The rain clatters softly against the windowpane, the sky outside dark and gray.

It is not this though, nor the sudden roaring of thunder, which wakes up Jinki from his deep slumber. He bolts upright, sweat glistening against his forehead, his breath coming out in harsh pants. His eyes quickly dart around the room, unfocused, but as if scanning for any possible dangers. When he finds none his breathing slowly steadies. The fact that he was actually sitting in the middle of the hallway doesn’t seem to register quite yet, or perhaps he doesn’t care.

It was not the first time he woke up somewhere else then his bed and it most certainly wasn’t the first time he had a nightmare. The nightmare, however, was always different, always different people, different locations. It always ended the same though; in a bloodbath.

Still slightly shaking Jinki scrambles to a stand and makes his way to the adjacent bathroom which he doesn’t bother to close. No one knows he lives here anyway; which is something Jinki finds quite surprising if not slightly amusing; as it implies the police is  actually that slow.

Jinki walks past the full length mirror and what he sees as he gives a short glance at his reflection doesn’t shock him whatsoever. Blood on his hands, blood on his clothes, blood on his face and blood on his hair. It doesn’t shock him. Not anymore. Not after three years of killing people in cold blood.

It’s not like Jinki actually remembers what he did, but he gets flashes and of course the aftermath of scrubbing his skin clean. It all doesn’t matter anyway. The bastards deserved what he did to them and probably a whole lot more for what they did to others.

What they did to me.