Justice

If the old man had held any hint of dignity before, it was completely gone now as he screamed at Randolph.

The finger he held out was shaking and his face was pale and sweating. It wasn't just his finger. His entire body was wobbling life a leaf in the wind, threatening to topple over.

The wrinkles on his face appeared to have deepened as he sat there, still in the position Randolph had pushed him in previous. It was like he had aged several years, completely offsetting the five he had gained from Randolph.

"GIVE ME AN ANSWER, RANDOLPH!"

"You saw what happened with your own eyes, John. Now stop shouting." Randolph's voice was calm as he spoke, surprising even himself.

"You…" Heaving several deep breaths, the old man stared at him in horror.

"Do you realize what I did for you? Do you think you would even still be alive if not for my help?!"

"…"

"AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME? BY KILLING MY GRANDSON?!" The thud of flesh against wood sounded out as he pounded his fist down onto the ground.

Indeed, Randolph had been helped greatly by John. It was an exaggeration to say that he had saved his life, but it was definitely no exaggeration to say that he may not have been there if the factory didn't offer him that job and promotion.

"What did I do to you to deserve this?! I swear to you, I'll bring you to justice if it's the last thing I ever do. You are a vile, repulsive murderer who has no heart or soul!"

The words hit Randolph like a church bell out of the blue. It was like a quick blow that staggered his thought process, and it filled his mind with thoughts.

What he was feeling though, wasn't remorse. Nor was it regret of any kind. Instead, the words merely made him thoughtful.

The grudge between him and I… it's irreconcilable.

Realizing this, Randolph took two big steps towards the latter, lifted up his cane, and swung down.

"Urgh!"

Opposite to his grandson, John died quickly and rather quietly. He managed to utter only a single groan before he fell to the ground, the life in his eyes quickly fading away.

It was likely because he was old and frail, or that Randolph's strike had connected with his neck, but the death was clean and seemingly painless.

After he died, a quiet so apparent it was almost loud - overcame over the private hospital room. It allowed Randolph some peace to dwell in his thoughts.

Holding his arms up, he inspected his bloodstained hands.

It was John's words that had sparked his thoughts, enlightening him.

What did I do to deserve this.

It was the thought that had crossed Randolph's mind more than several times now. It had happened back when he compared his own happiness to others, and it had happened back when he felt despair.

It was a foolish train of thought.

What did that question ask? What did it mean?

It meant that deep down inside, whether he realized it or not, he had expected something from the world.

It meant that he had believed the world owed him something for following its rules and upholding his moral compass.

It also, subsequently, meant that he hated the world.

But why should he hate the world? Why should he have expected anything from it in the first place? It was both a misplaced hatred and a misplaced hope.

Looking at the cane in his hand, Randolph felt a sense of security and reliability.

Just or not, righteous, morally upstanding, and kind or not, who would uphold justice for him, worthless as he was to society and its people? What about when he had lost his hope?

The unfeeling and brainwashed people? The corrupt government or its laws? Or the unreliable police that uphold them? The Church that had rejected him?

There was no justice in this world, not for people like him. 'Justice' lay in the form of the bloodied cane in his hands, as the only thing that had protected him in his time of need. It was the only thing that had stood up for him, and the only thing that had saved him.

He should not expect anything from the world, but rather grasp his fate through his own two hands.

As he stood there, Randolph's eyes wandered to the open system screen in front of him.

He was no ingrate, realizing what would have become of him had he not had the system with him. He would likely have died, either back in the forest or in a few days when the thugs came for him again.

But can I really call this an opportunity?

Making $100k in one trade is an opportunity, but is being forbidden from the gates of heaven an opportunity?

Was this a God-blessed chance granted to him by the divine, or a curse? If he had died back then, he would have died knowing he had upheld his moral compass. Perhaps he would be at the golden gates right now. The prospect of eternal torture was a terrifying one to him.

But his bloodied hands told him it was too late. It had been too late the moment he had signed the contract.

Whether blessing or curse, he had already made his choice. There was only one thing he had left to do, and live out his regrets.

As he thought, he could hear quiet murmurs behind the hospital door. The voices were hushed and dull, right outside the door yet trying to remain quiet in an attempt to escape his notice.

Seeing this, reality quickly hit Randolph as he remembered that they had been far too loud. The commotion would probably have been heard through the entire floor, if not the building. The police were likely on their way as he stood there, approaching at top speed.

Realizing this, Randolph acted decisively.

Pulling the mask on his face back up, he pulled his arm back before hurling the walking cane at the window.

The glass shattered with a loud crash that sent the entire hospital into silence once again.

Those on the other floors observed the commotion with bated breath, watching the bloodied walker fall into the darkness below.

Directly after it came a streak of red as a shadowy figure flew from the second-story window. The blood that stained his suit splattered behind him, as if a shroud, leaving an indelible impression on the minds of the observers above.

The bloodied figure fell into the night, disappearing into the darkness.