Unholy Player-Chapter 143: I’m Not a Psychopath (Part 2)

"So, Mr. Adyr," Dr. Conrad began, leaning back slightly in his seat, his voice calm and measured, "of course I can’t question the decisions a soldier must make in the field—especially when survival and mission success are on the line. I’m not a soldier myself, and I can’t begin to imagine the situations you were placed in out there."

He paused briefly, studying Adyr’s face.

"But while reviewing the report I was asked to evaluate, certain details stood out to me. You saved 16 lives on that mission—commendable by any standard. But to achieve that... you also had to take many lives. I’d like to talk about how that experience felt for you—what you felt in those moments, and what you feel now."

There was no accusation in his tone. If anything, it almost sounded like a compliment. But Adyr caught the underlying current—the cautious suspicion buried beneath the civility.

Instead of answering directly, he posed a question of his own.

"Do you know how many lives I had to take there?"

Conrad hesitated for a moment, mentally pulling up the report’s figures. His tone grew heavier.

"90."

Adyr gave a short, humorless chuckle, then shifted the conversation with an apparently unrelated question.

"Doctor, do you have any relatives? A father, a mother? A spouse, children? Anyone who cares about you?"

Dr. Conrad didn’t fully understand the intent behind the question, but the conversation had gone smoothly so far, so he answered without resistance.

"I never married. But my parents are still alive. They’re quite old, but thanks to the mutant gene they carry, I expect they’ll live many years yet." He smiled fondly, his affection for them clear.

"I see. I’m sure they care for you deeply," Adyr murmured, lowering his gaze.

"What do you think they would do if one day they suddenly received the news that you’d died?"

The question unsettled Conrad. He shifted in his seat, posture tightening, but he answered with restrained composure.

"Of course, they would be sad."

"Is that all?" Adyr asked, his tone now heavy, weighted. "Do your parents drink? Alcohol, cigarettes?"

"No... Mr. Adyr, I’m not sure where you’re going with this," Conrad said, his discomfort more evident now.

But Adyr continued without acknowledging him.

"No? But if something happened to you, I’m sure your father would drink. He’d drink constantly, trying to numb the weight on his chest. But it wouldn’t work, would it?

Men often seem stronger on the outside, but emotionally... they break easier than they look. Especially when it comes to losing someone they love. That kind of pain isn’t something alcohol can touch. It would sit inside him, day after day, and he’d feel your absence more with each passing one. And little by little, whatever time he has left, it would turn into hell. Until his heart simply couldn’t bear it anymore."

His voice was calm and steady, yet there was a raw edge beneath it—this wasn’t a guess; it was certainty.

Conrad said nothing now. He understood that this wasn’t just a tangent. It was connected deeply to the question he had asked.

"And your mother?" Adyr continued, exhaling softly. "Mothers suffer the most. They don’t run from pain. They let it in. They carry it. They accept it. But they never let go of their child’s absence. Even if it destroys them, they won’t ask anyone to take that pain away."

He finally lifted his head and looked directly into Conrad’s eyes.

"90, huh?" A faint, tired smile formed on his lips—empty, without warmth.

"No, Doctor. I didn’t take 90 lives out there. With every person I killed, I also took their parents, their partners, and their children. I destroyed everyone who ever loved them."

Conrad could only stare. He saw it—etched across Adyr’s face. Not anger. Not pride. But the kind of sorrow that didn’t ask to be seen, the kind that had lived long enough to settle quietly into the bones.

The report had said 90. He had accepted it at face value. But now, he realized he’d never understood what that number truly meant. Not until now. Not until he saw the cost reflected in the expression of someone who had paid it.

A lump rose in his throat.

"I understand, Mr. Adyr," Conrad said—not out of professional training, but as a reflex.

And as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how wrong they were. He didn’t understand. He never would.

But there was one thing Dr. Conrad understood with clarity—Adyr wasn’t a cold-blooded psychopath.

He was fully aware of the lives he had taken, and the weight of each one. The way he carried that burden, the way he expressed it—not through excuses or denial, but through quiet acknowledgment—was something a true sociopath couldn’t mimic.

"Thank you, Mr. Adyr. For giving me your time," Dr. Conrad said, rising slowly to his feet. He gave a slight bow, his voice low and sincere. "And again... thank you for everything you’ve done. It’s because of people like you that my family and I can live in this city with safety and peace. I want you to know that we don’t take that for granted."

It was all he could offer—gratitude. To Adyr, and to others like him who had risked everything. To let them know their actions had meaning, that the lives they protected were deeply thankful.

Adyr said nothing. He let a slight curve touch his lips, watching as the doctor walked away, each step heavy with thought, until the door finally closed behind him.

And just like that, the remorse, the grief—gone.

His expression returned to its usual blank stillness.

—

Conrad Halbertstam walked slowly down the corridor, eyes fixed on the ground. His mind wandered as his feet moved on their own, and by the time he refocused, he was already standing in front of an office door.

The plaque read: Defence Minister Henry Bates.

He knocked heavily, and when a voice from inside said, "Come in," he entered and quietly shut the door behind him.

"How was it?" Henry Bates sat behind a broad desk, gesturing for the doctor to take a seat. The bags under his eyes were darker than before — a clear sign that sleepless nights hadn’t ended.

Dr. Conrad adjusted his glasses and spoke with a calm, familiar tone. "It’s hard to believe that he’s just 18."

"Yeah, he’s the most mature and intelligent guy I’ve ever seen at that age," Henry said, leaning back in his chair with a slight smirk. But then his expression turned serious.

"So what do you think? He’s not a psychopath, right?"

Conrad took a slow breath. "No."

But Henry didn’t look satisfied. He saw the unspoken "but" hanging behind the answer. "So what is it?"

Conrad paused briefly to collect his thoughts. "Henry, have you ever heard the term ’Dark Empath’?" The casual tone he used with a man of such high rank spoke volumes about the closeness of their friendship.

Henry hesitated. "Yeah, but... isn’t that just something teenagers came up with?"

The doctor chuckled. "Yes, it’s not a clinically recognized diagnosis. It’s a modern label, unproven in scientific literature — but not entirely inaccurate. Especially for someone like Mr. Adyr, the term fits surprisingly well."

"What do you mean? Is that bad or not?" Henry leaned forward over the desk.

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