"No!" Kwan shouted as he woke up from his nightmare. He looked around and realized he was inside a hospital, which meant it was real. "How long have I been here? What is this?" he asked, looking at his hands.
The door suddenly creaked, and a nurse walked towards him. "I'm glad that you're finally awake, Mr. Moldrick," the nurse said. "You've had a serious concussion in your head, but thank God it wasn't too late when you got here."
"Why?" Kwan was shocked. "Why would I survive that? How about Rebecca? Where is she?"
"Unfortunately, your wife didn't make it. I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr. Moldrick, but the authorities are also waiting for you to recover. You'll have to spend the rest of your life in prison after you get out from this hospital," the nurse said.
Kwan realized why he was handcuffed—so that he couldn't escape from his punishment. He wasn't even able to attend his wife's funeral, nor did they give her a proper funeral. He just wanted to die now; his life would be meaningless without the woman he loved.
"About your bill—" The nurse was about to talk about his bill, but Kwan interrupted.
"Why didn't you just let me die?" he exclaimed. "Why would you save me if you'll end up sending me to prison? That will be the worst thing to do."
"But we believe in doing no harm, and even if it takes reincarnating you from the dead for you to pay your sins for taking so many lives, as you have been wanted dead or alive for so long, then it's worth it," the nurse said.
"Why do humans always decide who's right and wrong? Why do humans always make the judgment? If you killed me, then I could pay my sins in hell!" Kwan exclaimed.
"You really lost your mind. They should take you to the mental hospital instead of the prison; that might help you recover your sanity," the nurse said, before leaving as she didn't want to argue anymore since his bill was already deducted from his bank account.
Kwan Moldrick started talking to himself in the room. Looking at the ceiling. All he could think of was the future he could have spent with Rebecca. If only he had been a good man, if only he had been strong and powerful, perhaps he could have saved her and their daughter. But everything was already gone—his fame, his money, his family—his life was completely meaningless, and he had no desire to continue living in suffering.
The clock kept ticking. Days turned into nights, and nights into days. Kwan had no more time left. Soon they would take him to the prison. He had to pretend to be a madman, laughing and talking to himself, saying things nobody would understand. He knew that the authorities were monitoring him, and he had to act better so that they wouldn't put him into prison.
"Being put inside a mental health facility would be better than being imprisoned. It will be easier to escape from that place," Kwan told himself.
The day had finally arrived. They brought him to a madhouse. He didn't expect that he'd have to deal with mentally ill people, and it would be difficult, so he kept his distance from them.
Kwan was sitting in the corner of the white common room; his hands were shaking as he held a paper cup of lukewarm tea. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, and faint voices echoed through the halls. He watched the other patients—some paced, some muttered to themselves, others just stared at the walls.
He kept his silence as he didn't want to attract anyone's attention. He was looking down, playing the role of the broken man, although he was more than that; losing everything was worse. A few of the staff had already labeled him as non-violent but unstable. It was exactly the reputation he needed to maintain—until it was time to leave.
"New one, huh?" a voice rasped beside him.
Kwan looked up and saw a thin man with sunken eyes and wild, greasy hair standing and grinning at him. He read his name tag, Darin, but someone had scribbled "The Prophet" in marker across it.
"They all think I’m mad," Darin whispered, leaning in close. "But I know things. I see things. You? You’re no lunatic. You're hiding."
Kwan’s heart skipped a beat. He didn't want to cause any trouble, but it seemed like he needed to, since that was part of the plan after losing. He shouldn't care about being called crazy anymore, as he had lost it already. However, he stayed silent, minding his own business; his expression was blank, and Darin only grinned wider.
"You're like me… pretending. Waiting. I like that. Maybe I’ll help you." Darin shuffled away before Kwan could reply.
That night, Kwan stared at the ceiling; Darin’s words kept coming back in his mind. He had to be careful. He had to stay invisible. But now someone had seen through him. Someone who was just like him.
After a week or two, Kwan had learned the routine: meds at 7, therapy at 10, group session at noon, lights out at 9. He faked tremors, hallucinations, and whispered nonsense when they passed his room. The doctors began to call him "detached," "paranoid," "a candidate for long-term observation." Good. That’s what he wanted. But then Darin returned—this time with a warning.
"They’re moving you," Darin said. "They’re not convinced by your actions. One more mistake and you’ll be back in chains. You need proof of madness. Or... an incident."
Kwan hesitated. "What kind of incident?"
"Blood speaks louder than words, friend," Darin replied before leaving. "Good luck."
The next day, during their group therapy, Kwan stood abruptly. The patients and counselor turned toward him as he began to scream—incoherent, violent, thrashing like a beast. He lunged at the wall, punching it until blood smeared across his knuckles. The orderlies rushed in, tackling him and injecting him with a sedative. But in his blurred vision, he saw the doctor scribble on his clipboard:
"Episode confirms dissociative disorder. Recommend continued psychiatric supervision." He just smiled secretly, knowing that his plan seemed to work.
Darin approached him during recreation hour with a paper in his hand. A map—crude, hand-drawn, with corridors and ventilation shafts.
"Midnight. Thursday. We disappear," Darin whispered.
Kwan’s fingers tightened around the map. This was it. The time had come. The asylum was asleep. Or at least, most of it. Kwan was lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling through the dim security light above his door. At exactly 12:01, a soft knock echoed twice on the wall behind his bed—it was Darin’s signal.
Kwan slipped from under his thin blanket; his heart was pounding. He’d been preparing for this moment: stashing stolen utensils, mapping the patrol patterns, memorizing every corridor on Darin’s crumpled drawing.
He moved silently, like how he used to be, an assassin. He used a spoon handle to loosen the air vent grille he'd been unscrewing for days. When it came off, he crawled inside, feeling the cold metal scrape his skin.
Darin was waiting halfway through the shaft, eyes wide with anticipation. "Told you I knew things," he whispered, leading the way forward. The vent creaked with every shift of weight, and once, they froze in place as a nurse passed beneath them. Finally, they dropped into a storage room.
From there, Darin led him through a utility hallway lined with broken gurneys and rusted equipment. At the end, a locked door—marked "EMERGENCY EXIT—ALARM WILL SOUND."
"Here’s the twist," Darin said, holding up two wires he'd swiped from a janitor's closet. "I cut the alarm last week."
Kwan stared at him. "You’ve done this before."
"Nope," Darin said with a grin, completely mad. "But I always knew I would. I'm just waiting for the right moment."
And so, the two burst through the door into the cold night air. Freedom. Or something close to it. But it wasn't over. A siren blared from the main building. Kwan turned to run, but Darin grabbed his arm.
"No. We split up. You go through the woods. There’s a car behind the fence. Keys are under the seat. Stolen, sure, but it’ll get you out," Darin said.
Kwan hesitated. "Why help me?"
Darin smiled, eyes clearer than they'd ever been. "Because I don’t belong here either. But you—you’re going to finish something important."
Kwan nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then he ran—through the fence, through the dark forest, his breath sharp in the cold night. The pain in his hands and ribs was nothing compared to what burned in his chest: the chance to rewrite everything.
As he reached the car, turned the key, and heard the engine cough to life, one thought echoed in his mind: "I’m not done yet." Although his life was meaningless, he could start all over again, like how a snake sheds its skin, leaving the old ones and creating something new. He was rewriting everything. This time more fearless.