What does death mean to people?

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

Is it sacred or not worth mentioning at all?

These problems once bothered me.

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

Of course, it is not me who experiences death, but others, those who are found by me.

…………

My name is Jack Anderson, is a killer, a very ordinary killer.

In the killer industry, there are many people with distinct personalities and strong personal styles: for example, some people will keep themselves in a specific image, and for more than ten years, they will be in the shape as long as they appear in front of others; some people will use their signature unique weapons to commit crimes or engrave on bullets. The police will know that the murder is their work as soon as they look at the body; there are even those who only act in specific weather. In order to maintain their records, they will ask the client to provide the target travel schedule and local weather forecast before taking up work.

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

Compared with my colleagues, I am a person who seems very boring.

I can use any image to perform tasks, or I can use any weapon or even daily necessities I can get to kill people.

Time, location, environment, none of these matters.

The only important thing for a killer is to complete the task.

And the only thing you need is concentration.

I don't need style, let alone faith, and killing is just a job to me; like washing dishes, driving, welding, etc. I do these things and am good at it, not because I love it, just for money.

I complete what I should do and get the corresponding reward; I don’t invest any personal feelings, nor do I do any self-persuasion... I don’t ask more questions, don’t say more, get things done and get money. This is my understanding of work.

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

They called me - the God of Killing.

When a person is called "God" because of his hard work, I feel that it is almost time for him to retire.

So, I stopped washing my hands.

As long as I keep a low profile, the money I have earned over the years will be enough to make my second half of my life rich.

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

Although I can live without going out and rely on various door-to-door services, I did not do that because it would attract attention instead.

True low-key is mean; you cannot be too ostentatious or too obscured.

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

I am the Heshan neighbor who nods his head when you meet him when you are walking but cannot call him a name. You will be forgotten by you as long as you turn your head.

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

Originally... it should be like this.

Until one time, when I was volunteering in the community, I met an old man.

It was an old lady in her 80s who lived on the edge of the Lower City. She lived in a small house of more than ten square meters and lived on the relief supplies sent by the community every day.

Her husband died twenty years ago, and no children came to care about her. For the past twenty years, only loneliness has been with her.

The old man's feet had lost the ability to stand, which was not uncommon for her age; she lie on the mat she sewn and crawled to the toilet every day. The food she ate was only cold and about to expire.

The only appliance in her room was a light bulb... Not to mention a TV or a radio, there was not even a phone.

I asked her why she didn't ask others for help. According to her situation, there should be a special institution that can accommodate her.

She told me that those institutions were provided to the elderly who were unkind and widowed, and she would not go because she had a son.

More than 20 years ago, her son left home to work in other cities, but later he stopped hearing and 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 she came back.

I tried to ask her son's name and some basic situations that she could still remember, but she suddenly opened up and said a lot to me. As an old man who couldn't remember what happened a few minutes ago, her memory of her son was very clear and she talked endlessly.

Obviously, this memory and the hope of reuniting with her son are the only comfort left by this lonely old man over the years and the motivation for her to wait here.

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

Because, I killed him.

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

When I left the old man's residence, I said nothing.

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

I didn't persuade her to leave here again.

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

…………

What does death mean to people?

I'm no longer troubled by this problem.

The heaviness of life does not depend on how much impact it can have on the world, but on whom it fails and who it fulfills when it passes away.

It seems that I can't retire yet.

I want to change the angle and dance with death.

This time, in addition to the due enlightenment, I will also... be in awe.
Chapter completed!