chittaphon leechaiyakul
twenty-four
homoflexible
freelancing artist
murderer
background
Name, age, gender, occupation, appearance-
These were crucial information every hitman should know of their target before action.
Address, schedule, habit, family, friends, neighbours-
All of the following were variables that each hitman must take into consideration when hunting.
Efficiency, cleanliness, subtlety, speed-
Hitmen must be aware of their execution on their goal and to never leave any trace that could link back to themselves.
This was the dangerous career of all hitmen around the globe.
This was Ten’s life.
Love and care were not emotions found in his childhood. He was raised to be a machine, heartless and obedient. No one taught him the gentle touch of a mother or the proud praise of a father.
What he had been given was a gun and an animal.
Kill or face punishment.
No food for a week, no water for the month, isolation for a day.
It was either the animal’s life, or your sanity.
Ten made his choice.
Blood and violence were regular occurrences, injuries from bullets or wounds of knife cuts were frequent. Pain soon became mundane to the point of numbness, a dull ache where a deep gash laid across the abdomen or a throbbing pain of a bruise around an eye. Agony was such an everyday event, children of the time could die from unattended wounds due to lack of attention paid on the true severity of their injuries.
One by one, they fell down.
All in training would go through series of tests, proving themselves the mightiest and most compatible. Success pushes you forward, while failure earns you a ticket to time out. Exams had to be done on the clock, as minimal mistakes as possible, the faster the better.
More training, more pain, more suffering.
At long last, these children were put to the final assessment. Individuals, private lives disclosed to the candidates — their age ranged, from as old as eighteen to younger than seven. These personages, files of information on them given to young kids, were targets.
They were the prey.
And the kids were the hunters.
It was now or never — life or death.
Mission completion and they would be rewarded; mission abortion and they could say their last words.
The world was cruel and cold.
Ten passed with flying colours. A boy, passing his tenth summer not long ago, gunning down his first human without hesitation. The prize was recognition, and customers who would hire him to rid of their opponents.
The tragedy Ten never talked about — brothers and sisters who had bullets through their heads for cowardice and hesitation.
Eight years of guns, knives, poisons, fists. Crimson was shed, colour painted his hands, darkness shrouded his orbs. Quietude followed in his wake, feather steps like that of a prowling cat, movements precise as he took down his mice, actions swift and merciful, struggles ending before they begun.
Ebony blanketed the city, starry sky a view to behold for onlookers, gracile moon scintillating its dazzle. The house was quiet, couple asleep and in each other’s arms, chest rising and falling with each inspiration and expiration. Tranquility permeated the ambience of their sanctuary, beautiful images conjured by subconscious, dream in a dream.
No one spoke of the hooded boy by the pavement; no one saw the shadow across the lawn; no one heard the window creaking open. Wooden tiles depressed from slight weight, hushed as if never there, fast feet carrying the male forward. The hitman traipsed the partition between his entrance and his destination, looming before the peaceful pairs, the latter unaware of the former’s intentions.
An eternal sleep, he had put them into.
Ten didn’t mean to explore the house. He was to escape and keep low until this case turns cold. However, similarly as a cat, he became curious, and wandered out of the master’s bedroom.
Frames hung on the wall, wonderful pictures of a loving husband and wife. As umber gaze studied each photos, they halted upon one particular image, heart stuttering a beat. Shock was not a sentiment he familiarised with, an emotion so foreign he had no idea what to do.
A gorgeous babe, in the loving arms of her parents, eyes wide and bright at the camera.
More of the baby girl was shown, slowly ageing with each passing photograph.
Finally, Ten reached a second door.
Strolling inside, a toddler stood awake in her crib, round hazel eyes observing him silently. Carefully, he approached her, digits quivering as he reached for the little girl, fingertips carefully grazing her cheek. Soft, fragile, precious — the purity and innocence she exuded was a stark contrast to the bloody and gory path he paved.
The little girl eyed him, then his hand.
Inquisitive palm grabbed onto a finger.
Her fist was so small.
And then, she laughed.
It was the most gullible cachinnation he had ever heard.
The little girl’s laughter made him realise then — all the horrible deeds he committed, the crimes he carried out, the lives he had taken.
Most importantly, he acknowledged, with a dawning horror, of the terrible fate befalling the little girl’s parents.
He couldn’t leave her there, with no parents to take care of her.
No one to love her.
Like he had been.
So, he made a decision no mentor of his had passed down to him, no sane trainer would advise their disciple to do — whisk the child away from the scene, and raising her as if his own.
Ten left that part of his life behind. It was easy, considering he had been a no name hitman working under an organisation with a big boss to tell you what was right and what was wrong. All he needed was fraud validation of being human — birth certificate, identification card, driving license and the gigs.
Not anymore was he another faceless figure hiding in the shadows.
He was finally a stranger among the crowd, with a name and a background.
With connections on his belt, Ten managed to live a life safely away from the bleak reality, raising a daughter he called his own. Having acquaintances who offered hands in times of need, he managed to make the little girl his own, giving her a name related to himself. She was no more the toddler he had kidnapped from her deceased parents; she was now the child of a single father young man, who loved her unconditionally.
He called her Hope.
Ten started a career as an online freelancing artist, a job allowing him to raise his daughter while also earning money by picking up art commission requests. His line of work not only allowed him to spend quality time with his beloved, but also earn money to support their little apartment and household necessity. It was a blessing which Ten was forever grateful for.
However, once a killer, always a killer.
That life of bloodshed was something Ten couldn’t believe he could come to miss, but he did. He longed for the warmth of a victim’s crimson upon his skin, the pace of a pulse under the pads of his fingers, the drainage of colour from one’s countenance. The satisfaction that came with a clean kill, the pleasure of a job well done.
However, most importantly, the thrill of having one’s life in his control.
He didn’t want to hurt innocent people though. No, he promised himself that Hope’s parents would be the last. No more would he subject loved ones through that kind of torture anymore.
It was then, that the news started broadcasting of corrupted government officials, individuals who used their higher power to oppress the weak, silencing them into submission.
A spark of an idea ignited then.
Ten started a dark web, a site for users to place in mourns and complaints of tyrants who cornered others of power status with their money and hierarchy. He eased their worries, assuring them that no more would they need to suffer the reign of treacherous higher-ups. Whispers of vows to perish the lowly humans who abused their power, cleansing the world of those who dared to look down on the ones around them, trying to act as some kind of God.
He would capture them, torture them inch by loving inch, bring upon such pain so unimaginable, allowing the agony to push them off the edge and into the void, flinging their consciousness to the gateway separating life and death. Afterwards, he would constitute a dedicated artwork using their corpses, constructing them in such a manner that they were grotesque masterpieces, sculptures to be seen by an audience. The last step was to search for a befitting location to display his handiwork, leaving it for all to view and be awe of; warning to the ones who had the guts to follow in his victims’ footsteps of deceit, telling them that no matter where they hid, he was always watching.
Ten soon became a vigilante for the society — purging the economy of toxic personages, putting his twisted sense of artistic beauty to send a message to the mass audience, comforting them of a hero and warning evil of a punisher.
These were crucial information every hitman should know of their target before action.
Address, schedule, habit, family, friends, neighbours-
All of the following were variables that each hitman must take into consideration when hunting.
Efficiency, cleanliness, subtlety, speed-
Hitmen must be aware of their execution on their goal and to never leave any trace that could link back to themselves.
This was the dangerous career of all hitmen around the globe.
This was Ten’s life.
Love and care were not emotions found in his childhood. He was raised to be a machine, heartless and obedient. No one taught him the gentle touch of a mother or the proud praise of a father.
What he had been given was a gun and an animal.
Kill or face punishment.
No food for a week, no water for the month, isolation for a day.
It was either the animal’s life, or your sanity.
Ten made his choice.
Blood and violence were regular occurrences, injuries from bullets or wounds of knife cuts were frequent. Pain soon became mundane to the point of numbness, a dull ache where a deep gash laid across the abdomen or a throbbing pain of a bruise around an eye. Agony was such an everyday event, children of the time could die from unattended wounds due to lack of attention paid on the true severity of their injuries.
One by one, they fell down.
All in training would go through series of tests, proving themselves the mightiest and most compatible. Success pushes you forward, while failure earns you a ticket to time out. Exams had to be done on the clock, as minimal mistakes as possible, the faster the better.
More training, more pain, more suffering.
At long last, these children were put to the final assessment. Individuals, private lives disclosed to the candidates — their age ranged, from as old as eighteen to younger than seven. These personages, files of information on them given to young kids, were targets.
They were the prey.
And the kids were the hunters.
It was now or never — life or death.
Mission completion and they would be rewarded; mission abortion and they could say their last words.
The world was cruel and cold.
Ten passed with flying colours. A boy, passing his tenth summer not long ago, gunning down his first human without hesitation. The prize was recognition, and customers who would hire him to rid of their opponents.
The tragedy Ten never talked about — brothers and sisters who had bullets through their heads for cowardice and hesitation.
Eight years of guns, knives, poisons, fists. Crimson was shed, colour painted his hands, darkness shrouded his orbs. Quietude followed in his wake, feather steps like that of a prowling cat, movements precise as he took down his mice, actions swift and merciful, struggles ending before they begun.
Ebony blanketed the city, starry sky a view to behold for onlookers, gracile moon scintillating its dazzle. The house was quiet, couple asleep and in each other’s arms, chest rising and falling with each inspiration and expiration. Tranquility permeated the ambience of their sanctuary, beautiful images conjured by subconscious, dream in a dream.
No one spoke of the hooded boy by the pavement; no one saw the shadow across the lawn; no one heard the window creaking open. Wooden tiles depressed from slight weight, hushed as if never there, fast feet carrying the male forward. The hitman traipsed the partition between his entrance and his destination, looming before the peaceful pairs, the latter unaware of the former’s intentions.
An eternal sleep, he had put them into.
Ten didn’t mean to explore the house. He was to escape and keep low until this case turns cold. However, similarly as a cat, he became curious, and wandered out of the master’s bedroom.
Frames hung on the wall, wonderful pictures of a loving husband and wife. As umber gaze studied each photos, they halted upon one particular image, heart stuttering a beat. Shock was not a sentiment he familiarised with, an emotion so foreign he had no idea what to do.
A gorgeous babe, in the loving arms of her parents, eyes wide and bright at the camera.
More of the baby girl was shown, slowly ageing with each passing photograph.
Finally, Ten reached a second door.
Strolling inside, a toddler stood awake in her crib, round hazel eyes observing him silently. Carefully, he approached her, digits quivering as he reached for the little girl, fingertips carefully grazing her cheek. Soft, fragile, precious — the purity and innocence she exuded was a stark contrast to the bloody and gory path he paved.
The little girl eyed him, then his hand.
Inquisitive palm grabbed onto a finger.
Her fist was so small.
And then, she laughed.
It was the most gullible cachinnation he had ever heard.
The little girl’s laughter made him realise then — all the horrible deeds he committed, the crimes he carried out, the lives he had taken.
Most importantly, he acknowledged, with a dawning horror, of the terrible fate befalling the little girl’s parents.
He couldn’t leave her there, with no parents to take care of her.
No one to love her.
Like he had been.
So, he made a decision no mentor of his had passed down to him, no sane trainer would advise their disciple to do — whisk the child away from the scene, and raising her as if his own.
Ten left that part of his life behind. It was easy, considering he had been a no name hitman working under an organisation with a big boss to tell you what was right and what was wrong. All he needed was fraud validation of being human — birth certificate, identification card, driving license and the gigs.
Not anymore was he another faceless figure hiding in the shadows.
He was finally a stranger among the crowd, with a name and a background.
With connections on his belt, Ten managed to live a life safely away from the bleak reality, raising a daughter he called his own. Having acquaintances who offered hands in times of need, he managed to make the little girl his own, giving her a name related to himself. She was no more the toddler he had kidnapped from her deceased parents; she was now the child of a single father young man, who loved her unconditionally.
He called her Hope.
Ten started a career as an online freelancing artist, a job allowing him to raise his daughter while also earning money by picking up art commission requests. His line of work not only allowed him to spend quality time with his beloved, but also earn money to support their little apartment and household necessity. It was a blessing which Ten was forever grateful for.
However, once a killer, always a killer.
That life of bloodshed was something Ten couldn’t believe he could come to miss, but he did. He longed for the warmth of a victim’s crimson upon his skin, the pace of a pulse under the pads of his fingers, the drainage of colour from one’s countenance. The satisfaction that came with a clean kill, the pleasure of a job well done.
However, most importantly, the thrill of having one’s life in his control.
He didn’t want to hurt innocent people though. No, he promised himself that Hope’s parents would be the last. No more would he subject loved ones through that kind of torture anymore.
It was then, that the news started broadcasting of corrupted government officials, individuals who used their higher power to oppress the weak, silencing them into submission.
A spark of an idea ignited then.
Ten started a dark web, a site for users to place in mourns and complaints of tyrants who cornered others of power status with their money and hierarchy. He eased their worries, assuring them that no more would they need to suffer the reign of treacherous higher-ups. Whispers of vows to perish the lowly humans who abused their power, cleansing the world of those who dared to look down on the ones around them, trying to act as some kind of God.
He would capture them, torture them inch by loving inch, bring upon such pain so unimaginable, allowing the agony to push them off the edge and into the void, flinging their consciousness to the gateway separating life and death. Afterwards, he would constitute a dedicated artwork using their corpses, constructing them in such a manner that they were grotesque masterpieces, sculptures to be seen by an audience. The last step was to search for a befitting location to display his handiwork, leaving it for all to view and be awe of; warning to the ones who had the guts to follow in his victims’ footsteps of deceit, telling them that no matter where they hid, he was always watching.
Ten soon became a vigilante for the society — purging the economy of toxic personages, putting his twisted sense of artistic beauty to send a message to the mass audience, comforting them of a hero and warning evil of a punisher.
personality
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out of character
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coded by naichakun