those didn't last. Advertisers decided female models produced more "visible effect" and replaced him.
What enraged him most was how people began to stare at him—not like a person, but like some curious animal. They asked for photos with the same hungry eyes.
Everything irritated him. The attention of people who brought him nothing—no income, no discipline, no purpose—felt like dirty flies swarming a piece of bread. Only then did he understand:
Fame does not automatically become wealth.
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Not long ago, he bumped into someone on the street. It turned into an argument. The other person provoked him on purpose, and eventually fists were thrown. He slapped the man twice across the cheek with his palm.
Of course, the other man couldn't withstand the force of his enormous hand. The next day, the news branded him the suspect in an assault case with injuries requiring three weeks of treatment.
Now he was afraid of people.
Before fame, he had been something people looked at with fear and awe. Now he was just an arrogant monster. The commercial he had filmed was canceled, and a penalty—double his fee—was billed to him as damages. No one would take him anymore.
He was alone in the world.
"Why are you thinking so hard? Come back to the gym tomorrow!"
The old coach scratched at the wrinkles in his own hardened muscle as he spoke. The gym was old and worn, a shabby place that had aged alongside him. He wanted to start over.
Boys who visited the gym approached him, asking him to teach them. They said they admired him, said they wanted a body like his.
Yes.
When everything else is forgotten, what remains is only what you built with blood and sweat. For him, it was a body tempered into muscle. What is precious does not vanish easily.
He began training again. He collected himself like he had before his first competition, and vowed to rise to the top again. He entered a few contests, but the looks he received were no longer warm.
It didn't matter.
With a body this good, he was certain he could come back anytime.
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That night, he was walking home after closing the gym. Because the gym sat near Paul Street Intersection, he had to avoid the constant stares of the crowded commute. As usual, he took a narrow alleyway—circling around toward the parking lot.
A fight had broken out in front of a shop. People screamed. He was going to pass by without caring—
until a woman's wail made him turn back.
A woman was being crushed under a man's brutality. Her face was already a mess of blood, unrecognizable. Through broken teeth she spat blood and begged anyone nearby to save her.
A large man grabbed her hair and shouted at the crowd.
No one stepped forward.
No one could.
The man was simply too big. His eyes—rolled back as if he'd lost his mind—promised that anyone who tried to intervene would end up exactly like the woman. He hurled insults, mocking the terrified crowd. He seemed delighted by how helpless they were, screaming abuse as if it were entertainment.
The moment his palm rose again toward the woman's face—
a hand stopped him.
It was his.
He didn't want to fight. The attacker hesitated for a split second at the sudden interference, then cursed and threw a punch at him. He was trampled.
No—more precisely, he allowed himself to be trampled. He didn't want to be dragged into another public brawl. The man's kicks hurt badly enough to crack bone.
When the attacker had vented enough, he laughed at him. And the man—recognizing him—began to spit humiliations with enthusiasm.
"A coward's body, grown on drugs."
That last line was the one thing he should not have said.
He had touched his final pride—his entire life.
Rage erupted. Not ordinary anger, but something black and foreign, something that surged up from a deep abyss inside him—something that did not belong to this world.
He became a Madman.
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Time slipped past midnight. It was already after 2 a.m.
The streets were silent. Dark red blood gleamed under streetlights as it trickled across the asphalt. A shattered electronic billboard buzzed with broken electricity. There didn't seem to be many people left. Most of the Hunters who had rushed in—swearing to kill the Madman—were dead or badly injured and gone.
The Madman wandered along the roadside.
Aimless.
Walking without destination.
From a distance, a man appeared in front of him—holding a long silver gun.
The Madman frowned, threatening him.
But the man didn't flinch.
His face held no emotion at all. He looked at the Madman with indifferent eyes, and in those eyes the Madman felt something he had never felt before—
an unknown kind of death.
The Madman roared and charged.
His massive right hand shot up into the sky, then smashed down across the man's body—shattering the concrete floor. Dust bloomed thick, then settled.
The man was gone.
The Madman whipped his head around, searching.
Behind him, the man stood—calm, as if nothing had happened.
The Madman felt shame. His back had been taken.
He charged again, fury rising higher. His heavy hands attacked without mercy. Sharp nails cut the air, sending waves through the space they passed. But the man dodged with the smallest gaps—as if he already knew every strike before it came.
The Madman attacked and attacked—
and the longer it continued, the more his movements felt meaningless, like flailing at empty air.
[Gunshot]
A short crack rang out. The Madman halted mid-swing.
His left arm felt suddenly light.
He turned his head. On the ground lay his massive left arm, severed and fallen like a pitiful weight of meat. He felt no pain.
But he felt emptiness.
Loss.
As a part of his body—something that had been with him his entire life—fell away, a heavy certainty flooded in:
He could never go back.
Tears gathered at the corners of the Madman's eyes.
From afar, the man stared at him in silence—
and disappeared.
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After the clash ended and a brief moment passed, mechanical music drifted from somewhere—pure, gentle, softly echoing.
Following the sound, the Madman arrived at a carousel. Orange lights spun in circles. With no people aboard, the carousel turned and turned, endlessly by itself.
The Madman stood there, blankly watching.
Was he bewitched by the glittering lights? Or swallowed by the quiet? As if under a spell, he simply stared.
In the carousel reflected in his eyes, the image of an old child—forgotten in memory—appeared like a projection. He couldn't tell whether the child was himself.
He only felt, faintly, that the monster he had become was strangely pathetic.
The carousel rose and fell.
The carriage moved with it.
It spun, endlessly.
A child looked back and laughed.
A bright laugh.
[Gunshot]
Dark red blood bloomed like a flower.
His eyes were still fixed on the spinning carousel. With a regret—something like wanting to hold just a fistful of it—he slowly closed his eyes.
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"Last night at approximately 8 p.m., the murder incident at Paul Street Intersection was brought to an end after more than six hours of struggle, when the Madman was shot and killed by a civilian operative. The deceased, presumed to be the Madman, has been identified as Mr. A—, a former well-known personal trainer. He has previously been arrested for assaulting a civilian, and is believed to have lost control of his anger again in a similar incident, leading to this tragedy. The total number of fatalities currently estimated—including the civilian operative—is 58."
In the old bar, Banner pressed the remote and shut the TV off, as if the noise itself were irritating. There were fewer customers than before. Silence seeped into the empty seats between tables. People who once drank in groups of three or four now sat as ones or twos, gulping liquor wordlessly, as if they had lost family.
"Damn it. If I hadn't passed out drunk, I would've finished that bastard myself."
Mac downed a full mug and slammed it to the floor with satisfaction.
A moment later, the front door opened, and Anderson walked in.
Everyone in the bar looked at him. Anderson raised an eyebrow, startled by the attention, but when he saw Mac and Banner smiling at the bar, he gave a small nod and took his usual seat in the corner.
"You made it back alive."
Mac set a beer mug brimming with alcohol in front of him. Anderson glanced at Mac once, lifted the mug, and drank slowly.
"What took you so long? If I'd gone, I would've smashed him in under ten minutes."
Mac tossed the words like a sneer.
Anderson snorted lightly and took another drink. Soft music began to flow through the bar again.
Chapter 1 "Hunter"
End.