009 Homework

We circle, like dogged cavemen in a dance, our shadows cast sharp by the single bulb above us. The light makes monsters of us both, and it distorts us into jagged, angular shapes—figments of each other's imagination. Our eyes lock, and the crowd, that once roared with life, fades into a distant echo, nothing more than background noise—just the wind whistling at the moon, or the distant sound of waves clumping on and crashing on some forgotten shore.

Only me and only you.

He lunges first, a blur of muscle and intent, his body a weapon honed by years of desperation but only a week of real fighting. His hand closes around my neck, but I slip out of his grip, fluid like water, like I've done this a thousand times before.

He retaliates with a low kick to my leg, a strike that sends pain shooting up my thigh like fire and fills the area with a sound of flesh hitting each other. Then, a wasteless, calculated jab to my lungs—precise, with intention. The air leaves me, stolen in a rush, gasping breath, and for a moment, the world narrows to a pinpoint of light and pain. But I don't retreat. We push each other back and forth, bodies colliding like waves crashing against rocks, relentless, unyielding.

His fist finds my solar plexus, a blow that feels like a hammer striking an anvil. I fold, my body instinctively curling in on itself, but I don't stop. An elbow juts out—my elbow—cutting through the haze of pain, and connects with his jaw, the impact solid, jarring. It cuts off his blind jab, a wild, desperate swing that didn't find it's mark. We're not fighters here, not in the traditional sense. We're just people, trying to find meaning in a world that lost the definition of what the world is. a society grwon soft, complacent, vulnerable. Seething with hopelessness, resentment, and cunning. Everyday slice of life. No, slice of politics.

Lock in. It's time for fun.

The violence is palpable, unfiltered—a language we both understand, spoken through rugged blurry features, bleeding hits and clenched fists. It's not about getting better, not about honing technique or perfecting form.

That's for the civilized.

This is about not being the one who cries out, who taps out, who breaks under the weight of it all. It was never supposed to be that.

Each hit, each blow, it's not about speed or power. He's gone desperate. It's about what's beneath it, the hidden depths we plunge into with every strike.

The deeper fight, the one that isn't about fists at all. It's about facing something—fear, anger, regret. We tie those things to the other person, wash our enemies onto them, and swing until our knuckles split and our bodies bruise. But the real fight is against ourselves, isn't it? Against that dark, gnawing thing without that tells us to stay down, to give in.

He isn't my enemy. He's my reflection, a distorted mirror of everything I am and everything I'm not. His face, contorted with effort, with pain and determination, is a mirror of my own. We're both fighting something invisible, something that doesn't have a face or a name. It's just there, heavy with something that we never knew we were burdened with.

His features blur, losing definition as the fight drags on. Everything becomes hazy, dreamlike, yet sharp at the same time. Lucid.

A flash of clearness in the chaos, a moment of understanding. I chop his neck, a swift, precise movement, and blindly face the crowd. Their cheers are distant now, muffled, as if coming from underwater. I hook my thighs under his legs, feel the tension in his muscles, the resistance, and we somersault into the ground. The impact is jarring, the world tilting on its axis.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing should make sense. That's the point, isn't it? The chaos, the unpredictability, the raw, unrefined violence—it strips everything away, leaves you bare. Exposed. It's barbaric, it's crude, it's primitive, and I know that. I know it, and yet, here I am, in the thick of it, reveling in it. Because in this moment, in this place, nothing else matters. Not the world outside, not the people watching, not the pain or the exhaustion. All that matters is this—this fight, this struggle, this brief, fleeting moment of freedom.

We hit the ground, hard. He tries to roll, to gain the upper hand, but I'm already moving, instinct guiding my actions. I press down, feel the ground beneath me, solid and unyielding, and him beneath my weight. There's a primal satisfaction in it, in the control, in the dominance. But it's fleeting, like everything else. He pushes back, and we're locked in again, bodies straining, muscles screaming, the world narrowing to this one point of contact.

It's not personal. It's never personal. Things aren't personal here. Nothing is static.

Everything shifts, changes, evolves. We learn to never contradict, to never cling to a belief too tightly, because even having no belief is a belief in and of itself. And that's the paradox, isn't it? The contradiction at the heart of it all. Food for thought, something to chew on later when the adrenaline wears off and the pain sets in and chasing your breath is the first thing on your mind.

He jumps on me, and for a moment, his features lose all definition. They blur into the background, becoming indistinct, a smudge. Everything blurs and everything's lucid, a strange clarity in the midst of the mayhem. A flash of clearness. And then, before I can even process it, we're moving again, locked in the uncivilized rhythm that caught us both.

I chop his neck again, the motion fluid, automatic. I feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body resists and then gives way. And I face the crowd for the third time, barely registering their cheers, their shouts. It's all just noise now, background noise.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing should make sense. That's the beauty of it, the madness, the raw, unfiltered chaos. We're fighting, but not each other. We're fighting everything else. The world, the expectations, the chains that bind us. And in this moment, in this place, we're free.

Or maybe we're just fooling ourselves. But does it matter? Does any of it matter? Not here, not now. Now, all that matters is the fight.

He gives out, and the night comes into a standstill. Infectious waste leaves us. All too human impurity. You aren't alive anywhere like you were there. Everytime, we see a little bit clearer. I stand up drunkenly.

I think again, when the fight's over, nothing was solved. But nothing mattered. That 004 template came useful. Translating his throat slash into a hand technique was easy, but using it in a fight was hard. If that went wrong, I'd have to evacuate soul.

Two men raise me up to a crate beside my laptop and belongings.

"I'm giving you homework. For the next few weeks, you'll carry out tasks." I carefully speak. I pause to let my words sink in. Some raise their eyebrow, the new ones. But most look upon me like I'm the Oracle of Delphi about to give a prophecy about the death of the next consul.

You're going to destroy something you own. Something that might be shameful. Something that signifies a part of you that you want to reject. Your console. Your TV. Your collection of thingamajigs.

They nod slowly, understanding the symbolic gesture, though not fully grasping the depth.

I give out copies in coffee stained brown envelopes of the exact parameters and the requirements of being a person who achieved this task. A to-do list. A quest.

Now this isn't easy.

Destroying something you own isn't just about tearing apart an ejaculate stained bed or tearing apart a collection of sex tapes. It's about tearing down a version of yourself, that piece of you that's holding on too tight to the safety net. It's about killing off the part that keeps you docile.

The part of you that wants everything to be in status quo. Even if you're stagnating. The brain thinks by doing this, you're gaining time. But you aren't. The brain doesn't know that it will die someday. It only fears it. But you do.

The part of you that wraps you in a warm blanket of false security and whispers, "This is enough."

A man with thinning hair grips the sledgehammer with white knuckles. His face is taut, teeth clenched. He stares down at the worn flat-screen TV in his small, neat, classy yet claustrophobic living room. The light flickers on the screen, playing out a record of a life he's tired of living. He takes a breath, and his eyes flash with a glint of bizarre gnawing thing without.

He says, "I can't do it.", in a pompous, veering, deviating voice.

But his hands move for itself and he swings. He takes off his safety glasses and checks off the envelope and puts inside a picture of the remains.

But the hardest part? It's not the destruction. No, that's easy. Anyone can break something. It's what comes after—the silence that follows the crash. That moment when you're standing there, staring at the wreckage, and realizing you can't go back to the way things were. Buying a new one won't change anything.

You've crossed a line. That's where most people falter. They hesitate, they regret, and they start to rebuild the old, broken pieces. They scramble up some money to get a new collection of dinnerware made by the kind, wholesome people of God-knows-where.

But when they know that this is wrong. When they know that if they do that, they're not coming back to Kaisen, they'll do it. Hesitantly, but they'll do it.

In a dimly lit shrubbery, another man stands over a crate filled with manga volumes, stacks of games, and collectible figurines. His fingers twitch. He hesitates, but then his face hardens. One by one, he throws them into a trash compactor, the grinding and crunching noises echoing through the tiny grove. He wipes sweat from his brow, breathing heavily, as if he's just purged a part of his soul.

He checks off the envelope and puts inside a picture of the remains.

The reality is, you're stripping away a layer of yourself that you've worn for too long. You'll feel exposed. Vulnerable. Weakened, rusty. You'll question who you are now, without that thing to hide behind. But that's the point. It's not about losing something. It's about gaining something else other than metaphorical time—the space to rebuild yourself into something untethered. Losing all of what makes you worse makes you better. Losing the mundane gives you freedom.

In the dead of night, a man in a business suit stands in a deserted alley. He pulls out his old briefcase, once a symbol of his corporate success, now a relic of a life he no longer wants. With a grunt, he slams it against the wall, again and again, until the leather rips, the contents spilling onto the grimy pavement. He kicks it away, breathing hard, feeling like a different person already.

And the truth is, most people won't understand. They'll see what you've done and think you've lost it. They'll mock you. They'll think you've gone mad. But you'll know something they don't. You'll know that real change doesn't happen by holding on, rather it is achieved by letting go—by burning bridges, smashing idols, and breaking the chains that bind you to the past.

It'll hurt. It always does. But it's a necessary pain. A necessary evil. It's not just about destroying something you own. It's about destroying the parts of yourself that you no longer need. The parts that you don't want. And when you do, when you stand there in the ruins of your old life, you'll feel it—the faint, pulsing beat of something new stirring inside you.

A man kneels in his garage, staring down at a dusty model car he spent years building. He lifts a heavy wrench, hesitates for a moment, then brings it down with a sharp crack. The car crumples, metal twists, and he feels a weight lifting from his chest. He stands up straighter, breathing in the stale air, feeling like he's finally torn down a wall that's been holding him back.

Because in the end, this isn't about loss. It's about rebirth. And in that moment, when you've destroyed what you thought you needed, you'll realize you're capable of more than you ever imagined.