Fireworks for a Festival
The jury ruled my actions self-defense.
The judge respected their decision.
"The defendant, Choi Woo-jin, is hereby found not guilty."
Bang, bang, bang!
The order for my immediate release came down, and the handcuffs came off right away.
"It'll take a little longer to collect your belongings from the detention center."
Even though he'd won the acquittal, my lawyer's face stayed dark. He stuffed the papers into his briefcase and offered me a warning thick with concern.
"As soon as you walk out, get as far away as you can. Or better yet, take a trip somewhere. A long one."
A trip.
For a moment I thought of a friend who'd lived unlucky and died the same way.
"A buddy I served with back in Korea died while touring America. After he retired from the mercenary life he decided to take a trip he had no business taking. I should've stopped him. I didn't."
"A mercenary died on vacation?"
The lawyer looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
Funny, but that was the rumor.
He'd fallen asleep in New Mexico's Bisti Badlands, died of hypothermia, and his body was never found because it had ended up in some animal's belly.
He was the one who taught me to love books. He'd made a real name for himself as a merc in the Middle East.
Even unluckier than me.
"Or maybe not… Maybe dying on a trip is the better deal. Anyway, I'll think about it."
"I'm saying this because I'm genuinely worried. And I'm sorry to bring it up, but once you get your phone back, please send the payment."
Fair enough. If I died, who'd pay his fee?
After a full year of legal warfare to win an acquittal, he was a damn good lawyer.
Of course I was going to pay him.
The second I got my phone back I settled the thousand-dollar fine and wired him seventy thousand.
And just like that, after the long, grinding court battle, I had my freedom again.
"Nothing beats the air outside."
Except something kept buzzing in my ears, spoiling it. The goddamn hallucinations had shown up in force, raining curses down on me.
- Don't celebrate the not-guilty. I told you your life was fucked, didn't I? It won't be long now.
- The mafia's gonna put holes in you. Just like you did to us!
- Nah. The mafia won't kill you that easy. They're gonna peel the meat off your bones one strip at a time.
- Finally we get to watch you die in agony. See you soon!
"Shut the fuck up, you worthless pieces of shit! Dead men I killed myself, and you still won't shut up. Want me to kill you again?!"
The joy of freedom lasted about a second.
That cursed PTSD chewing through body and mind dragged a black wave of depression over me.
Even if they'd handed down a death sentence I would've taken it calmly. Dying right now wouldn't leave me with much regret.
I was walking, trading insults with the voices in my head, when a homeless man panhandling caught my eye. More precisely, his sign did.
I believe you are innocent!
Even when life is hard and full of pain, do not despair!
Nothing special about the words, but this was right in front of the courthouse.
Guilty or not guilty, it was the kind of message that could give anyone a little strength.
Especially me, just freed from a marathon trial. It hit me right in the chest.
I pulled a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet.
Talk about a sucker. A hundred bucks to a beggar.
But today money didn't even look like money.
My body, the world—everything felt unmoored from reality.
Fucking PTSD.
I was dropping the bill into a cup that held only a few coins and starting to walk away when—
Whoosh.
The beggar flipped the sign.
Even if this life feels like a sewer and dreams went unfulfilled, do not be disappointed!
God will give you a chance!
He will entrust you with work that is grand and full of meaning!
"Ohhh, so this life's already fucked, better look forward to the next one?"
"……."
Maybe I should take the hundred back.
I glanced at the cup. The beggar hurriedly flipped the sign again. The old message of hope and positivity was back, comforting me once more.
I snorted and started walking.
That was when a black sedan rolling past slowed to match my pace.
Zzzzzip.
The heavily tinted rear window lowered.
The man inside stared at me.
Vincenzo, father of the first victim I'd killed. A mafia organization officer.
I stopped. So did the car.
Vincenzo looked at me and sneered.
"Ever heard this one? The thrill of the hunt is bigger than the kill itself. And of course catching the prey isn't the end. You strip the hide, carve the meat—only then is the hunt truly over."
"The fuck are you babbling about, you idiot."
"……Listen up, John Wick from Korea. Enjoy your freedom. You don't have much of it left."
The window started rising again.
Suddenly I had something to say too.
"You ever heard this one?"
The window stopped just short of closing.
Through the gap I could see only Vincenzo's eyes, locked straight ahead.
"If a hunter picks the wrong target, he becomes the prey. You want to finish this with me, you and your shitty family are gonna bleed hard, you motherfu—"
Zzzzzip.
This asshole cut me off mid-sentence.
The window sealed and the car pulled away.
Here, eat this.
I flipped him the middle finger at the receding taillights.
Brooklyn, just west of Manhattan.
I crossed the Manhattan Bridge, climbed out of the taxi, and stared blankly at a house that looked like it had been abandoned for decades.
That was my place?
While I was locked up somebody had done a number on it. The front door was smashed to pieces, the house standing open and hollow.
Every window was broken. The walls were scorched in places. Crude graffiti in red paint and marker covered everything.
Go to hell, Monkey!
Fucking Asian!
English I expected. Here and there Italian showed up too.
Tu sei il nostro nemico mortale!
(You are our mortal enemy.)
Inside was worse.
Not a single intact object. Every step crunched over broken furniture and glass.
In the middle of the living room someone had built a campfire. Burned-out ash, empty bottles rolling beside it, snack wrappers, filthy tissues, and used condoms…?
"These sons of bitches threw a full-on party in here."
Every punk in the neighborhood had turned my house into their clubhouse.
I rubbed my temple. The hallucinations flared up again to mock me.
- I like it. The house matches your sewer of a life. Perfect for you.
- This is the mafia laughing at you. Playing with their toy before the real hunt.
- Hell train's leaving the station. Hang on tight—the mafia's coming for you!
"Shut the hell up! You think I'm going down like you worthless bastards?"
More than anger, a fighting spirit boiled up—if I didn't do something right now I was going to lose my mind.
Even if that fighting spirit turned into pure madness and finished me, I didn't care.
Crack…
First, find a weapon.
Shhk. Shhk. Shhhraaak.
The SOG Seal Pup I'd brought when I quit the merc life.
Every time the twelve-centimeter high-carbon stainless blade kissed the whetstone, a sharp rasp cut the air.
On the final long stroke that finished the edge, a high, ear-splitting ring sliced through the silence.
Suddenly I remembered conversations with my old teammates.
- Mr. Choi, why the hell do you sharpen that knife so much? Planning to open a butcher shop after you retire?
- A weapon only stays a weapon if you keep it perfect. And I'm not just sharpening the blade. I'm honing my combat sense sharper and cleaner every day.
- All mouth, as usual. Whatever. Keep grinding.
- Mr. Choi's a lunatic.
Looking back, my teammates had been right. In the end PTSD hit hard while I was still sharpening.
I slid the razor-edged knife into its sheath and clipped it to my belt.
I built a few IEDs—homemade bombs—packed them into a backpack, and climbed from the basement into the living room. That was when—
Pshht.
A bullet punched into the house.
The bastards were trying to pin me inside and toy with me.
Fine. Time to start a war of my own.
I went back down to the basement and waited for night.
Then I started taking out the ones camped outside, one by one.
I met the mafia officer Vincenzo the following night.
At his hideout.
A high-end salon in Manhattan's Little Italy.
But the place now looked bombed-out—shattered everywhere, blood pooled like a slaughterhouse floor.
"You devil bastard…"
Vincenzo gasped from a pool of his own blood. However many rounds he'd taken, every stitch of clothing was soaked red.
Foam dripped from his mouth like a rabid dog. Bloodshot eyes locked on me as if he meant to chew me alive.
"Should've just locked the prey in a cage. Or killed me the second you saw me. You don't touch a man with nothing left to lose. How does a mafia capo not know that… are you just stupid?"
I wasn't in great shape either.
In the short time it took to get here I must have killed more men than I ever did as a mercenary.
Extreme tension had pushed me into peak combat sense. Every stab of the knife, every pull of the trigger brought pure exhilaration.
Even the PTSD went silent, cowed by my madness.
And when that madness finally lifted, I was dying.
Cough.
Blood flooded my mouth.
The bullet buried in my lung dug deeper. Knife wounds in shoulder and gut split wider, vomiting blood.
No regrets.
I'd poured everything out. My last fight had been satisfying.
I'd tasted joy, tension, and thrill I would never feel again. Watching Vincenzo die in that miserable state wasn't bad either.
The closer we both got to death, the fouler our mouths became.
Every breath felt like a knife, but I burned the last of my life tearing into him.
"Raise a kid as fucked-up as you did and this is where you end up… Alone, bugs like that deserve extermination."
"Talk all you want… You're dying and the family's still standing…"
"Looks like the extermination failed. I should've become a mafia boss instead of a merc."
I really should have. If you can't smash it, become the boss and run the whole damn world. Wouldn't have been so bad.
"That's why we work dogs like you to death…"
My inflated ego spun into useless delusions while I was still mocking Vincenzo. Then the spoilers arrived.
Footsteps echoed up the stairs from the lower floor.
Vincenzo's mouth, still moaning, curled into a grin.
"No matter how hard a mad dog like you runs wild, you're still alone. You're about to learn why family is family…"
Men appeared before he finished.
Not what Vincenzo hoped for. These were the Irish mafia who'd been fighting him for the territory—the ones who'd hired me as their tactics instructor.
The man in front, Ted, had once been one of my trainees.
Ted raised his gun in a calm, stable stance and aimed at Vincenzo's head.
Kid. Looks like the lessons stuck.
"Capo Vincenzo. All that noise just to avenge a brainless son, and look at you now. This territory belongs to us."
"……You sons of bitches."
Pshht.
A hole opened in Vincenzo's forehead.
Good riddance, but not the ending I wanted. A flicker of irritation rose.
Ted swept the room, then looked at me. The pity in his eyes told me he hadn't come with good intentions.
"Real demon talent. Your existence itself is a threat now. Unfortunately you made too big a mess, Mr. Choi. Any last words? I'll listen."
"Don't act like you're doing me a favor. It's disgusting."
"Is that the will?"
"One question. Did Victor get involved in this?"
Ted stepped close and whispered.
"Victor was the one who suggested it to the boss. Clean up all the headaches at once. Did you think you were a bishop or a knight?"
A storm of thoughts hit me.
I had no attachment to living.
What burned was the fact that I'd been used as a pawn on the chessboard the mafia laid out.
"…..Sorry I couldn't wipe every last one of you out."
"Come on, how would that even be possible?"
"True. You can't cure cancer with no medicine."
Ted snorted and put distance between us.
"You really can't tell movies from reality. That PTSD of yours talking? Well, I'll snap you out of the delusion now."
Ted nodded to his men.
Every one of them had been my trainees.
Without expression they pulled something from a bag, strapped it to my body, and wrapped it tight with tape.
A bomb.
For destroying evidence…
"Mr. Choi, take everything with you."
They vanished. Left alone and fused to the bomb, I stared at the ceiling.
I didn't even have the strength to twitch a finger.
One silver lining.
Every scrap of PTSD I'd been carrying crashed over me at once like a hurricane, sweeping through my whole body.
No room left to feel the fear of death. Voices from every direction celebrated my dying.
- Hahahaha!
- Finally, finally! You're dying!
- Wel.come.to.the.hell!
For them it was definitely a festival.
And what festival is complete without—
Fireworks…
KAAAA-BOOM!
.
.
.
.
I should have died.
That bomb was built to tear a body into confetti.
Yet consciousness remained.
Amazingly, I was still thinking.
Was death just the continuation of a dream?
I'd solved humanity's greatest mystery.
Or maybe everyone figures it out the moment they die.
Death felt a little like the PTSD episodes where body, mind, and soul completely detached from each other.
I was still savoring that death when something licked my cheek.
A sensation impossible without a physical body began spreading through me.
Hearing returned at the same time.
And what I heard was—
…Squeak. Squeak.
What the hell is that sound.
I forced open eyes as heavy as stone.
When I twitched, the things crawling over me scattered in a panic.
Blurry shapes that looked exactly like rats.
Wait, actual rats?
Let's try thinking a little more.
The bomb went off. The blast threw my body out of the salon.
I know that sounds impossible.
But if the body armor had worked like a miracle…
If I'd somehow clung to life…
"Ugh!"
Thought stopped. A vicious headache slammed into me.
My brain rang like someone had taken a hammer to my skull.
At the same time someone else's memories poured in like a storm.
That man—more precisely, that boy—his entire vivid life soaked into my head.
The boy had been beaten half to death by a gang in an alley and collapsed on the ground. That was where the memories ended.
They didn't feel like memories. It felt like I had lived that boy's life myself.
The déjà vu was so strong that the mafia fight I'd just finished felt more like the dream.
I had inherited every one of his memories intact.
When the headache finally eased and I tried to open my eyes again—
Slap! Slap!
Someone cracked me across the face.
The sting was painfully real.
"….Kieran! Hey, snap out of it! Jesus, you idiot. Why the hell did you go after those guys?!"
Kieran? I'm Kieran?
The one slapping me and yelling was a friend named Leo…
What is this? Has the line between PTSD hallucination and reality completely collapsed?
My memories were pure chaos.
I opened my eyes and tried to move.
My body was so wrecked I couldn't even twitch a finger.
Then I was lifted without effort.
Leo heaved me onto his back.
"You can't die like this, man! Your mom'll kill me too! Think about your little brother and sister!"
Harsh, ragged breathing.
My body bounced with every step; every joint screamed like it was coming apart.
I shuddered under the vivid, terrible pain. Suddenly Leo stopped.
"Damn it, even more people now."
I could hear them too.
Right ahead—the murmur of a huge crowd.
And I could see them.
The clothes the people wore.
The crowd looked like it had stepped straight out of an old black-and-white film.
Every man wore a wide-brimmed fedora or a round bowler; under the jackets were vests and shirts.
The women looked even stranger.
They wore close-fitting cloche hats with narrow brims and loose, low-waisted dresses that flared out.
No matter how many times I blinked, the scene stayed the same.
The storefront signs, the street itself, even the smell of the air had all changed.
The realization rose that this vivid scene, these senses, might all be real.
"Screw it. We're just going to push through."
Leo muttered and plunged into the crowd with me on his back. My limp arms and legs snagged and got kicked by strangers.
The moment we reached the middle of the road someone came charging over.
"You two, get inside right now! Stop blocking the parade and clear out!"
A policeman waved a nightstick and shouted.
Navy-blue uniform with shining gold buttons. A round, peaked felt helmet. A uniform you would never see in the twenty-first century.
"Hell, these stick-swingers never know what matters. Can't you see the situation? Is the damn parade more important right now?"
Leo grumbled, but he was clearly scared of the cop and tried to melt back into the crowd.
Then a massive roar shook the street.
"Wake up, America!"
Inside the crowd's roar, boys in khaki uniforms appeared in the center of the road.
Those boys—Boy Scouts charging down the street with the Stars and Stripes streaming—shouted the slogan until their throats tore.
"Wake up, America!"
"Wake up, America!"
The Scouts led the chant and the crowd thundered it back.
If this were PTSD it could never stay this consistent for so long.
It could never feel this real.
This was absolutely not a hallucination.
The second I accepted it was reality, the words on the beggar's sign rose in my mind.
Even if this life feels like a sewer and dreams went unfulfilled, God will give you a chance!
Then He will entrust you with work that is even grander and more full of meaning!
God had given me a chance in the body of a boy named Kieran. And if I followed that boy's memories—
Today was April 19, 1917.
Thirteen days after the United States, which had been watching the First World War from the sidelines, declared war on Germany.