As I stumble out of the alleyway, only the faint glow of a streetlight illuminates me. Others might chatter about how it looks like a movie or how romantic it is, but to me, it's just a useless sliver of light.

Red, translucent blood drips indifferently from my hand. I don't think I used to be like this, but now even this doesn't bother me. In fact, it's reached a point where my hand feels stranger when it's clean.

All I have is a knife hilt covered in blood and the gazes of people trembling in fear. So why is it only you.

Only you.

Why do you look at me with such worried eyes? Everyone else is dying to kill me, so why are you so desperate to keep me alive?

You said you hated what I do. This job where I hurt and kill people without a second thought.

Do you know how much blood I've spilled to get to this position? How hard I've struggled to keep this spot?

But if it's for you—just for you—I feel like I could give it all up.

If you told me to die, I think I actually could.

There you go again, your brow furrowing as you look at me.

... If you're going to get mad, just get it over with.