I Am Scorpion

I am a professional assassin. My real name is Scorpion. Well, at least that was the only identity I had—a scorpion tattoo on my left chest—when I woke up chest-naked on a cold winter night almost five years ago. At that time, I found myself lying on a huge pile of trash. Maybe if I hadn't woken up so quickly, I would've been buried alive under it.

I stepped out of the waste treatment plant in confusion. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember why I had been sleeping in a pile of garbage, how I had gotten there, or more importantly, who I was. My brain felt like a trash can that had been emptied and washed. There was no memory left.

Still in a daze, I decided to spend that night huddled in the corner of an alleyway. A man who also lived there told me the district we were in was called H District. He gave me a piece of clothing too—though it was a bit small, at least it kept me warm.

Within two days, I realized that it wasn't just my memory that had vanished, but also my ability to read. Or maybe I'd never known how to read in the first place. I had no clue, and even now, I still don't.

At the time, I could understand words, but I couldn't spell them. I couldn't make sense of a single word on the pieces of newspaper I slept on. I understood what people said to me, but when I tried to speak, my sentences were so jumbled that no one could understand me.

Despite that, I began to understand my skill.

It was another ordinary night in the same alleyway. I was almost asleep when someone suddenly pointed a gun at my head, while three other men surrounded me.

Instinctively, I twisted the arm of the man holding the gun until I heard the sickening crack of a bone breaking. He dropped the gun as I kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying to the end of the alley. The other three men attacked me, unaware that I now had the gun in my hand. I don't remember exactly what happened after that, but I know that I gave each of them scratch wounds using only a single bullet. They all ran for their lives, leaving me behind with a blood-stained shirt and the gun.

I kept wearing the shirt—not just because it was the only piece of clothing I had, but because, over time, I began to enjoy the smell of blood. Of course, I noticed how the stain made people squint at me and think twice before approaching me. But honestly, who would hire a guy who couldn't even speak properly?

At least I had the gun—my most prized possession, even to this day. It was a FN Five-Seven semi-automatic. I recognized it instantly as soon as I held the 744-gram weapon in my hand. That same gun eventually helped me find a more decent place to stay.

A bullet from that gun embedded itself in the leg of a man trying to rob Mrs. Johnson, an elderly woman who later rented me a room in her house for free and gave me her late husband's clothes. It was also in her house that I learned to talk and read, thanks to her eleven-year-old granddaughter, Princess, who became my teacher.

Without any ID or skill—other than knowing how to use a gun, which wasn't exactly something I could show off to people—I could only find lowly jobs. Fortunately, I had two advantages: one, H District didn't care much about IDs, and two, my Eastern face. You know, there's a stereotype that Eastern people are sincere and intelligent.

Even though people were puzzled to see an Eastern-looking guy stranded in their area without an ID and struggling to speak, most of my bosses didn't mind hiring me.

I worked odd jobs: lifting bags of flour to and from warehouses, collecting garbage, cleaning slaughterhouses, pasting advertisement posters.

I never held onto any job for long. None of them suited me. Usually, my bosses gave me my salary at the end of the week and told me not to come back.

When I thought there were no more jobs for me in the district, I decided to try my luck in another one. But for that, I needed an ID. Without it, I could easily get caught during a subway raid. Through Santiago, a co-worker at the slaughterhouse, I got Andy's address in S District.

Andy Vaccaro was the most beautiful man I had ever seen—at least according to my limited memory. He was in his late 20s at the time, only about as tall as my ears. He had a slender, supple body and neck-length curly hair that always looked wet, sticking to the sides of his gaunt face.

Andy laughed when I told him my name was Scorpion. But his laughter turned into a frown when I shook my head to every question he asked: my surname, my age, my birthday, where I was from, or what ethnicity I belonged to.

"Scott. I think it fits you. You know... Scorpion... Scott. Quite similar, right?"

He then took a picture of me and said I was good-looking. I remember someone in his apartment giving me a thick glare of dislike as I stood there.

A couple of days later, I became a new man. My name was now Scott Bennet. I was 26 years old, born on August 13th. My father was Martin Bennet. My mother was Miyuka Kimura Bennet from Country J.

Andy, a makeup artist, was obsessed with Country J—especially its fashion—which is why he decided my Eastern face must be from there. My mother's surname was borrowed from his idol, Takuya Kimura.

For all that and an ID card, I paid Andy $175. It was worth it. The ID looked so real. When I walked out of his apartment that night, I thought it was the last time we'd meet.

The new ID card helped me get jobs, but the problem was still me. My skills improved, and I wasn't as clueless as I'd been at the start. But something in me made me quit or get fired every time. My body seemed to reject those jobs.

Every night, I fought against my own body. Pain would rack me—literal, unbearable pain. Sometimes I'd shiver and sweat. I couldn't sleep, and by morning, I was always exhausted and sleepy. That's why I kept changing jobs, hoping to find one my body would finally accept.

Desperate, I decided to try being an entrepreneur—a live punching bag, $20 for two minutes. My first—and last—client was a man in a three-piece suit. At first, I dodged his punches, but when he landed a hit, I reflexively hit him back. That one punch sent him to the ER.

I ended up in jail for a few days. Luckily, I had my ID. Through his lawyer, the man sued me for $2,500 to cover his jaw surgery and dental implants.

I refused, simply because I had no money to pay him. The court gave me a week to gather the money or spend a year in jail. I shrugged. Jail didn't sound so bad—at least I'd get three meals a day, something I couldn't even afford at the time.

A day before the deadline, I met Andy again. Without many words, he lent me the $2,500. When I asked how I could repay him—because I doubted I ever could—he shook his head and said grimly,

"Don't think about it. You don't need to do anything for me, except... if you can, kill a man."

I knew Andy was serious. He was shocked when I nodded without hesitation.

There was no doubt in my heart, no voice telling me it was wrong.

When the third bullet from my gun pierced the forehead of a muscular man covered in tattoos—the man who had bullied Andy's boyfriend Robert until Robert committed suicide—I simply walked away. Tugging my gun into my jeans, I left his lifeless body behind.

I felt nothing. No regret, no satisfaction.

But that night, I slept well for the first time since I could remember.

That was the beginning of my profession.