When a Hitman Gets Haunted by a Ghost
Chapter 32: Shattered Lamps

Chapter 32: Shattered Lamps

The car’s headlights fanned over the road, cutting into the stillness of the night. That is, if the night could be called still—someone was grumbling the whole way.

"Why... why did you even take Hale?" Hunter muttered, his voice slurred but insistent. His words were slow and fragmented, yet he still managed to sound demanding, anger in him sparking. "What was your... plan? Huh?"

Hunter slouched in the passenger seat, the drugs dulling his body but not his frustration. The cult had taken Gabriel’s command to keep him "relaxed" a little too literally, dosing him into a haze.

"Hey, I’m talkin’ to you," he mumbled, more irritated this time.

Kant’s eyes briefly flicked to Hunter before returning to the road. "Relax. Hale’s dead. The job’s done," he said dryly, not inviting any more questions.

Hunter stirred beside him, his head rolling awkwardly against the window. Nonetheless, he made his point to fix Kant with a sloppy glare from a weird angle.

"You left me there... like an animal... in a cage for days..."

Two days. Kant had left him there for only two days.

Kant let out a sigh, casting a glance towards the rearview mirror. He half-expected Gabriel’s ghost to be lounging in the backseat, cooking up some witty remark.

But there was nothing—just the empty backseat. No smug grin, no comments. Just the quiet of the night and the sound of tires on the damp road.

Piles of snow were hugging the highway from both sides, the winter picking up. Gabriel must have been outside somewhere making snow angels, celebrating his return to life. The corner of Kant’s mouth twitched up at the thought.

"How am I supposed to trust you?" Hunter grumbled, bitterness clinging to every word.

"You’re telling me you trusted me? Seriously?" Kant shot back, scoffing. "Don’t you recall pointing a gun at me? Or is your memory selective?"

Hunter blinked slowly. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to argue, but instead, he just let out a displeased hum and sank further into the seat.

A few more miles passed in silence, the road stretching endlessly ahead. Then Hunter decided to dip into his creative side.

"People like us can’t help but be drawn to warmth..." he slurred sappily. "Like moths, we cling to lamps... to warm our hopelessness..."

Kant drew in a deep breath, then exhaled, suppressing an eyeroll.

Hunter let out a wistful chuckle. "And my lamp... was shattered."

"Send me a copy when you publish your poetry book," Kant muttered.

Hunter snapped back to anger in a split second. "The hell you judging me for? I lost my wife and kept going, but you... you lost some wimpy friend and fell off your rocker."

Kant’s brow twitched. "You trying to pick a fight?" He shot Hunter a glare. "Think you’re the only one who has lost something? Your soul must be up your ass, ignorant bastard."

"Keep running your mouth!" Hunter shouted like a drunk, pushing himself straight up in his seat and rolling up his sleeves clumsily. "I’m just in the mood to beat you up."

Kant snorted, unable to take Hunter’s attempt at intimidation seriously. "Try me again when you’re sober."

Hunter seemed to consider what Kant had said, his unfocused eyes narrowing. Then, with another slow blink, he slumped back against the window.

Hunter’s mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a grimace. "Think I’ll back out? I’d fight you right now, except—except..." He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely as if the thought had escaped him.

"Except you’re feeling forgiving while high?"

"Forgiving...? Don’t piss me off." Hunter laughed, then went back to grumbling, "Why am I even taking this shit?"

The road stretched ahead, the headlights illuminating their path in the darkness. Kant’s mind whirred like a broken radiator, some nonsense bubbling in the back of his head. Something about staying or quitting, like the history repeating itself.

. . .

[FLASHBACK]

Kant grew up in a poor neighborhood, barely flying under the radar at school and walking on eggshells at home.

If the light was turned off when he came home, he wasn’t allowed to turn it on. If he tripped over the empty alcohol bottles in the dark, something would be thrown at him. Next, his grandma would shout at her son for being a useless drunk.

When he was in sixth grade, realization struck him in the shape of a green beer bottle. It was like his eyes being opened to a question he hadn’t thought of until then.

"Why the hell am I taking this shit?"

Kant picked up another bottle off the floor and aimed into the dark. His lungs burned with frustration, but the fear of consequences stopped him. So he smashed the bottle against the floor instead, glass flying everywhere.

At the green age of twelve, Kant slammed the door of his run-down home and left.

Every day at six in the morning, he showed up at the school gates. He studied hard in classes, washed up at school’s gym showers, slept on a desk in the library corner until the school’s closing time.

His nights were spent on the streets, where crime was as common as rats. Earning money from suspicious side-jobs, stealing from convenience stores and people. In a way, it was his freedom. Go wherever, do whatever.

Between stealing more soap bars than he needed for the heck of it and scratching some stupid stickman drawings onto an expensive car out of boredom, his sense of right and wrong never quite developed. As long as nobody found out the wrong things he did, everything was right.

Over the span of the first month living like this, Kant got nothing more than a strange look from his homeroom teacher for trying to sell a classmate soap. The teachers didn’t question his loitering as long as he got decent grades.

Then another strange kid transferred to his class. The homeroom buzzed with curiosity as the teacher introduced Luke. Something about him annoyed Kant immediately. Too loud, too happy for no reason, beaming at everyone like he’d already decided they’d be friends.

By lunch, Luke had already taken the class’ center of attention. But when his jokes didn’t land on Kant, who was eating in the farthest corner of the table, the boy zeroed in on him like a challenge.

"What’s his name?" Luke asked someone next to him.

"Kant. But you should leave him alone, he’s always annoyed."

"Really?" Luke murmured.

"Yeah, just keep going. Or did you already run out of jokes?"

"No, I have one more," Luke murmured, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "What happens if a chicken crosses the road?"

The group leaned in, waiting for the punchline, but Luke turned and pointed directly at Kant. "What do you think, Einstein?"

The laughter shifted towards Kant, a few kids glancing his way.

Kant paused mid-bite and slowly raised his head with a withering stare.