Sin Hunter
I jumped—I hadn't expected to walk into this. Right then, I heard movement behind me.
I spun around. A man was sitting in a chair by the wall.
He wore a mask. I could tell he was male from his stocky build. He leaned back with his arms crossed, seemingly studying me.
I stepped back instinctively, scanning the room for anything I could use as a weapon.
He was an adult male, visibly strong. If he attacked, I wouldn't stand a chance. I needed to find a way to fight back or escape—fast.
He spoke first: "Not scared of a dead body?"
I said it wouldn't be my first time.
He seemed amused, then asked if I knew who the dead man was.
I didn't answer, just stared at him warily. When his hand moved, I stepped back immediately. He told me to relax, then held out a phone.
A video was playing on the screen.
I didn't take it—I didn't want to get that close to him—so I just watched the display.
It was factory surveillance footage, timestamped late at night. Several female workers were busy—night shift.
A man appeared at the entrance. The hanged man from behind me.
The masked stranger narrated: "His name is Dylan Garrett. He's a security guard at the Meiyue Garment Factory next door."
I kept watching. Dylan Garrett walked up to one of the female workers and groped her.
She jumped up with a startled cry. When she turned and saw it was Dylan Garrett, her face filled with terror. She backed away nervously.
What shocked me was that the other female workers didn't seem to hear anything—they kept right on working.
The stranger said: "You've probably heard that the customer service agent you screamed at online might be a disabled person supporting themselves. Meiyue Garment Factory is a social welfare enterprise, providing customer service and sewing jobs for disabled workers, selling goods online."
I frowned. "These people are..."
"Deaf-mute."
My heart sank.
On screen, the worker clasped her hands together, seemingly begging Dylan Garrett.
The other deaf-mute women sat at their stations, oblivious to the assault happening behind them, focused entirely on their work.
The girl had clearly dressed up for the occasion.
A sundress and pretty sandals— the camera was right near her station, so the image was crisp. I could see her light makeup, slightly smudged from working and sweating. Her lipstick was uneven—maybe she didn't know how to apply it properly, or maybe it was just cheap.
On her meager wages, she worked diligently. Maybe she'd just come from a date, or maybe someone was waiting to take her for a late-night snack. Either way, she'd made an effort to look nice.
Now she could only stare in terror, retreating step by step, her clasped hands bowing as if in desperate prayer.
But Dylan Garrett didn't let her go.
He lunged and grabbed the deaf-mute worker.
She was screaming.
Deaf-mute people scream differently than hearing people.
They can't tell whether they're actually making sound. The screams were harsh, raw, and filled with despair.
The other workers kept sewing, and Dylan Garrett dragged her toward a back room.
She sat on the floor like a child, her pretty dress covered in dust, clinging to the leg of a sewing machine. From her mouth came only those anguished, shapeless cries.
Sobbing. Wailing.
She didn't want this. She so desperately wanted someone to notice.
But she couldn't even tell if she was calling for help. No one in the world could hear her voice.
Dylan Garrett slapped her twice. Then another security guard came in. He and Dylan Garrett exchanged a look—not only did he not intervene, he helped Dylan Garrett drag the girl into a side storage room.
I turned and looked coldly at Dylan Garrett's corpse.
The stranger said: "The other guard is Warren Briggs—Dylan Garrett's partner in crime. This isn't their first time. Exploiting the fact that the workers can't speak out, they did whatever they wanted."
I asked: "Did the women report it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
I fell silent.
About fifteen minutes later, the woman emerged from the storage room.
She sat at her station, head down, no longer working.
When her shift ended, she rose and walked out of the workshop in a daze.
The footage switched—from the workshop to the factory entrance.
A young man stood by a motorcycle, waiting.
The woman approached, fought back tears, forced a smile, and threw herself into his arms.
Of course.
She'd bought a pretty dress, cushion, and lipstick with her meager wages. That clumsy styling—someone was waiting for her.
She held on so tightly. The young man smiled and gently stroked her hair.
She held on so tightly. After a while, he patted her head—a signal that it was time to go.
But she just held on, her body trembling faintly.
Finally she looked up and forced another smile.
She climbed onto his motorcycle, and they slowly disappeared from the camera's view.
As a woman, I understood. I understood that kind of crushing shame.
I'm flawed too. Thank the heavens I met you... I'd work so hard for you, make myself beautiful to greet you, pick up my dignity piece by piece, hold you with everything I have.
I'm sorry for hiding this from you, but I'm already so low—low as dust. How could I bear to tell you the truth? In a world that shames people like me, others might rise again, but I was already at rock bottom... how could I bear to add more shame?
I didn't judge her choice, but I understood her feelings deeply.
I asked: "Did you kill Dylan Garrett?"
"Not me— my target wasn't to kill him. He was killed by my partner. I'm just here to clean up and deal with the other guard, Warren Briggs."
"Why did you bring me here?"
He said: "You have two choices. First, pretend you saw nothing and walk away. Don't worry about Derek Kane's death—the evidence has been completely destroyed. I helped you, and I won't betray you."
"What's the other choice?"
"Help me. I disposed of Derek Kane's body for you. After I handle Warren Briggs, I need you to help me clean up."
"You're going to kill Warren Briggs?"
"No—I don't actually kill people."
I considered for a moment, then told him I'd stay and help.
Because I owed him.
I still had plenty of questions, but he told me to stay quiet—Warren Briggs would be back any minute.
He said, "Hide and watch me work. I'll explain everything after this is over."
I hid in the bathroom of the old building and waited.
He turned off the lights. The room plunged into darkness.
About fifteen minutes later, footsteps outside.
The door opened. A shadow stepped in, and the lights came on.
That was Warren Briggs!
He saw Dylan Garrett's hanged body and jumped, letting out a yelp. Before he could scream, the masked man spoke: "Don't make a sound—unless you want to end up like him."
Warren Briggs spun around, trembling. "W-who are you?"
The masked man said coldly: "Crimes can never be hidden forever. Even buried in darkness, there will always be a hunter watching you."
"Who the hell are you?"
The masked man rose to his feet with a cold laugh: "Me? I walk between the shadows, fighting evil with evil, countering violence with violence!"
Warren Briggs was clearly terrified. He fumbled behind his back and pulled out a retractable baton.
He snapped it open. The masked man gave it a dismissive glance: "Struggle all you want. I'll end you soon."
Warren Briggs lunged!
He swung the baton hard at the masked man. In a flash, the masked man charged forward, pulling a small stun gun from his pocket and jamming it against Warren Briggs's body!
Sparks crackled—the stun gun made contact. But Warren Briggs barely flinched!
The masked man exclaimed: "How is it not working?!"
Warren Briggs brought the baton down on his shoulder. The masked man staggered back, tripped over the chair he'd been sitting on, and fell hard.
Warren Briggs seized the moment, swinging the baton into the masked man's leg!
He howled in agony, clutching his leg, shrieking: "Help me... please, help me!"
I was hiding behind the bathroom door, watching his "performance." Warren Briggs heard his cry, scanned the room, and spotted me.
He clearly hadn't expected anyone else. Probably figuring the masked man was incapacitated, he raised his baton and charged at me!
This was bad. Men were naturally stronger, and I was unarmed against his steel baton!
Instead of running, I backed into the bathroom, putting myself fully inside.
Warren Briggs charged in after me, baton in hand!
The old building's bathroom was tiny—a squat toilet and a sink, barely three or four square meters. With towels and toiletries hanging on the walls, there was barely room to swing a baton. When he raised it, it caught on the towel rack.
I seized the opening and drove my fist into his ribs!
Warren Briggs grunted in pain and tried to yank the baton free, but in this cramped space, every movement only made things worse for him.
I smashed my forehead into his nose. Blood spurted. He tipped backward, and I followed up with punch after punch—his neck, then an elbow to his jaw!
Don't stop!
My heart was racing, my breathing rapid.
Once you start striking, you can't stop until the other person has no fight left in them!
Every blow landed with a thunk.
Warren Briggs's mind was a mess. He tried several times to use the baton but only managed to bang it against the walls. Finally he realized it was useless and dropped it, lunging to grab me in a bear hug!
Damn it!
This was a woman's inherent weakness. I could pound him a dozen times and he'd shake it off, but if he landed even one or two good hits, it was over.
Just as Warren Briggs was about to grab me, I threw my arms up—if he pinned my arms, I'd have no way to fight back.
He hoisted me up and slammed me against the wall!
I bit down hard against the pain. The water heater was right next to me. He lifted me again, trying to smash my head into its corner!
The water heater... inside the bathroom...
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the showerhead and turned the hot water to maximum, pointing it straight at Warren Briggs's face!
At first he could bear it, but with the heater so close, the water turned scalding in just two or three seconds. He shrieked and clutched his face!
He lost his grip and we both crashed to the floor!
My shoulder and head slammed into the bathroom corner, and my lower back smashed against the water pipe. The pain was so sharp it stole my breath—every inhale trembled.
It hurt so much...
Even on the floor, I kept my grip on the showerhead, making sure the scalding water didn't hit me!
Warren Briggs's head had struck the squat toilet. I threw myself on top of him, driving my knee into the back of his neck, pinning his face down into the toilet bowl. He thrashed and flailed, but on the wet floor, he couldn't get any leverage!