Two down three more to go. The tables were turned. The hunters became the hunted. He had caught a glimpse of them when he entered the room. One of them drew blood when he was distracted. He finished him off with a deft blow. The others were there somewhere. Waiting for him to drop his guard. He knew that they were crazy for his blood and that will lure them out into his trap. He waited for them patiently. From the corner of his eye he saw a speck moving, with the swift precision of an ace tennis player he whacked the life out of his opponent.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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