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The sky in spring is blue, and under the warm sunshine, many flowers and plants have grown tender green buds. Under the crisp leaves, there is a person standing. He seems to have become one with the spring scenery of the field, because he is so quiet. A kind of indifference and fatigue that has penetrated into the bone marrow, but it also carries a kind of loneliness that longs to seek a confidant. He is tired, maybe just because he has killed too many people, and he kills just because he has no choice. Although he killed countless people, he was not cold-blooded. Maybe he was still shouting in his heart: I never thought about killing people, I just wanted to save people, because killing a bad person is saving countless good people.