Can I really trust you?

I've loved books for as long as I can remember, but it's not like I'm a smart person. My marks are just as average as any normal guy's. It's nothing surprising, really, because the books I read weren't academic treasures—they were more along the lines of "How to Kill a Person Professionally."

As long as I can recall, my father never paid attention to me. I was always the quiet one, tucked away in the corner of the house. School life wasn't any different. I had a lot of friends, but they were all fake. They hung out with me only because of my father. Oh, you're probably wondering who my father is. He's the CEO of the biggest company in the USA.

Whenever there was an event, my father would take my younger sister instead of me. She was only a year younger, yet I always envied her for that. I still do. But the truth is, she was clueless. She was brighter than me, more talkative, more active—everything I wasn't. She was my opposite in every way. Still, I never blamed her. It wasn't her fault. Yet, deep down, I wished she had asked Father once: "Father, isn't Alex coming with us?" Maybe then, things would've been different.

Left behind at home, I sought solace in books—particularly in the one that taught me "How to Kill People Professionally." My mother, though, was my only support. She cared for me, showered me with love. I loved her more than anything in the world. She fought for me, arguing with Father about including me in family events. But she never won. He always left me behind. Every. Single. Time.

Each time they left, I saw my mother's eyes, wet and red from crying, as she promised me, "We'll find a solution to this." Her tears gave me hope, a reason to hang on.

But my real story begins after my family left the house.

Alone, I found myself drawn to my father's bookshelves. They were packed with titles on how to fight, how to win, how to survive. I read them all, thousands of times over. Yet, the one that caught my attention the most was "How to Kill People Professionally." It sparked something in me—a dangerous curiosity.

I always wondered: Do people really die that easily?

One day, to test that curiosity, I ventured outside. I wandered into an alley. It was filthy, the stench of smoke piercing my nose and making me want to puke. The alley was alive with its own chaos—people smoking, swearing, and worse.

Out of nowhere, a group of guys stopped me.

"Hey, kid, what're you doing here?" one of them slurred. There were four of them. The man speaking could barely stand, drunk out of his mind. Behind him, I noticed a man in a long coat smoking at the back of the alley. My instincts screamed that he was their leader.

Another guy sat on a bike with a woman in a short red dress wrapped around his arm. He sneered and shouted, "Just beat the kid and take whatever he has! I need the money for condoms urgently! I can't control my lust anymore. This girl we caught today is too sexy to keep waiting."

The last thing I noticed was the woman, tears streaming down her face, begging him to let her go.

Rage and instinct took over. I didn't think; I acted. My elbow struck the man in front of me square in the face. Blood splattered. I barely processed what was happening. The woman's terrified screams echoed in the background, and my hands—my hands were stained with blood.

When it was over, I turned back to the woman. She looked at me as if I were the devil himself.