What does death mean to man?

Is it the cessation of physiology, or is it the process of the soul being detached from the body?

Is it sacred, or is it not worth mentioning at all?

These questions bothered me for a while.

Because...... I often have to deal with death.

Of course, it wasn't me who experienced death, but someone else, the people I found.

…………

I, named Jack Anderson, am a killer, a very ordinary killer.

In the killer industry, there are many people with distinct personalities and very strong personal styles: for example, some people will keep themselves in a certain image, for more than ten years, as long as they appear in front of people, they are that shape; Others use their signature weapons or engrave bullets so that the police know they are responsible for the murder just by looking at the body. There are even those who only work in certain weather, and in order to maintain their own records, they even have to provide the target's travel schedule and local weather forecast before each job.

But in any case, they are still good killers, because only masters can have the so-called "style", and those who struggle to complete tasks are not qualified to do anything else.

Compared to my peers, I am a very boring person.

I can use any image to carry out tasks, and I can also use any weapon or even daily necessities I can get my hands on to kill.

Time, place, environment, none of that matters.

For the killer, the only thing that matters is to complete the mission.

The only thing needed is focus.

I don't need style, I don't need faith, killing is just a job for me; Like washing dishes, driving a car, welding and so on, I do it and I'm good at it, not because I love it, it's just because I do it for the money.

I do what I have to do and get paid accordingly; No personal affection or self-persuasion...... Don't ask more, don't say much, get things done and get the money done, that's how I understand work.

And after twenty years of working in silence, I realized that I also had a nickname like those guys with a strong style.

They call me - God of Killing.

When a person is called "God" because of their hard work, I feel like it's almost time for him to retire.

So, I didn't dry my hands.

As long as I keep a low profile, the money I've earned over the years will be enough to make the rest of my life rich.

With this in mind, I took out my pre-arranged identity, cut off all ties with the past, and moved to a middle-class neighborhood in a second-tier city, where I lived a comfortable life alone.

Although I could have lived behind closed doors and on various door-to-door services, I didn't do that because it would attract attention.

The real low-key is the mean; It can neither be too flamboyant nor too closed.

So, over the years, I've been able to go out almost every day with a regular time to go for walks and shopping in the neighborhood...... He also participated in some community organizations, and occasionally appeared in community churches.

I'm the kind neighbor you see when you take a walk and nod your head but can't name it, and you will forget it as soon as you turn your head.

After retirement, I just want to live an ordinary life; This kind of life makes me feel safe, happy, and satisfied.

Originally...... That's how it should be.

Until one time, when I was volunteering in the community, I met an elderly man.

It was an eighty-year-old lady who lived on the edge of Downtown; She lives in a small house of more than 10 square meters, living on the relief goods sent by the community every day.

Her wife died twenty years ago, and she didn't have any children to take care of her, and for twenty years, she was only lonely.

The old man's feet had lost the ability to stand, which was not uncommon for her age; She crawls to the toilet every day on a mat she has sewn. And all she eats is cold, expired cans.

The only appliance in her house was a light bulb...... Not to mention a TV or a radio, not even a telephone.

I asked her why she didn't ask for help, and in her case, there should be a special facility to take her in.

She told me that those institutions were for the elderly, who were alone and unrelated, and that she did not go because she had a son.

More than 20 years ago, her son left home to work in another city, but then he was cut off, and she wanted to stay here and wait for his return.

She was afraid that if she left, her son would not find her when he returned.

I tried to ask her son's name and some basic information that she could remember, but she suddenly opened up and said a lot to me. As an old man who can't even remember what happened a few minutes ago, she remembers her son very clearly and talks endlessly.

Obviously, this memory, and the hope of being reunited with her son, is the only solace that this lonely old man has left over the years, and it is also the motivation for her to stay here.

However, I knew that her son would not come back.

Because, I killed him.

That was the first job I took on – every killer remembers the first person he killed as a killer, and I was no exception.

When I left the old man's house, I didn't say anything.

I didn't tell the old man that her son of a gangster had been wanted and killed twenty years ago for stealing the gang's goods.

I didn't try to persuade her to get out of here.

In this way, she can still have hope, and her son can still live in her memories and in her hope.

…………

What does death mean to man?

I'm no longer bothered by this question.

The heaviness of life lies not in how much impact it can have on the world, but in who it fails and fulfills when it passes.

It seems that I can't retire yet.

I want to change my perspective and dance with death again.

This time, in addition to the awareness I should have, I will also ...... Be in awe.