Level 3: How to Catch a Butterfly

Seven people died. One of them was a close office friend, let’s call her Friend A., she helped me a lot when I was just starting in the company. She was sweet, kind, the friendly type. The kind of woman whose smile could make men fall in love. Sadly, she died. Kidney failure, like the others. Just from drinking the Contaminated water. What a waste. I would’ve loved to strangle her myself.

I went to her funeral. Her grandmother was there, sobbing quietly, sleeping beside the coffin. Her parents? Her father abandoned her after her mother died. Her only sibling died from cancer. Since then, she’d been living with her grandparents. A tragic life. Even though she looked so happy every day, smiling, energetic, laughing in the office, I knew deep inside, she wasn’t okay. I could feel it.

Now you’re gone, Friend A. You don’t have to pretend anymore. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to suffer.

You won’t feel a thing. what's left is your human-shaped flesh, waiting to rot.

Weeks after what happened, the police kept snooping around, inviting every surviving employee for interviews, one by one. While random people started showing up, claiming they experienced stomachaches, headaches, or that the water tasted different after drinking from the water supplied by the same water station that supplied our company.

Of course, this is just a psychological effect. Mass Psychogenic Illness (MPI), Mass Hysteria. After the poisoning news spreads, Thanks to News 7, even people not poisoned begin to feel sick or claim they noticed odd symptoms. They convince themselves they were affected, not because they were, but because they believe they were.

Our company has completely shut down. The Korean owners decided to pull the branch out of the country. Now, I need to lay low.

I’ve decided to take a vacation, back to the province, in the southern part of the country, where my grandparents live.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful. Unlike the city, infested with bipedal maggots, constantly rushing around pretending to be important.

I like it here.

Unfortunately for me, there’s no job here where you can earn decent amount of money, not unless you’re a landowner or a politician. Everyone else lives off less than five dollars a day, working 9 to 12 hours under the sun.

sigh.

Inequality.

Men are not created equal. Some are born rich, beautiful, intelligent. Others? Born sick. Poor. Broken. Some people lose the game of life before they even born. In both skill and ability, we are not the same. That’s why discrimination exists. We discriminate based on race, religion, age, intelligence, appearance, anything. As long as we people are different from each other, discrimination will never disappear.

But there’s one thing that makes us equal.

"Death."

Death makes us equal. No matter our differences, rich or poor, strong or weak, brilliant or brain-dead, we all end up the same, We’re all going to die.

Another reason why life feels... insignificant.

Why do we keep fighting? Why do we keep eating? Why do we keep working? Why do we compete, just to prove we’re better than others?

If we’re all going to die anyway… Why does life matter?

Maybe it’s just nature. Maybe it’s wired into us. An unconscious instinct to keep the species alive. To keep the civilization running. Maybe that’s why sex feels good, because reproduction matters. Maybe that’s why we fear death, so we don’t break the cycle.

But if that’s the point…

It’s pathetic. Insignificant. Too shallow.

And yet, even when life feels meaningless... something always pulls me back in. A new face. A new idea. A new project. This time, it was her. Just after sunrise. Standing in front of the old church like a painting. Pale blue skirt, white blouse. A Bible pressed to her chest like it was part of her body. She bowed her head and crossed herself before stepping inside. let's call her Annie.

Late teens, maybe early twenties. She looks very innocent, yet very confident.

Every morning, she visits the church. Every afternoon, she walks home humming hymns and smiling at the neighbors.

Since I’m a morning person, I usually wake up early and help my grandfather water the plants and vegetables in the front yard.
And every time she walks by, she smiles at me.... Every single time.

I bow my head slightly. Smile back.

That small gesture... caught my interest. She’s lucky enough to be my next victim.

There are two types of religious girls, The type who go to church out of habit, blind obedient, but too dumb to understand what the priest is actually saying. And the second, the dangerous kind, the ones who actually listen. Who memorizes the words. Who stand their ground in debates and think they’re smarter than you because they can quote scripture.

And she looks like the second kind.

Girls like her are drawn to specific types of people: Those who seem intelligent. Those who disagree, but respectfully. Those who challenge their beliefs just enough to spark their ego, not crush it. And of course, those who are willing to sit and listen to all their religious bullshit like it's divine poetry.

Acting like a cool, disciplined young adult, A man of God in posture., A prophet in tone. But with a tongue sharp enough to argue like Aristotle. The perfect recipe for her impending doom.

One Sunday morning, I decided to walk down the same path she always takes. Waiting. Watching. Timing it right.

She passed by, glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back.

- Where are you going? - I asked.

-- To church, as usual. -- she said, gently pointing toward the big chapel down the street.

Then she turned the question back on me.

-- It’s Sunday. Aren’t you going to church? --

Most would say "yes", to add mutuality, showing both of you are similar? but that won't' work.

To get close, I need to create a character. Someone layered. Mysterious. Unfinished. Someone she believes she can fix. So, I gave her something to chase.

= Nope. I don’t think going to church is necessary. - I said, casually.

She stopped walking. She tilted her head, not offended. just intrigued. Like she’d found a stray cat with a collar.

-- Why is that? -- she asked, curious.

- I believe in God. - I replied. - But I don’t believe in the teachings of priests. -

A contradiction.

I knew it would get under her skin. She believes the priest’s words are sacred. Direct from Scripture. Absolute. And I just cast doubt on all of it while still claiming faith in God.

Giving her false Signal, that there's still hope for this man, A mission to bring a wandering soul back to the flock. That exactly what she wants.

-- I see. Maybe you just haven’t met the right priest yet. -- She said, then smiled, softer this time.

- Or maybe… I just haven’t met someone pretty enough to explain it better than they do - I said with a half-smile, just enough sarcasm to pass as a joke.

She laughed, light and easy. And for the first time, I saw that glimmer in her eyes, the kind people have when they think they’ve found their purpose.

Over the next few days, we started to exchange more than just greetings. A nod turned into a wave. A smile turned into a few words. Then one afternoon, she stopped in front of the gate, tucked her Bible under her arm. I saw her from the window and stepped outside. She smiled the moment she saw me.

I invited her in.

My grandfather was asleep, and my grandma was glued to her noontime TV show.

We sat in the yard, talking. Mostly about her: her dreams, her beliefs, her childhood. But inevitably, it shifted to religion. We debated scripture. Disagreed on some verses. Found common ground on others. And to be honest, I really enjoy talking to her.

I might not kill her after all.

...Kidding.

Of course I will.

The more she talks, the more I hear that voice, bright, certain, soaked in conviction. The way her eyes light up when she thinks she’s saving me... it’s intoxicating. Makes me want to lean in close and whisper, "You’re next".

To press my hands around her throat.

To drive the garden knife into her soft little neck.

I'm going to take my time. Build memories. Build trust. Build a relationship. And when we're close enough, I’ll hand her to the divine myself.

This is what she wants. She loves her God more than anything… right?

She’ll thank me.

Of course she will

BONUS CONTENT - How to Write a Tanka

To write a tanka, begin by choosing your subject carefully, something delicate, something that won’t notice you watching. Approach in silence. Start with five soft Syllables, nothing sudden, just enough to draw them in. Then, take seven more Syllables, steady and slow, until you're close enough to feel their breath. Another seven, and they might start to notice but by then, it's too late. Midway, introduce tension, but subtly, never break the rhythm. End quietly. Two final moves, five each, clean and exact. No struggle. No noise. Just a fading echo. Let it end the way it began brief, beautiful, forgotten.

It drifts through still light,
drawn to warmth it cannot name
unaware of time.
Petals close, and silence falls,
soft things fade without a sound

--