Justice
A word so often spoken, yet understood by no one.
We say: *I will give you justice by law.*
We say: *I will give you justice by revenge.*
We say: *I will give you justice* — through a thousand hands, a thousand hollow promises.
But none of these paths lead to the true thing. They are merely words, dressed in the robes of righteousness, offering only the faint illusion of goodness, the ghost of a feeling we call justice.
What, then, is justice?
Why do men die for it? Why do they kill for it?
What is this shadow we chase through the corridors of our conscience?
---
If we kill the bad man — is that justice?
If we slaughter the innocent cat — is that justice?
If we trade one life for another, or end one to spare another — what name shall we give to that transaction?
---
Imagine: someone destroys your family. Every single one. You are left alone in the wreckage, the silence pressing against your ribs like a second skeleton. No one beside you. Only sorrow. Only the slow, suffocating dark.
Is it justice to kill him?
Is it justice to kill *his* family?
Is it justice to lay him in the ground — or to make him feel, bone by bone, the exact agony you carry?
---
Justice. A pretty word. A heavy word. A word that no nation has ever truly touched.
Consider this: in almost any country, if you take a life, you may receive ten, fifteen, twenty years in prison. But you did not *pause* a life — you *ended* it. And yet, only a handful of states offer death as an answer to death.
But here lies a deeper wound: does a human being possess the right to deliver justice by his own hand? Or must we always kneel before an authority? If someone murders the person most precious to you, what justice do you truly desire? Does it even matter? Because after such a loss — can any justice ever reach you?
We watch films where the avenger smiles at the end, his heart light. But in this world… does such a feeling exist?
---
Look at the children. So many children dissolving into the dust of wars. And no one dares to whisper the word *justice*.
In the Second World War, we lay the blame at Hitler's feet for sixty million dead. But he was not alone. So many have been killed by so many others. Mao's hands are stained with more blood than Hitler's — yet who speaks of him?
So tell me. What *is* this thing?
---
Now, before this room, before this choice — what is the most just act?
To kill a wicked man so that a small, innocent animal may live?
Or to kill that small, innocent animal so that a human being — even a wicked one — may draw another breath?
Think.
What can we truly do?
---
When we execute a murderer, we do not act to end his evil, nor to balance some cosmic scale. We kill him to warn others. Or we kill him for revenge. But when a man kills for revenge, or kills to save his own life — is that justice?
Or is it something else entirely — something rawer, hungrier, and far less honest?
---
* * *
The room fell into silence.
A dead silence.
No breath. No whisper.
Then Jeffrey spoke, his voice low and unhurried, like water seeping through ancient stone.
"If we kill this man because of the atrocities he committed," he said, "is that truly justice? And if we kill the cat — a creature that has never wronged anyone — is that justice? Or is it something worse?"
He paused, letting the weight of his words drift through the darkness like incense.
"A human life — even that of a monster — contains a soul. A conscience. A capacity for suffering and for change that no animal possesses. So we cannot claim that the life of a cat outweighs the life of a murderer. But still… why should he live? Why should he die? Why must we play this vile game at all?"
He turned his head slowly, his glasses catching the faint, dusty light.
"The tragedy of existence," he continued, "is that people do not ask questions. They do not ask *why*. They simply *act*. You are placed before an examination — you do not demand to know why you must take it. You take it, because everyone else does. Why do you spend your years studying what you do not love? Why do you not pursue what sets your soul on fire? Why, when the herd runs toward money and power, do you run with them?"
He leaned forward, the chains whispering against the stone.
"Stop. Breathe. Ask a single question: *Why are we in this room, being compelled to make a decision as though we had no choice?*"
His voice did not rise. It did not need to.
"I do not say that we should reject life. I say only this: before you take another's life, *think*. I do not claim that your life is more precious than that of a wicked man. But still… *who are you* to make that choice? Who are you to kill, or to spare?"
---
* * *
Herry's breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed sea. His crimson hair seemed darker in the dimness, his blue eyes fixed on the sewn-mouth man, on the cat, on the body that had not yet fallen.
"The difference between us and a government," Jeffrey continued, "is that when nations kill, they are not called murderers. They are called *protectors*. What is this hypocrisy? When a country marches to war, when it butchers children in their beds, it is called *self-defense*. When a man kills, he is a monster. But when he kills for a flag — for a piece of colored cloth, for a concept invented by other men — it is called *honor*. *Courage*."
He shook his head slowly, sadly.
"Killing is merely an action. But the frame you place around it determines whether you are a murderer or a hero. Think for a moment. What is justice in this moment? Place yourself in that balance. Is the life of an animal equal to the life of a human? Why should a doctor save everyone — even a monster — while a soldier is praised for killing strangers to protect his own?"
He let the question hang in the stagnant air.
"This," he whispered, "is hypocrisy."
---
* * *
Herry looked at the man.
He looked at the sewn mouth, the dead eyes, the small cat still cradled in those murderous arms.
Then something inside him fractured.
He rose to his feet — his chains clattering, his face twisting into a mask of gloom so deep it seemed to drink the very light. He lunged forward, crossing the distance in two furious strides. His hands shot out. They wrapped around the man's throat.
And he began to choke him.
The cat fell from the man's arms, landing softly on the stone floor with a small, startled *mew*. It scrambled into the shadows, its golden eyes flashing once before disappearing.
The child — Xiwu — trembled uncontrollably. Tears poured down his hollow cheeks. He curled into himself, pressing his face against his knees, trying to vanish.
I did not know what to do.
Jeffrey watched. Silent. Unmoving.
Then I stood.
"Stop!" The word tore from my throat before I knew I had spoken. "Do not kill him!"
I did not know why I said it. I felt no pity for that man — that rapist, that murderer of children. But something deep within me knew that what Herry was doing was wrong. Not because the wretch deserved to live. But because we had not chosen together. Because we had not even paused to ask why.
---
Choking.
Wet, shallow gasps escaping from the sewn mouth. The man's body convulsed. His eyes rolled back into his skull.
Then — silence.
He collapsed. His corpse struck the floor with a dull, final thud. The chains jingled once, then lay still.
Herry stepped back, panting, his hands trembling at his sides. The cat had vanished entirely into the darkness.
I stared at the body.
He had not waited. He had not spoken. He had not asked *why*. He had simply surged forward and done the deed.
And I thought: This is most of humanity. You. Me. All of us. We act without inquiry. Why do we wake? Why do we eat? Stop for one second. Ask yourself: why?
Is a man's life so easily extinguished?
We crush the life of an animal as though it were nothing. We do not weep when we step on a butterfly. Yet we mourn when a dog dies. I do not claim that a human and an animal are the same — that would be a lie. A human is human, and shall never become a beast.
But I say this: when you take, and when you give — pause. And ask *why*.
Because if tomorrow you do not open your eyes, you will ask yourself: *why did I not?*
So why not ask today? Why did you wake this morning? What is your life? And why do you march forward without ever drawing a single, conscious breath?
Why do you labor at what you despise — for scraps of green paper that hold no meaning except what they buy you after you surrender them? It is astonishing. Money has no value while it rests in your palm. Only when you spend it does it become real. So then — what is *your* value as a human being? Lower than a cat's? Or higher?
---
Herry stood in the gloom, his face pale as bone, his hands still shaking.
He looked at me. Then at Jeffrey. Then at the body sprawled on the cold stone.
"You may be right," he said, his voice cracked and raw. "We should think before we act. But still…" He swallowed hard. "That man was a murderer. I will never forget. My wife was killed by one of them. Perhaps I was wrong to kill him myself. But for me, justice is for people like him *not to breathe*."
Jeffrey regarded him for a long, aching moment. Then he spoke, softly, like a blade wrapped in silk.
"Justice for me," he said, "is to give them a chance — so that they may change."
The little boy, Xiwu, lifted his tear-streaked face. He said nothing. But his eyes moved between the two men, searching for something he could not name.
Silence fell again. Heavy. Unbroken. A silence that seemed to breathe.
---
Then the door opened.
Gu stepped through the light, his hat casting his face in shadow, his smile as wide and terrible as a wound. He saw the corpse on the floor. He saw the empty space where the sewn-mouth man had stood.
And he began to laugh.
It was not a loud laugh. It was soft, almost tender — a sound of pure, quiet delight, like a connoisseur savoring a rare wine. He walked to the body, nudged it with the toe of his shoe, then reached into his coat.
He drew out a gun.
The metal gleamed, cold and merciless, in the dim light.
He turned to us, his smile never faltering.
"You know," he said, his voice almost cheerful, "the decision was meant to be unanimous. And yet — you leaped. You killed. You made the choice alone."
He tilted his head, his ice-blue eyes glittering.
"This," he whispered, "is justice for me."
Then, without mercy, he pointed at Harry.
A single gesture. A finger extended. A smile still curled upon his lips.
And then — the gun roared.
The sound cracked through the chamber like a whip of lightning. Harry's body jerked once, twice. A red flower bloomed upon his chest, spreading quickly across his shirt. His eyes widened — not in fear, but in something that looked almost like understanding. Then his knees buckled, and he fell.
He fell beside the other two bodies.
The murderer. The avenger. Now both lay upon the cold stone, their blood mingling in the dust.
---
I stared at the corpse of Harry — the red-haired man who had shouted, who had raged, who had killed without asking why. And I asked myself: which one was worse? The man who had raped and murdered, or the man who had killed without needing to kill? Or the man who now stood above them all, smiling, with a smoking gun in his hand?
I knew there had been a choice. Herry could have chosen neither. Gu had told us the truth about the sewn-mouth man's atrocities — but he had never commanded us to kill. He had simply placed the option before us like a plate of poisoned fruit.
We could have said: *We choose to save them both.*
Or: *We choose to let them both live.*
There were four choices, not one. Not simply *kill him*.
---
I do not blame Herry for what he did. Perhaps the death of his wife had marked him forever, carved a wound into his soul that would never close. But still — to choose something as simple as killing a person… that is not something we can ever truly accept.
So many bad people have changed. Others will never change.
Still, I felt a very strange sensation in my chest — a pressure, a heat — as if I had wanted to stop all of them from dying. The monster. The avenger. The judge.
But now 2 bodies lay on the cold stone floor.
---
Gu stood over them, his smile never wavering. He stared at each of us in turn — his ice-blue eyes moving from Harry's corpse to me, from me to Jeffrey, and finally to the child. Then he walked toward Xiwu, bent down, and began tapping the boy's head gently, like a father comforting a son.
A father who had just shot a man dead in front of an innocent child. A child of barely twelve years.
Then Gu straightened, looked at us, and spoke.
*One of you has died. So there will be more food for the rest of you. That is all.*
---
I thought then of the old saying: *The death of one is the gain of another.*
A strange, sad truth. A truth that twists the stomach.
I did not know what would happen next. Was the decision accepted? Or had Gu simply decided to execute Harry for breaking the rules? Should we continue to play this game?
I did not want to play. I asked myself: *Why should I play?*
And the answer came — not from my mind, but from somewhere deeper. Somewhere warmer.
*I have to play to survive.*
And then: *Why survive?*
Because I want to change. My relationship with my mother is not good. When I go back — if I go back — I want to be a great son for the woman who raised me. I want to see her face. I want to look into her eyes and know that I have become someone she can be proud of.
That was the only thing in my mind right now. Not justice. Not philosophy. Not the weight of 2 dead bodies.
Just her face.
Just my mother.