Pitbabe S2, Chapter 27 pg 1

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 27 pg 1

   KIM:

   I used to think that leaving the familiar home to become a race car driver abroad, and then switching to a rival team after just one season, was the most absurd turning point imaginable. I never thought there’d be another fork in the road that could make my life even more ridiculous.

   Until I adopted a cat.

   To be honest, my first impression of that cat wasn’t particularly memorable. He was a wary cat pretending to be a ferocious dog, acting as a loyal servant to my former sponsor, Tony. The first time we met, we didn’t exchange a single word. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes, just stood with his hands clasped, head bowed beside Tony, saying only “Yes” and “Sir.” I didn’t pay him much attention then. My only thought about him was, This guy seems docile and gloomy.

   That cat, Kenta.

   He wouldn’t look at me when Tony was around, but when out of his master’s sight, he stared at me like a surveillance camera. I figured he’d picked up a habit of spying, acting as Tony’s eyes and ears. Even though we were supposed to be on the same side back then, he clearly didn’t trust me. In fact, I sensed he didn’t trust anyone—not even Tony, whom he revered like a father. Deep down, he hid a glint of defiance, so subtle that I was sure even Tony hadn’t noticed it.

   I decided I didn’t like him shortly after we met. I didn’t like how he refused to accept others’ kindness. I didn’t like his emotionless expression when he spoke. I didn’t like the tone of his voice, which seemed to exist only to utter words without meaning. Every word from his mouth came from the data Tony had programmed into him. He spoke what Tony told him to say, thought what Tony told him to think, yet at the same time, he kept a tiny rebel locked away in the dark corners of his numb heart. I couldn’t understand how he could do that without despising himself. The obedience and loyalty Kenta showed Tony two years ago made me dislike him more and more, until it turned to hatred. When I learned the rotten truth behind that household, I felt even more disgusted by him. I couldn’t fathom how he could stand living in a place like that—a grand mansion built on corpses and anguished cries, with a master who was ready to trample and spit on him at any moment. Even if there was a fleeting moment when I wanted to understand such a story, I ultimately couldn’t. I hated people who knew something was wrong but did it anyway. And I hated even more those who knew they were being oppressed but didn’t fight back.

   Even animals know to protect themselves. So why would a being that boasts of its superiority let others trample them to that extent? Just thinking about it makes me want to vomit.

   Two years ago, Kenta was a fool in my eyes. His foolishness led him to choose a path of ruin, committing countless unforgivable acts—against people he knew and didn’t know, against friends he chose to cut off, against me, and against himself, who should’ve been the first to be spared. Yet Kenta still managed to harm himself.

   I didn’t think I could ever change my mind about Kenta, not until the day he plunged a knife into the chest of his beloved adoptive father. At that moment, a voice in my head whispered, You’re the fool, and I agreed. I was the biggest fool. I saw the rebellious glint in his eyes but assumed a tame dog would never act.

   I forgot one crucial truth.

   Kenta isn’t a dog.

   He’s a cat.

   He doesn’t act thoughtlessly; he observes, waiting for the perfect moment—not just to strike successfully, but to ensure his own safety when he emerges from hiding. Acting grandly means nothing if he can’t live to see the outcome.

   Of course, his single act of courage couldn’t change everything. It changed my view of him, true, but it couldn’t erase the fact that he’d sacrificed countless others to reach that point. Kenta knew this well. He never begged for understanding, never sought forgiveness, never tried to join anyone. He chose to fight alone, moving at his own pace, using the methods he mastered. But it was I who intruded into his solitude.

   That day at Phii Alan’s car showroom, when I first saw his face, instead of thinking, This guy’s a thief, my eyes were drawn to the scattered scars on his body and face—wounds that had lingered, untreated. Bruises marked his face, neck, and arms, the parts I could see. Judging by their appearance, I was certain more hid beneath his clothes.

   At first, I assumed those were scars left by other prisoners. I’d seen movies about prison life, figured fights were common. Even if Kenta was skilled in close combat, he wasn’t the type to join a pack. Even in there, he’d likely stay solitary, apart from the crowd. So it wouldn’t be surprising if he became a target for the prison’s big shots, beaten and bruised as a parting gift.

   But when I mustered the courage to ask, the answer wasn’t what I expected. Kenta said his prison life was relatively peaceful (peaceful for a prisoner, that is). Few bothered him, except for familiar faces like Winner and Dean. He even thought he’d live out his days alone in prison. If it weren’t for some scum dragging him out.

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