Some people say that I might have highly excessive thoughts. Well, I disagree with them. I really don't think I spend so much time thinking about absolutely everything to the point of meticulously analyzing every detail of my life, the universe, and every situation I encounter. After all, who really needs to ponder the complexities of human interactions to the extent of dissecting every conversation they've had over the last decade, or staying up at night imagining all the possible consequences of a seemingly trivial decision, like choosing between tea and coffee for breakfast?

I don't even think it's excessive to spend hours contemplating the nature of time and whether the past really exists or if it's just a construct of our mind. That's totally normal, right? And who doesn't occasionally find themselves lost in thoughts about the infinite possibilities of parallel universes and whether, somewhere, there's a version of themselves who made completely different decisions and lives a totally different life? It's not like I'm constantly overwhelmed by an endless stream of considerations and reflections.

Sure, some people might say that keeping a detailed journal of every social interaction and the possible hidden meanings behind the words said is a bit much, but I think it's just being prepared and attentive. Who doesn't occasionally think about every possible scenario of a meeting they're going to have in two weeks, including all the weather variations and how they might influence the mood of the people involved?

And dreams? Who doesn't enjoy waking up and spending the whole morning trying to decipher the possible symbolisms and subconscious messages that the brain might be trying to send? I'm just being cautious and trying to understand myself and the world around me better. Spending a significant amount of time thinking about other people's life decisions, their hidden motivations, and how they might affect the trajectory of my own life is just a way of keeping a good perspective, right?

So, when someone says my thoughts are excessive, I just can't see it. I believe I'm just using my time productively, contemplating the complexity and the endless nuances of the world around me. After all, isn't that what everyone does?

"Please, you don't have to do this. I can give you whatever you want, please" begged the trembling voice in front of me, but I barely registered it. My mind was far away, wandering through a maze of thoughts and reflections that had once again led me to lose track of time and reality around me.

The man in front of me, bound and desperate, should have been my priority. After all, he represented one of many "products" I needed to deliver. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, each second adding up to precious minutes that I no longer had. My clients were not known for their patience and any delay could result in disastrous consequences.

Still, my mind, ever rebellious, was absorbed in philosophical considerations. I thought about the irony of my situation: here I was, an organ trafficker, dealing with the fragility of human life in such a raw and commercial way, while getting lost in thoughts about the essence of existence and the purpose of life. It was a fascinating contradiction, almost poetic, that I frequently explored, even in moments as utterly inappropriate as this.

"Please" he whispered again, his voice now a dwindling thread of hope. That's what finally brought me back to reality. Sweat was dripping down his forehead, his eyes wide with fear and despair. He didn't understand that I, too, was trapped...trapped in a web of incessant reflections that sometimes made me forget the brutality of my own work.

I looked at the clock again and panic began to rise. The delivery was supposed to happen fifteen minutes ago, and I was so immersed in my thoughts that I had completely neglected the urgency of the situation. My phone buzzed, an impatient message from the client demanding an update.

"Damn" I muttered, finally focusing on the task at hand. The man continued to plead, but his words became background noise as I struggled to regain control of the situation. I had to move quickly, organize everything, and ensure the delivery was made before the client lost patience completely.

With a conscious effort, I pushed my philosophical thoughts to a remote corner of my mind and focused on the present. The work had to be done, and I couldn't afford any more distractions. The man continued to murmur, but I was back in control, determined to finish what I had started.

The irony was not lost on me, of course. I knew that, once everything was over, I would probably get lost in my thoughts again, reflecting on the morality and fragility of human life. But for now, there was work to be done and, as dark as it was, I had to focus and ensure the delivery was made on time.

With one last glance at the clock, I hurried to complete the task. The man in front of me fell silent, resigned to his fate, while I finally managed to get my thoughts in order and carry out what was necessary.

As I cut into the man's stomach in front of me, his screams began to invade my ears. Damn, should I have covered his mouth with something? Oh, it's too late now. And why should I worry? I'm underground. it's impossible for anyone to hear this. Or is it? Did I leave something that could trace me? No. It's impossible. I was meticulous, careful. There's no way they found me.

Blood began to flow, dripping rhythmically onto the cold concrete floor. Each drop seemed like an echo, reverberating in my already overloaded mind. Anxiety began to take over, doubts gnawing at me from within. Had I been careless at any point? Had I left any trace? The sound of the screams was fading, but my unease was growing.

The silence that followed was broken only by the constant sound of blood dripping. Plop. Plop. Plop. Each drop a reminder of what was happening, of what I had done. And if someone was really tracing me? Were my meticulous precautions in vain? The beat of my heart began to accelerate, an incessant drum in my ears. It was hard to distinguish real sounds from those my anxious mind created.

Then, I heard footsteps. Heavy, determined. My heart pounded harder. No, this can't be true. It must just be my imagination. I'm getting paranoid, of course. But what if it's not? What if there really is someone out there? I could hear the footsteps more clearly now, approaching. The sound reverberated in my skull, each step a hammer against my sanity.

The footsteps got closer, more defined. My heart hammered in my chest, anxiety turning into pure panic. I should have thought of all possibilities. I should have been more careful. Did I leave something behind? Any evidence? My hands started to shake, cold sweat running down my forehead.

And then, the door was burst open. Men dressed in black, heavily armed, stormed the space. It was a shock, a direct blow to my perception of reality. It was the police. The room was lit by flashlights mounted on their weapons, beams of light slicing through the darkness like blades. Every movement they made seemed in slow motion, each command, each word, echoing in my already panicked mind.

"Don't move!" an authoritative voice commanded. My eyes blinked frantically, trying to understand the situation. The bound man was also illuminated, his eyes wide in a mix of relief and terror. I was surrounded. There was no escape.

The world seemed to shrink, the room becoming claustrophobic. My heart, once a storm in my chest, now felt like it wanted to explode. Each beat echoed, each breath becoming an effort. The irony of it all hit me like a punch. I, who had spent so much time lost in thoughts, philosophizing about life and death, was now trapped in my own trap.

Anxiety, paranoia, incessant reflection...all of it had been useless in the end. I was caught.

As the guards handcuffed me, I began to rethink my life. Moments from my childhood flashed through my mind. A dark and gloomy place where I was frequently abused and neglected... but suddenly, a hysterical laugh escaped my lips. No, that wasn't true. I never had a sad childhood.

I was born into a wealthy family that gave me everything I wanted. My parents, loving and attentive, always spoiled me. I had expensive toys, brand-name clothes, everything a child could wish for. My adolescence was marked by luxurious parties, expensive cars, and trips around the world. I had many girlfriends and eventually some children I never claimed. My parents paid for my medical school, and I, simply because I thought normal doctor's money was too little for my greed, decided to take a different path.

I wanted more money. I was already rich as an heir, but my thirst for power and wealth was insatiable. I entered the black market for human organs, and even then, I wasn't satisfied. What truly fulfilled me was knowing that I had control over my patients' lives. The feeling of deciding when someone would die or not was simply wonderful. I pretended some surgeries went wrong and the patient died, but I knew exactly what I had done. I had killed my patients on purpose to feel that sense of absolute power.

With my last strength, I grabbed the scalpel and drove it into the throat of the man bound in front of me. The sound of one of the officers shouting "STOP NOW" echoed through the room, followed by a sharp noise and the smell of gunpowder. Darkness enveloped me, and finally, everything went silent.