Chapter Text
“So sad, so sad. This world is so sad.”
The TV drones in the background, becoming white noise blending with the beating of rain against the glass. The window pane casts shadows of prison bars across the room, illuminated by flashes of lightning. San Lang sits in the white glow of the boxy television, a row of various kitchen knives laid out in front of him. Big knives, small knives, long knives, thin knives. He traces a finger along each handle, pondering. Which one will split human flesh the easiest?
“Oh, don’t condemn me. Don’t pretend your morals make you superior to me. To the ones that didn’t survive – I did them a favor.”
He doesn’t know whose flesh. His mother’s. His father’s. His classmates. His teachers. His neighbors. His own. All he knows is that he likes the weight of the weapon in his hand when he picks one up – the big butcher knife that can snap bone in half – and he likes the way the blade catches a glint of light whenever he swirls it around. The movies make it look so easy. The way the blade penetrates flesh looks like slicing through butter. It just slips right in and right out, and then the person drops dead and the deed is done. How hard could it be? The hard part will be taking out multiple people before someone stops him. If he decides he should kill multiple people.
But it can be done. All the crime documentaries and memoirs say so. The man staring him dead in the eyes through the screen managed. San Lang looks up from his knives, eyes wide and unblinking in wonder as the man behind the mask sits at a table in the interrogation room and smiles when he talks.
“There is no heart in this world that cannot be corrupted.”
San Lang’s eyes flicker to the newspaper sitting beside him, wrinkled and bent. The headline makes his stomach churn, makes his throat burn. Serial Killer White No Face Reign of Terror Comes to an End. The news came out this morning. Three years of senseless killing. Three years before the police finally caught him. San Lang wants to know how he did it. How he evaded capture for so long.
He flips up the corner of the newspaper to read the subheading below. White No Face Accomplice Pleads Insanity. What a shame. Two of the most infamous serial killers of the last decade chained up or dead. It was bound to happen eventually. San Lang knew, from the moment he fell down the rabbit hole of the White No Face killings, that this would not last forever. His temporary escape from reality is just that – temporary.
But, of all the true crime he’s gotten hooked on, this story spoke to him the most. He’s watched this same tape of the man himself speaking in the interrogation room so much, he has every word memorized. Even has some of his quotes scribbled in terrible handwriting taped to his bedroom walls.
To think he will never see this man again. He will never hear of another White No Face killing again. All of the excitement and the anticipation of the last three years died with the man behind bars. That’s that. It feels like losing a close friend.
San Lang looks down at his knives again. If he should kill someone and get caught, he, too, will die with dignity like White No Face and take his own life. He’s died in his dreams many times, stabbing someone and then stabbing himself. Slaughtering anyone who ever wronged him. The ones who look down on him, treat him like a dog. How nice it would be to feel their hot blood spray across his face as he watches the life fade from their eyes. It would be so easy. He can kill them all. He has what it takes. He truly believes it.
Why couldn’t White No Face choose him as an accomplice? He stops the VHS recording and switches back to regular cable. Of course the only thing on the news right now is the end of the White No Face trial. A picture of the accomplice fills the screen; a young man, not much older than San Lang. That could’ve been him. He could’ve taken his place. There isn’t much to differentiate the two. They might as well be the same person.
The newscaster’s voice plays over the images, detailing the results of the trial. The accomplice will not be imprisoned for life. He will not be executed for the peace of mind of the people. He will be holed up in some secure facility where he will be taken care of until he is deemed no longer a danger to himself. And then he will be released.
The broadcast cuts to footage of protestors outside the courthouse, punching the air with makeshift signs and screaming at police officers. Someone has a noose, swinging it like a lasso. Friends and family of victims are present. They’ve lost, even if they won.
Apparently the accomplice cannot be interviewed. Insane people are no longer capable of speaking for themselves. A lawyer answers questions instead. Microphones charge towards him. Police push people off.
“One cannot take responsibility for actions they committed unwillingly.”
An uproar. To them, a killer is a killer. This so-called insanity is merely an excuse. What killer isn’t insane? How does that make someone innocent?
San Lang lifts his fingers from the knives. His eyes remain glued to the screen. It doesn’t bother him that the accomplice got away with it. The newspapers claim the reign of terror is over. But as long as a part of White No Face still survives, there always remains the possibility that the bloodshed will resume. It could happen. And San Lang can be a part of it this time.
The accomplice cannot be interviewed, but they still have footage from his interrogations to play instead. Footage similar to the VHS tape comes on of the young man sitting at a table, head hung low and long hair curtaining his face. San Lang doesn’t blink once as he watches.
“Are you a killer?”
“...Yes.”
“Are you a killer because you enjoy it?”
“...”
“Does it excite you? Do you get off on it? What goes through your mind when you kill people?”
“...Nothing.”