Chapter 10 — The Hand That Carves Sin

"Tran Da, you ask me if we truly had to reach this point?" I countered. "You should not be asking me this question; you should be asking yourself. When you used the heel of your shoe to crush my hand, did you ever imagine there would come a day like this? When you beat me nearly to death in front of our daughter, did you ever imagine this day would come? When you stood in court, face unyielding, slandering me and destroying my reputation, did you ever think of this outcome?"

My voice was not loud, but every word struck his heart like a blade. His face paled even further.

"You..." He opened his mouth, but could not complete a single sentence.

"Do you know, Tran Da?" I continued, my gaze icy. "For the past four months, I thought every day about why this happened. What did I do wrong to deserve such treatment from you? Eventually, I figured it out."

"I was not the one at fault. You were."

"Within your very bones dwells a demon. A demon that plays the hero in public, but turns into a beast behind closed doors. You bask in the glory of being a hero, yet you cannot control the violence in your heart. You viewed me as your private property, a vessel to pour out your rage. You did not strike me because I had done something wrong, but simply because you wanted to, because you needed a place to vent."

"And my greatest mistake was in enduring it time and time again, in granting you chances repeatedly. It was I who fed that demon, allowing it to grow ever larger with my own hands."

When I finished, silence descended upon the hospital room. Tran Da lay on the bed, motionless, like a statue of stone. Only the violent heaving of his chest betrayed the turmoil within.

"So..." He finally spoke, his voice trembling intensely. "You hate me, don't you? You want to take your revenge."

"Revenge?" I shook my head. "No, Tran Da, you are mistaken. This is not revenge; this is judgment. I gave you a chance. Four months ago in court, if you had only admitted your wrongdoing, if you had only agreed to hand An An over to me, we could have parted ways in peace. But you did not. You chose the most despicable path, trying to grind me into the dust."

"Now, it is your turn."

I looked at his bandaged right arm.

"Your hand and my hand are the same. They are parts of our life, expressions of our worth. You destroyed my hand, and now, heaven wishes to reclaim yours."

"I am merely the one responsible for carrying out the sentence."

"Either you sign that letter of repentance, and I will perform the act of saving you."

"Or you refuse, and the doctors will proceed with the amputation."

"Choose."

Having said this, I turned to leave.

"Wait!" He called out frantically.

I stopped but did not turn back.

"To Hoan." His voice now carried the sound of sobbing, a true, desperate plea I had never heard before. "I will sign. I will sign, is that enough?"

"Please... please save my hand..."

"I cannot lose this hand... I cannot..."

He broke down in the hospital room, wailing like a helpless child. I stood with my back to him, closing my eyes. There was no joy in my heart, nor was there pity. There was only a hollow, cold calm. Tran Da, if you knew this day would come, why did you act the way you did in the beginning?

The following day, I returned to the hospital. This time, the room was crowded. The commanding officer, Director Luu, the head of the hospital, the chief of orthopedics—who was also my mentor—and a recording official I did not recognize were all present. Tran Da lay half-propped on the bed, his face still deathly pale, though his gaze was steadier than the day before. As I entered, every pair of eyes fixed upon me. I ignored them, walking straight to the bedside. On the table lay a printed surgical consent form, with a large blank space at the bottom.

"Pen," I said.

Director Luu immediately handed me a black pen. I placed the pen and the consent form on the nightstand in front of Tran Da.

"Write," I said, my voice perfectly steady.

Tran Da stared at the paper, his lips trembling, and extended his only functional hand—the left. His hand shook so violently that he could barely hold the pen. Everyone in the room held their breath; the only sound was his ragged, heavy breathing. He looked up at me, his eyes filled with humiliation, resentment, and begging. I looked back, my expression completely unmoved. Today, here, there was no room left for negotiation. He closed his eyes, as if summoning every ounce of his strength, and finally pressed the pen to the paper. Stroke by stroke, the handwriting was crooked, like that of a child just learning to write.

"I, Tran Da..."

His pen stalled, as if those few words weighed a thousand pounds. A look of pity crossed Director Luu's face, and he instinctively opened his mouth to intervene. The commanding officer cast a stern glare at him, and he immediately fell silent. I looked at Tran Da and said coldly, "Write on." My voice cracked like a whip. His whole body shuddered, and he continued to write.

"...admit that I am a domestic abuser."

"The sins I committed against my wife, To Hoan..."

"...are unforgivable."

When he finished the final character, his spirit seemed to drain away entirely, and he collapsed back onto the bed.