-1-

He is dead.

He never thought that he would die.

-2-

Moreover, the cause of death was so simple—the woman kicked his brains out and he collapsed on the ground like an overturned food garbage bag.

There were no last words, no desperate struggle, no elaborate preparations, no gorgeous decorations—just a kick, "bang"—

The murderer is dead, it's that simple.

-3-

I was like a bug that she crushed between her fingers.

——This was the last thought he had in his life.

-4-

The murderer was not from hell, nor did he represent the god of death. He was born in an ordinary family.

Like many ordinary families, his family consists of a man and a woman.

It’s just that the men are addicted to drinking and gambling, while the women are terribly ignorant.

Later, the man beat and scolded the woman, and the woman beat and scolded him in return.

Because he was a child at that time, and children are at the bottom of the food chain.

-5-

This may be the same as the background of the protagonists in many clichéd stories. The subsequent development is nothing more than a successful counterattack to reach the pinnacle of life and get rid of the shadow brought by the original family - but he is not the protagonist of a clichéd story, he is an artist.

And he is very grateful for his home, he doesn't feel it is a shadow at all.

Especially his mother who insulted him, beat him, stuck knitting needles into him, and kicked him out of the house in the middle of winter.

...Ah, ah.

He is lucky to have such a mother.

-6-

Because, if it weren't for his mother, he wouldn't have been able to meet it.

It was deep, deep winter. He was pushed out of the house and squeezed into a dark alley.

The alley was so dark, it could almost contain a child's darkest nightmare.

He didn't dare look around, so he could only shrink into the corner, pull down a cardboard box from the trash can, and cover his head with it.

It was too cold, and he was wearing too few clothes. He had to try his best to squeeze himself into the cardboard box, but cold wind still poured in - from the exposed nails, from the exposed toes, from the holes people use to breathe - if he blocked them all, he would be warmer -

"Meow."

-7-

That's when he encountered it.

Beautiful, charming and petite.

Crawling into his cardboard box, with his paw pads pressed against his bumpy knees, his eyes were big and bright, bringing furry warmth to the cold and dark winter.

From the first moment he saw it, the first moment he met it, he knew—

I am an artist.

A natural born, wonderful artist.

-8-

He reached out to the furry warmth and created the first incredibly beautiful picture in his life.

-9-

The man beats and scolds the woman, and the woman beats and scolds him.

But he is far from being at the bottom of the food chain - it turns out he is still okay - in fact, he is still okay -

-10-

Deep winter, dark alley.

The child crawled out from under the overturned cardboard box, breathing rapidly, with a satisfied smile on his face, and his hands and feet were covered in blood.

He casually threw the stray kitten with a broken neck aside, held the warm cat blood, and smeared it bit by bit on his fingernails, toes, and the openings where people breathe.

Ah, so warm.

It’s so beautiful.

-11-

He is a great artist, he fills all his emptiness with such warm and beautiful things——

Moreover, it is so easy and convenient.

Men don't care about women, women don't care about children, and children don't care about the death of a cat.

Hehehe...hehe...

He is powerful.

He has warm, beautiful blood, and he is incredibly powerful.

-12-

But as he grew up, things changed.

He had to move frequently because there were always a lot of dead cats and dogs near his address, and people would look at him with suspicion;

He always had a strange fishy smell on his body, had never attended a good school, and did not have a smart brain.

No one is willing to hire someone like him, and there is no job he is willing to do.

He is an artist. Artists don't need to work. They only need to present their works, presenting the most powerful and beautiful ideas in the world.

Eventually, he became a street artist painting with chalk, hiding under a sticky and silent raincoat.

Although drawing with chalk was his main job, he couldn't make any money from it, so he occasionally painted signs for some shady small shops, and occasionally helped to keep out illegal drug dealers or prostitutes who were roaming around late at night, making gestures to them before the police cars approached.

After all, the streets where he lives and wanders do not belong to a bright and harmonious community.

There are almost only drug dealers, prostitutes and homeless people here.

-13-

But he loves this neighborhood, just as he loves his childhood home.

Together they nourish him to create beautiful paintings.

His only regret was that his paintings were not beautiful or powerful enough.

—dead cats, dead cats, dead cats—he had been making them for decades, decades—he needed more, more new, exciting ones—oh—look at those prostitutes swaying by—if only he could paint around their white necks—

But many ideas are just thoughts.

-14-

He has no money, no ability, and more importantly -

He doesn't dare.

He had acted as a lookout for nearly every drug dealer, prostitute, and casual scavenger in this neighborhood. He knew what those people looked like when they got ruthless, and he knew how many seemingly innocent women had stun guns and gleaming blades hidden beneath their skirts. He knew the addresses of every prostitute in this neighborhood, but he also knew every revenge they had taken on men. He knew the huddled positions of every homeless person in this neighborhood, but he was also afraid of them opening their cloudy eyes and staring at him.

He was even afraid of those kidnapped child pickpockets. He let them laugh and throw stones at his hair, and he didn't dare to turn around or even scold them.

He didn't dare to provoke them.

or them.

Anyone.

-15-

Even when he was pinching a wild cat's neck and being stared at by the cat's eyes, his hands would tremble slightly and his legs would not be able to stand straight.

So he would give them medicine every time before, and only after they completely lost consciousness would he gently cut their throats.

He was afraid of being looked at.

He was afraid that the thing under his hands would start to struggle.

He was afraid of any meaningful resistance - because it would make him feel, make him feel - as if -

Therefore, some things are destined to remain only in the mind.

He could only afford drugs that could render cats completely unconscious; he had no access to drugs for humans.

...So, all along, he was just a lookout, just a street painter.

-16-

Until one day, he was still drawing with chalk in his hand on that street, silently painting his beloved blood with the half-white, half-pink pen tip.

A man with a guitar on his back walked past him with a brisk pace.

However, as he passed the chalk drawing on the ground, he paused and stopped.

Turn your head.

"Excuse me, what are you drawing?"

The man spoke in an unusually gentle and polite tone, even to an artist dressed as a street vagrant.

——This gave him an irrepressible feeling of disgust at the time, because that damned person was obviously a gentleman——What was a gentleman doing here? A gentleman should lie in his rotten and stinking world and play with women——

"Are you painting the many stray cats you killed?"

-17-

His chalk broke with a snap.

He didn't look up.

He stared at the man's shoes as he stepped on them before painting.

...Okay, maybe this is not a upper-class man, because those are not shiny leather shoes, they are just a pair of cleaned, generic sneakers.

This is a student who is not very worldly-wise.

Carrying a guitar and wearing sneakers, he foolishly walked into this neighborhood that was out of place for him, and stopped because of a strange painting on the roadside - did he still think this was an ivory tower school?

Stupid student.

-18-

"Why did you draw these?"

The student seemed genuinely puzzled: "Wouldn't a living cat be more suitable for a work of art than a killed one?"

...stupid student.

"Get lost."

The student sounded more innocent and harmless than any five-year-old on the block—and he couldn't help but feel a little courageous, and he couldn't help but scold him—

"Go away, don't disturb my painting, go away!"

"...Don't get excited, I'm just a little curious. Um, and why aren't there any dogs in your paintings? Is it because dogs aren't as beautiful as cats?"

"roll--"

-19-

He threw a piece of chalk at the student's sneakers, and the latter seemed to be frightened, and the shoes slowly walked away.

He panted for a long time, his heart beating fast, and excitement slowly rose to his throat.

It was the most exciting he had been in countless months.

He successfully scolded and drove away a harmless person.

Not a stray animal.

It's a human.

—Harmless, young, gentle and immature—such an easy target—ah—if he could do this to more people—the infinite impulse almost burst out of his throat, and he was so excited that he almost vomited—

-20-

"Hello, painter."

When he was most excited and happy, someone suddenly stopped in front of him.

It seemed to be night already and it was very dark around.

…and it seemed like it wasn’t night yet. It had only been a short while, but the student had clearly come to his painting during the day… Hey, was it daytime?

He stared blankly at the shoes in front of him.

Shiny leather shoes are classy and sophisticated.

"Hello, painter."

...The second man who stopped in front of him said it again, and although there was a hint of impatience in his words, although it was cleverly concealed, it still revealed a little bit.

——Or maybe he didn't hide anything at all when facing such a street performer.

-twenty one-

He is a gentleman.

He felt deeply disgusted again, but this time, he did not dare to scold.

"Hello... hello...what can I do for you?"

The pair of leather shoes paused slightly.

"I'm looking for a dear little dog." He said, "Did you see a dear little dog just now?"

-twenty two-

What?

"No. There are no... puppies here."

"Really? The puppy is running around again..."

The man sighed and tapped the ground with the tip of his shiny shoe.

"I should have dug out his eyes, torn out his throat, and let him be completely crushed there, and turned into a prison wall. Dear puppy... What a disgusting puppy running around..."

……What?

-twenty three-

"Haha, it's nothing. Since you didn't see the puppy, bye."

The toe of the leather shoe turned away, but after a moment, it turned back again.

At the same time, a pair of very large, warm, bony hands were placed on his shoulders.

It reminded him of his father's hand.

He couldn't help but tremble.

-twenty four-

The man lowered his head and whispered in his ear——

"You know what, Painter? You're so talented, you should try killing people."

-25-

"Or, do you know the Banshee?"