Kenzii stood in the shower, the spray of cold water cascading over his head and down his body. He had just finished a kill, leaving the remaining number at exactly 100. His arms and hands were mottled with bruises, and every time the water hit his left hand, a mysterious, ghostly steam rose from the skin.
His mind drifted back to the mission he had just completed in a warehouse in a remote American village. Killing had become a routine part of his existence, but he couldn't shake the oppressive weight in his chest. Every crime scene he left behind was surgically clean—so spotless that investigators would think a ghost had simply walked through the walls. But Kenzii knew the "cleanliness" was a lie; he could feel the filth of every death clinging to his soul and body.
He gripped his arm as the pulse in his left hand began to throb so loudly it echoed in his ears like a drum.
"Shut up," Kenzii hissed, his voice cracking in the silence of the bathroom.
He remembered the very first time he had taken a life, back when he didn't use the devil's hand but his own.
"You need to do this, son," his father, Roman, had said, standing by his side. They were surrounded by the men of the family—uncles and his grandfather—all watching him. "Just aim and pull the trigger," his father urged, his voice trembling as he tried to be strong, though his eyes were as filled with tears as Kenzii's.
"Don't baby him, Roman. He's twelve; he can do it," his grandfather, Hidalgo, snapped.
"How can you say that, Pa!" Roman shouted back. "My son is too young to kill. Even when he's grown, this isn't right!"
"You're a fool, Roman," his brother, Nozelle, sneered. Nozelle was the designated "eldest" according to family rules. "If you had killed him the moment your wife gave birth, we wouldn't have this problem! Our family's wealth is being drained because of your 'happy family' delusions."
"He should have been like Reggie," Nozelle continued, gesturing to their brother who was leaning nearby, smoking a cigarette. "Reggie was smart. He intentionally got his girlfriend pregnant in high school, he waited for the birth and then killed them both in secret."
"Don't compare me to him, Kuya Nozelle," Reggie said, exhaling smoke. He walked toward the man tied to a chair in front of twelve-year-old Kenzii. "Roman is weak; he let his heart get in the way. He even tried to hide his wife and son from our clan." Reggie pressed his glowing cigarette butt into the tied man's cheek, causing the victim to thrash in pain. "You're blinded by love, brother. A woman is just an object to be spoiled; if she leaves, there's always another."
"Enough," Hidalgo, the head of the family, commanded. He stepped toward his grandson. "Kenzii, I know you don't want to do this, but you must. You have to steel your mind and heart. When the appointed day comes, you will have no choice but to obey. So…just do it." He adjusted the boy's grip on the gun, pointing it at the man who had just regained consciousness.
The man shook his head frantically, muffled by a gag, his eyes begging for mercy. Kenzii stared into those tear-filled eyes that reflected his, feeling the crushing pressure of the family members surrounding him. He told himself that what he was about to do was necessary, though he didn't fully understand why. In that moment, as the gun went off, it wasn't just the stranger who died; the innocent heart of the young Kenzii died with him.
*
Kenzii quietly wrapped his bruised and scarred hands in gauze. The injuries weren't from his missions, but from his own self-harm. He hoped that if he wounded his hands, they would stop killing, but it never worked, yet he continues to do it from time to time, whenever the weight in his chest becomes too much to bear—a reminder that he is still alive.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the mirror. Above his head, his own profile shimmered in the air, displaying the count: 100/1068. He exhaled and removed his gaze from it.
He opened his laptop to a confidential file containing records of his crimes. Sota had retrieved and sent him a CCTV clip of his latest hit—unaware that such a thing even existed in where he dragged his victim. Kenzii requested it, he wanted to see what he had become.
In the video, he saw himself in a black hoodie, even with its sleeve his left hand that is black, monstrous, and pulsing with red veins is exposed. Even with his back to the camera, the victim's face was visible—full of pathetic, desperate begging.
Kenzii watched his demonic hand tear the heart out of the man despite the pleas.
He snapped the laptop shut, the 'click' echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. He needed to sleep, though he never slept in the dark anymore; his victim souls were too loud in the shadows. They didn't speak in words, but in cold winds, the smell of old copper, and the feeling of someone breathing in sync behind his left shoulder.
Moments later he drifted into a shallow, feverish sleep and found himself in a field of grey ash. Hundreds of figures stood there, their faces blurred like unfinished sketches. They weren't angry—they were hungry—and with every breath Kenzii took, they moved an inch closer.
Kenzii bolted upright, gasping. The room was freezing, the air feeling like it had been pulled from a morgue. He looked down and saw the gauze on his left hand had been torn off and scattered on the floor like dead snakes. His hand was moving on its own. He grabbed his left wrist with his right hand, pinning the demonic limb to the mattress. The muscles rippled under the violet skin with an unnatural, mechanical force as it fought him.
"Stop it!" he barked, sweating.
The hand went limp, and the violet glow dimmed to a bruised color and started fading. Kenzii stayed there, pinned to his own bed by his own body. He looked into the mirror beside the bed and saw his haggard reflection.
In real life, he was holding his left wrist down. But in the mirror, his reflection was resting its hand casually at its side. The reflection smiled—a wide, toothy grin with eyes that were void-black. The reflection's left hand rose, its demonic fingers dancing in the air, and touched the glass from the inside. Frost spread where the fingers pressed.
Then, a sound came—not from the room, but from inside Kenzii's own head—a wet, rasping sound like air escaping a punctured lung.
"Only 100 left until we're even,"
The voice was a chorus of four people speaking at once. "The debt doesn't sleep," it whispered. "And neither do we."
Suddenly, the reflection snapped back into sync. The frost evaporated, and the silence returned. Kenzii let go of his wrist, his skin feeling like ice.
"What the fuck is happening!" he gasped.
He checked his phone and saw three missed calls from his cousins and a news alert: Triple homicide discovered in downtown district. No witnesses yet to their brutal death.
Kenzii looked at his left hand. The bruises were all gone as usual, it was perfectly clean. But then he saw it: a tiny, microscopic fleck of red tucked deep under his fingernail. He hadn't gone out tonight, but the demon had. The "left hand" wasn't just a gift of power; his body was becoming a house where the residents were letting themselves in without knocking.
Kenzii sat back, the weight of the last 100 souls pressing on his chest until he could barely breathe. He wasn't the hunter anymore. He was the cage—and the cage was breaking.