"This is Chen."

“P-please… I-I’ll give you m-money! F-food, anything! Please, I’m b-begging you!“

“Disgusting filth.” Chen whispered. The venomous words were drowned out by the real bang caused by the splitting gunshot that lingered in the air as the man fell backwards, blooding spurting out of his chest to further taint the dirtied snow surrounding him. Glancing around to check for signs of other people, Chen knelt down when he felt safe. He rummaged through the man’s clothing, scavenging for anything he could use, and kicked the corpse with his boot in frustration when only a few dollars and a half-eaten piece of bread were found, before stepping into the small shack just behind them that had belonged to the dead man.

Surprisingly, to Chen’s good fortune, there were several hundred dollars (a large sum for an outcast) and a worn, but very warm-looking winter jacket that looked like it was still in rather good condition. Internally cheering for his luck, Chen immediately set off to the nearest black market, pistol tightly gripped in one hand and a long, thin blade in the other.

I’m an outcast. Always have been, always will be. At one point, I might have almost enjoyed this lifestyle. Constantly on the run, fighting to stay alive. I had a reason to fight for my life, a reason to find every near-death experience exhilarating, because I knew I had survived one more bullet that life shot at me, and I was growing one bit stronger every time.

But now, all I have is a hatred for this life of mine.

I’m going to die soon, I know it. Without having made a single mark on this wretched excuse for a society. I don’t mind. But, I want someone to know. I want someone to know who Kim Jongdae was before he became Chen. I want someone to know that I am still Kim Jongdae, somewhere deep inside. Or, I suppose, I was still Kim Jongdae. I’m assuming that by the time someone reads this, if anyone ever does, I’ll be long dead.

I’ve heard of autobiographies. I think they’re rather egotistical. You are writing about your utterly boring (cough, overdramatized, cough) life. I suppose if you were a very interesting person with a very interesting life, there would be a little logic there. But I still don’t like them.

I’m not writing this to show off or gain pity. I’m writing this to give myself a sense of security, to be able to die knowing that maybe, just maybe, someone will know me.

This isn’t an autobiography. This… this is me.

Chen locked all nine of his padlocks on the door, not that they would help if a gang came for him, but it gave him a soothing illusion of safety. Picking up the canned tuna that he bought a few weeks ago when it was all he could afford, he settled down in his mess of a couch to eat. It was in a terrible state, springs sticking out everywhere, and stuffing coming out through large cuts in the fabric, but it was all Chen had.

No matter how much he ate, Chen could always feel a hole within him, and most likely not in the stomach. Like there was nothing left there anymore. It was a strange feeling. He should feel wonderful. Thanks to the wealthy (in his books) man that he had looted earlier, Chen was now supplied with an extra gun, half a dozen magazines of ammo for both semi-automatic pistols he owned, as well as a good supply of canned food. Chen gazed out the window. He was far from any large gangs and he was good to survive for many more weeks to come. Yet, something was still missing.

That night, like all the other nights, Chen slept restlessly.

I can’t just leave my writings here to be found (it would easily perish before anyone found it). I plan on mailing this to a random address in the city. So, if you are reading this, you probably haven’t lived in my world. Let me explain a bit.

This place was branded as the Black Region (kind of unoriginal, if you ask me. Plus, I’m pretty sure we’re all Asians in this place…). There hasn’t been any kind of order here in over eight years. I’m nineteen, and even during my childhood there was minimal law enforcement. The police just flat out gave up when I was eleven. I don’t blame them. They lost many officers to the gangs here and didn’t accomplish anything. Regular citizens started avoiding this area far before I was even born, so most of the buildings were long since abandoned and up for grabs for a big gang or the constantly moving outcasts. Leaving the Black Region for a nearby city is an option, of course, but for many here, this life is the only one we've known. Some are even oblivious to the concept of orderly civilization beyond this region. I know of the cities. But I know I'm not meant for a life like that.

In this place, you steal, trick, backstab, and use every other trick in the book (murder included) to make sure you survive. It’s the survival of the fittest concept. Because of this, the main inhabitants of this area are the gangs. There are tons of them, constantly fighting against one another, because power and safety always lies in numbers here. And then, you have the outcasts. Outcasts are the loners who wish for solitude, who trust no one. The people like me.

In this world, I should thrive. I’m an experienced combatant with blades, I know how to keep track of dangerous gangs and stay out of their way. I know how to survive off of the scarcest things I’m given. I have no trouble in my life as an outcast. But that strong figure, it’s Chen. It’s not me anymore. Chen is the strange, foreign nickname I’ve been branded with by a Chinese gang by the name of Super Junior M, the only gang I dared associate myself with (even so, only briefly—I would never trust anyone enough to join a gang permanently), and also what I am known as amongst other outcasts. Chen is my mask.

I should thrive. But I don’t. Not as Jongdae, anyway.

My birth name is Kim Jongdae, but Jongdae disappeared long ago, replaced with the strong, emotionless appearance of Chen. Kim Jongdae has become a hollow coward in a skin painted with the bold colors of Chen.

So scratch that. I do thrive. But only because I’m hiding behind my mask, hiding behind the character I’ve created, Chen.

Yes, there is only Chen now.

Chen woke up to the sound of banging outside, several booms, and a huge crash (yes, there are differences in those sounds). He immediately sprung out of his makeshift bed, grabbing his belt of knives, daggers, and other assorted bladed weaponry, and fastened it around his waist quickly. Tucking both of his pistols in the back of the belt and putting on a jacket that was supposedly bulletproof (it was looted off a dead police officer, but seeing as the guy was dead… well, it didn’t speak volumes about the quality), Chen looked down out of the grimy window to evaluate the situation.

He was met with the sight of about a half a dozen people taking cover behind random structures that may have once been a dumpster surrounding an apartment complex down the street, which was… burning down? Bullets were being fired out of windows down at the crowd below, but whoever was in the building was taking much more return fire, not to mention the flames eating up the building from the bottom.

This abandoned building Chen had chosen to reside in for the last few weeks were far from any major gang bases, as far as he knew of, so he did not understand why there would be a gunfight (and so early in the morning too, Chen thinks with just a bit of wistfulness) so close to him. But as Chen opened the window a bit, he began to understand. At first, it was just the normal frantic screaming, commanding orders and streams of non-stop profanity that seemed normal already, but eventually, the people within the building seemed to run out of ammunition and throwing weapons, causing a silence as the leader of the group on the ground called a cease-fire.

“Give us this Chen guy and we’ll leave you alive!” The loud shout echoed off the concrete walls of the buildings up and down the street. Chen had no problem hearing it. Suddenly, something clicked in Chen’s mind. He finally noticed the symbol branded on the forearms of the six gang members now gathered about the base of the burning building. It was a bold ∞ sign encircled within a thin black circle, the symbol representing the Paradoxious, a small, but powerful gang. He ran to the loose floorboard in the ground where he kept most of his belongings (yep, that’s how many things he owned, they almost all fit underneath a loose floorboard), and took out the winter jacket he had looted recently and ped it to lie in on the hard floor.

On the inside of the back of the jacket, a clear white circle of thread was sewn neatly into the jacket, lined with a thin black line on the very outside. The infinity sign was sewn in thick red stitches within the circle. It was gently frayed and some of the thread was gone, but the meaning was still there. This was a Paradoxious jacket. Either the man Chen had killed last night had managed to steal from the gang, or he was a former Paradoxious. It was most likely the latter. Chen now felt incredibly stupid. Why hadn’t he asked himself as to why the man had several hundred dollars in his house? No outcast was so financially well off.

A loud crash interrupted his self-reprimanding. And this time it was much closer. Those people in the burning building must’ve given him away. How they knew where he lived was a mystery, but the problem at hand was, there were six armed gang members that were most likely going to tear down this place until they found Chen… and there was no escape. No doubt they were going to be keeping a few outside in case Chen found a way out, which he wasn’t. The fire exit was blocked when Chen had moved here, and since the building was so small, that only left one entrance to exit from, the main one, and the windows were all barred. There was no fight or flight. Just fight. Or die.