Chapter 3 - Nothing Says Festival Like Fireworks
The jury recognized my act as legitimate self-defense.
The judge respected their decision as well.
"I hereby declare the defendant, Woojin Choi, not guilty."
Bang, bang, bang!
An immediate release order was issued, and my handcuffs were removed on the spot.
"It'll take a bit more time for you to get your belongings from the detention center."
Even though we secured an acquittal, my attorney's expression remained grim. As he put his papers into his bag, he spoke to me with a hint of worry.
"The moment you walk out, get as far away as you can. Or—why not take this chance to go on a trip? A long one."
A trip, huh.
Suddenly, I remembered my friend, the one who had lived such an unfortunate life.
"A friend I served with in Korea died alone while traveling across America. After retiring as a mercenary, he said he wanted to do something he'd never tried before—traveling—and I should've talked him out of it. But I couldn't."
"A mercenary died like that?"
My attorney asked, looking completely baffled.
It sounds ridiculous, but that's how the story goes.
Supposedly, he froze to death while sleeping in the Bisti Badlands of New Mexico, and the reason his body was never found is that it ended up inside a wild animal.
He was the one who got me into reading, and made quite a name for himself as a mercenary in the Middle East.
He was even more unfortunate than I was.
"Or… maybe dying on a trip isn't the worst way to go. Anyway, I'll think about it."
"I'm genuinely concerned for you. And I'm sorry to bring this up now, but as soon as you find your phone, please transfer the payment."
Well, if I die, who would pay him his fee?
He'd managed to secure an acquittal for me after a year-long battle—that makes him a skilled defense attorney.
Of course I should pay him.
As soon as I found my phone, I paid the $1,000 fine and transferred $70,000 to my attorney.
After that long, drawn-out courtroom battle,
I'd finally regained my freedom.
"Yeah, nothing beats the fresh air outside."
But then, an annoying buzzing sound kept bothering my ears. Now, those damned voices were back, swarming my mind as they hurled curses at me.
— Don't get too happy about being acquitted. Didn't I tell you your life's screwed? It won't be long now.
— The Mafia's going to fill you with holes, just like you did to us! — No, that's not it. The Mafia won't kill you that easily. They'll peel the flesh from your bones, bit by bit.
— Finally, I'll get to watch you die in agony. We'll be seeing you soon!
"Shut up, you pathetic bastards! What are dead men like you yapping about? Want me to finish you off again?!"
The joy of regaining my freedom lasted only a moment.
Thanks to this damned PTSD eating away at my body and mind, a crushing wave of depression hit me.
Even if they'd sentenced me to death, I would've faced it calmly. I don't have any real regrets, even if I died right now.
I was arguing with my hallucinations as I walked down the street,
when suddenly I noticed a homeless man begging for money. To be exact—
[I believe you are innocent!
Even when life is hard and painful, don't give in to despair!]
The sign held by the homeless man caught my eye.
It was a simple message, but we were standing in front of the courthouse.
Guilty or not,
it was the kind of message that could give strength to anyone.
Especially for me, just freed after that long trial, those words stirred something deep inside.
I pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet.
There probably isn't a bigger fool than me.
Who gives a hundred bucks to a beggar?
But today, money just didn't feel like money.
Honestly, everything—my body, the world—seemed detached from reality anyway.
Damn this PTSD.
I slipped the bill into the beggar's cup, which held only a few coins, and was about to walk away.
Swish.
The beggar flipped his sign.
[Even if this life feels like a gutter and there are dreams you haven't achieved, don't lose hope!
God will give you a chance!
At that time, He will entrust you with something greater and more meaningful!]
"Oh, so basically you're saying my life's already screwed, so I should just hope for the next one?"
"..."
Maybe I should take that hundred back.
When I stared at the cup, the beggar quickly turned the sign over again. The earlier message of positivity and hope comforted me once again.
With a faint smile, I started walking away.
Just then, a black sedan driving by slowed down and matched pace with my steps.
Whirrrrr.
The rear window, heavily tinted, rolled down.
A man inside the car stared at me.
It was Vincenzo, the father of the first victim and an executive in the Mafia.
When I stopped walking, the car stopped too.
Vincenzo looked at me and sneered.
"Ever heard this? The thrill of the hunt isn't in the capture, but in the chase. Of course, it doesn't end when you catch your prey. Only when you skin it and carve the flesh does the true hunt come to an end."
"What the hell are you talking about, you idiot?"
"...Listen here, John Wick from Korea. Enjoy your freedom. You don't have much time left."
The window rolled up again.
Suddenly, something I wanted to say came to mind.
"You ever heard that one?"
The window, which had been rolling up, halted just before it shut completely.
Through the narrow gap, all I could see were Vincenzo's eyes, staring straight at me.
"They say that if a hunter picks the wrong target, he ends up as the prey instead. If you want to see this through with me, you and your goddamned family are going to lose a lot of blood. You motherfu..."
Whirrrrr.
This asshole—he shut the window before I could even finish?
The window closed all the way, and the car sped off into the distance.
Fine, take this instead.
I raised my middle finger at the back of the car.
***
Brooklyn, just west of Manhattan, New York.
After crossing the Manhattan Bridge and getting out of a taxi, I stared blankly at a derelict house that looked like it had been abandoned for decades.
Is that really my house?
God knows what happened while I was locked up—the front door had been smashed in, leaving the inside wide open.
Every single window was shattered, and the walls were scorched and blackened by fire in several places. Graffiti scrawled in red paint and marker covered the place.
Go to hell, Monkey!
Fucking Asian!
As if the English wasn't bad enough, there was Italian here and there too.
Tu sei il nostro nemico mortale!
(You are our mortal enemy)
Once I stepped inside, the situation was even worse.
There wasn't a single thing left intact; with every step, shattered furniture and shards of glass crunched underfoot.
Right in the middle of the living room, there were signs someone had set up a campfire—burnt ashes scattered around, empty liquor bottles tossed nearby.
Chip bags, filthy tissues, and used condoms left behind…?
"These bastards really threw a party in here."
Looks like every punk in the neighborhood turned my house into their hangout.
As I rubbed my temples, the hallucinations returned, taunting me again.
— I like it. Your house is just as much a dump as your life. It's a perfect fit for you.
— This is the Mafia mocking you. They're toying with you before the hunt, like you're their plaything.
— All aboard the hell train. Hold on tight, because the Mafia is about to start hunting you!
"Shut up! You think I'm going to just sit back and take it like some idiot?"
It wasn't just anger—I felt this desperate drive rising in me, like if I didn't do something right now, I'd lose my mind.
Even if this all spiraled into madness and ended up destroying me, it didn't matter.
Fuck…
First things first, I need to find a weapon.
Slide. Slide. Shhhk.
The SOG Seal Pup I brought with me when I quit being a mercenary.
Every time the 12cm high-carbon stainless steel blade of that military knife met the whetstone, it made a sharp scraping noise that rang out.
When I swept the entire blade for a final touch, a piercing, metallic shriek sliced through the air.
Suddenly, a conversation I had with my fellow mercenaries came to mind.
— Mister Choi, why do you sharpen that damn knife so much? Planning to open a butcher shop after retirement?
— A weapon is only a weapon if it's kept in top condition. And I'm not just sharpening my knife; I'm honing my combat instincts to be even sharper and keener.
— Seriously, you just like to hear yourself talk. Anyway, yeah. Keep sharpening it all you want.
— Mr. Choi is insane.
Come to think of it, my teammates were right. In the end, every time I sharpened that knife, my PTSD hit me hard.
After running the blade sharp, I sheathed the knife and tucked it into my belt.
I also made an IED—a homemade bomb—and packed it into my backpack before coming up from the basement to the living room. Right then—
Fwoosh.
A bullet came flying into the house.
These bastards were trying to toy with me, trapping me inside my own home.
Fine, then.
I'll start my own war.
I went back down to the basement and waited for nightfall. Then I began eliminating the guys camped outside, one by one.
I met Vincenzo, a Mafia lieutenant, the following night.
At his hideout.
A luxury salon in Little Italy, Manhattan.
But now, the upscale salon looked like it had been bombed—the interior was smashed to pieces, blood everywhere like a slaughterhouse.
"You devil…"
Vincenzo, lying in a pool of blood, gasped out the words. Who knows how many bullets had hit him—his clothes were completely soaked in blood.
Vincenzo's mouth was drooling like a rabid dog. His bloodshot eyes glared at me as if he wanted to rip me to shreds.
"You should've just kept your prey locked up. Or finished me the moment you saw me. You never mess with someone who has nothing left to lose. How does a Mafia lieutenant not get that…? What an idiot."
Of course, I wasn't unscathed either.
In this short span of time, I'd likely killed more people than I had during my mercenary days.
The extreme tension had sharpened my combat instincts to the limit. Every time I stabbed with my knife or pulled the trigger, I felt a rush of exhilaration.
Even my PTSD kept its head down, cowering before my madness.
And when the frenzy finally faded, I realized I was dying.
Cough.
Blood gushed from my mouth. The bullet lodged in my lung bored even deeper into my body. The stab wounds in my shoulder and abdomen tore wider, forcing more blood out.
I have no regrets.
I gave it my all—my final battle was satisfying.
I experienced enough of the thrill, tension, and exhilaration I'll never feel again.
Watching Vincenzo die in such a pitiful state wasn't a bad feeling either.
The closer we got to death, the rougher our tongues grew.
Every breath sent a stabbing pain through me, but I gladly burned up the last of my life mocking him as harshly as I could.
"If you raise your kid as stupidly as you did, you end up dead… Worms that can't do shit alone only deserve extermination."
"Say whatever you want… In the end, you die, and my family survives…"
"Come to think of it, I failed to wipe you all out. Maybe I should've become a Mafia boss instead of a mercenary."
I really should have. If I couldn't break it all down, I might as well have become the boss and ruled the world to my heart's content.
"That's why guys like you end up being worked like a dog…"
With my ego swelling into pointless delusions, I went all in on mocking Vincenzo.
That's when the reinforcements broke into the building. I soon heard footsteps coming up the stairs from below.
Vincenzo, groaning in pain, managed a smile.
"No matter how much you rampage like a mad dog, in the end, you're alone.
"You'll soon see why they call it a family…"
Before he could finish, a group of men appeared.
Contrary to Vincenzo's wishes, it was the Irish Mafia who had been fighting over this territory—the very ones who had hired me as their training instructor.
The man standing at the front, Ted, was also one of my former trainees to whom I had once taught tactics.
With calm composure, Ted raised his gun and aimed it at Vincenzo's head.
Damn, it's actually satisfying to see how well I taught him.
"Capo Vincenzo. Look at you, causing such a scene just to avenge your pathetic son. We'll be taking over this territory now."
"…Bastards."
Thwack.
A bullet tore a hole through Vincenzo's forehead. Serves him right, but it wasn't the ending I wanted. Annoyance bubbled up inside me.
After eliminating Vincenzo, Ted surveyed the room before fixing his gaze on me.
The pity in his eyes told me he wasn't here with good intentions.
"You really have the talent of the devil. At this point, your very existence is a threat. It's a shame, but you took things too far, Mr. Choi. If you have any last words, say them now. I'll listen."
"Don't act like you're doing me a favor. It's sickening."
"So that's your final statement?"
"I have one question. Was Victor involved in this too?"
Ted came closer and whispered to me.
"It was actually Victor who suggested it to the boss. The plan was to take care of all the headaches at once. Did you really think you were a Bishop or a Knight on the board?"
A flood of thoughts flashed through my mind.
I never cared about living or dying.
What infuriated me was the realization that I was just a pawn on the Mafia's chessboard.
"...It's a shame I couldn't kill every last one of you."
"Come on, do you really think that's possible?"
"Right, wiping out a cancer with no cure is impossible."
With a chuckle, Ted stepped away from me.
"You really can't tell reality from fiction. Is that PTSD too? Well, let's snap you out of that delusion right now."
Ted signaled to his men.
They were all trainees I had once taught.
Without a hint of emotion, they pulled items from their bags, strapped them to my body, and wrapped tape around me over and over.
A bomb.
Meant to destroy the evidence…
"Mr. Choi, take everything with you."
After they disappeared, I lay there fused with the bomb, staring up at the ceiling.
I didn't have the strength to even move a finger.
If there was any small mercy, it was that the storm of PTSD that had plagued me came crashing down all at once, sweeping over my entire body.
With the hallucinations ringing out from all sides, there was no room left to feel fear of death; they seemed to celebrate my end.
– Kya-ha-ha-ha!
– Finally, finally! You're dying!
– Wel. come. to. the.Hell!
For them, it was definitely a celebration.
And what's a celebration without fireworks? Of course, there'd be an explosion…
KWA-BOOM!
. . . .
I should have been dead.
It was a bomb strong enough to blow my body to bits.
Yet somehow, I still had consciousness. Amazingly, I was capable of thought.
Is death just an extension of a dream?
Did I just solve one of humanity's mysteries?
Or maybe, when people die, this is just something they naturally come to know.
Death felt, in some ways, a bit like the perfect dissociation of body, mind, or maybe soul that I'd sometimes experienced with PTSD.
As I was savoring this sense of death,
Something started licking my cheek. That strange sensation, which should be impossible without a body, began to spread throughout me.
At the same time, my hearing began to return.
And then, I heard— Squeak, squeak.
What's that sound?
I forced open my eyes, which felt as heavy as rocks. As I stirred a little, the things crawling over my body scattered and fled. Their blurry forms looked just like rats.
Wait, are those really rats?
Let's try to think this through.
The bomb went off, and the blast threw my body out of the salon.
I know it sounds impossible. But if the bulletproof vest worked like a miracle, what if I actually managed to survive by the skin of my teeth…
"Ugh!"
Suddenly, my thoughts stopped, and a fierce headache hit me. My brain rang like it had been struck with a hammer.
At the same time, someone else's memories surged in like a storm.
That man—or, to be precise, that boy's vivid life flooded into my mind.
The boy, after being beaten up in an alleyway, collapsed onto the ground—and that was where the memory ended.
But it didn't feel just like a memory; it felt as if I had actually lived that boy's life.
This strange sense of déjà vu made everything that had just happened with the Mafia feel like nothing more than a dream. It felt as if I had inherited all of his memories.
Just as the headache began to subside and I tried to open my eyes again—
Smack! Smack!
Someone slapped me across the face. The sting was startlingly real.
"…Ciaran! Hey, snap out of it! Damn it, you idiot. Why did you charge at those guys?"
Ciaran? I'm Ciaran? The guy hitting me and yelling is my friend Leo…
What is this? Have the boundaries between PTSD-induced hallucinations and reality completely collapsed?
My memories were utterly scrambled. I tried to open my eyes and move my body. But I was in such bad shape I couldn't even move a finger.
And then, without warning, my body was lifted up. Leo lifted me up and slung me onto his back.
"You can't die like this, man! If you do, your mom will kill me! Think about your siblings!"
His ragged, heavy breathing echoed in my ears.
With every jolt matching his rhythm, my entire body throbbed as aching pain shot through every bone.
Just as I was shaking from the vivid, agonizing pain, Leo suddenly stopped walking.
"Damn it, there are even more people now."
I could hear it too—the murmur of a huge crowd just up ahead.
And then I saw them—the clothes the people were wearing.
The gathered crowd looked like they had walked straight out of an old black-and-white film.
All the men wore broad-brimmed fedoras or rounded bowler hats and had vests and shirts under their jackets.
The appearance of the women was even stranger and more unfamiliar.
They wore cloche hats with narrow, bell-shaped brims and loose, low-waisted dresses that flared out.
No matter how many times I blinked, what I saw didn't change.
The signs around me, the view of the street, even the smell in the air—everything was different now.
A realization slowly formed inside me: these vivid sights and sensations might all be real.
"Damn it, looks like we'll just have to push through."
Leo muttered as he carried me and plunged into the crowd. My limp arms and legs got bumped and kicked by people as we pressed forward.
As we made our way to the middle of the road, someone suddenly rushed over.
"You punks, aren't you getting off the street?! Don't interrupt the parade—get lost already!"
A policeman shouted, swinging his baton.
His navy-blue uniform gleamed with gold buttons, and his round felt hat completed a look you'd never see on a cop in the 21st century.
"Damn, these baton-wielders have no idea what's important. Can't they tell just by looking? Is their precious parade really the big issue right now?"
Grumbling, but apparently intimidated by the cop, Leo tried to disappear back into the crowd.
But at that moment, a tremendous roar shook the street.
"Wake up, America!"
Over the thunder of the crowd, a group of boys in khaki uniforms appeared in the middle of the road.
Those boys—the Boy Scouts—came charging down the street, waving the Stars and Stripes like they were on a mission, shouting their chant at the top of their lungs.
"Wake up, America!"
"Wake up, America!"
Whenever the Boy Scouts shouted their chant, the crowd would loudly echo their words.
If this were PTSD, there's no way this kind of consistency and vividness would be sustained for so long.
It was far too real for that.
This was no hallucination.
As I realized it was reality, the words from the sign the beggar was holding sprang to mind.
[Even if this life feels like a gutter and there are dreams you haven't achieved, don't lose hope!
God will give you a chance!
At that time, He will entrust you with something greater and more meaningful!]
God has given me a chance, borrowing the body of this boy named Ciaran, and if I follow his memories…
Today is April 19, 1917.
It's been thirteen days since America, having watched World War I from the sidelines, declared war on Germany.