This is a bit sudden, but I'm still going to ask you a question. Have you ever had a terrible idea that you were afraid to share with anyone?
Regardless of whether you say yes or no. I want you to consider your response carefully.
Things like wondering what would happen if you went out on the street and hit someone out of nowhere, or even imagining yourself as a serial killer.
Well, we don't need to go that far.
Have you ever fantazised about making a scene in public, something incredibly embarrassing in front of your family or friends for no reason at all? Or imagined yourself stopping time and doing pervert stuff to someone you are physically attracted?
Remember that embarrassing thought that came to you once without any prompting, and what you thought about it.
You probably felt really uncomfortable for having that thought, and felt like you had a screw loose for even considering it. But you probably also comforted yourself, by thinking that you would never do it in reality, or at the very least, that if that "secretly evil" aspect of you worsened over time, you wouldn't be insane enough to do something truly terrible.
If this happened to you, I've got something to tell you.
It is completely normal, to a certain extent. It's called intrusive thoughts. Even if you find it hard to believe, you are not insane; it happens to a lot of people.
But getting back to the topic...
Let's ask one more simple question: why do we feel so guilty about those intrusive thoughts?
Most people would never act on them, and yet they leave a trace, like the aftertaste of something rotten. We scold ourselves for having thought it, even for a second. But why?
Curiously, many people throughout history have written about this.
Among themselves, a writter called Edgar Allan Poe once wrote about this in his short story The Imp of the Perverse. He described a strange, universal compulsion, the desire to do something precisely because we know we shouldn't yet are able to. Like a whisper in the mind that says, "Jump," when we stand at the edge of a cliff. It's a part of us—ancient, irrational, and terrifying.
So what keeps that "imp" caged? Why does the majority of humanity ignore those impulses instead of acting on them?
The answer is simple: norms.
As normal human beings who are capable of reasoning, we live in society and as such, our behavior is not just observed—it is judged, categorized, rewarded, or punished. And those judgments are not arbitrary; they are built upon layers of unwritten codes and formal rules that shape our reality.
There are four main types of norms:
Social norms: Unwritten rules that regulate behavior in different social groups, based on customs, traditions, and social expectations.
Legal norms: Rules created by the goverment to regulate social coexistence, and non-compliance with them carries legal sanctions.
Moral standards: They are rules of conduct that are based on ethical principles and values considered correct and incorrect that vary in each person's beliefs.
Religious norms: Rules dictated by a religion, which regulate the lives of believers and their relationship with divinity.
Regardless of whether the rule is not to kill or eat with cutlery. Just as all the different instruments in an orchestra are essential and crucial for the whole performance, every type of norm plays an essential role in maintaining social order, cohesion, and the functioning of society as a whole, to a greater or lesser extent.
They help prevent conflict, establish boundaries, promote respect and self-control, and mark the difference between what is right and what is wrong.
Norms aren't chains meant to suppress individuality. They are what keep our instincts from becoming violent realities and mold us into respectable members of society.
We are taught from childhood that these norms are not optional. We are molded by them—how to behave, how to treat others, how to restrain the darkest parts of ourselves. That is why guilt blooms when we think the unthinkable. Because even in the deepest corners of our mind, we know we've momentarily deviated from the code that keeps everything from falling apart.
And that guilt? That shame? It is a sign that the system works. That the boundary between thought and action still holds.
And that's the point, we live in a domesticated world.
Because without norms, without structure—there is no order. Only impulse. Only chaos.
But what if we didn't?
What if there's a reality where the imp has no bars?
That's exactly what my childhood was like. I was raised in a untamed environment of chaos and disorder. Being constantly exposed to the brutality of combat.
I still remember that fateful day, the day that opened my eyes to the true depth of human depravity...
Five years ago.
Sanya is a gritty neighborhood located on the eastern side of Tokyo. Once a hub for day labourers and construction workers, it has become a forgotten pocket of the city where cheap inns, rundown izakayas, and flickering neon lights amid poverty and resignation.
I was ten years old. Hungry and wet from the rain. My stomach felt like it was trying to chew through my spine.
I found myself staring at a crate of half-damaged potatoes outside a greengrocer's stall in Sanya. He'd just left them unattended to shout at some drunken customer who'd knocked over his scales. The carrot on top had a bite mark already. I didn't care.
I grabbed two potatoes and that ugly carrot, then bolted down the alley.
"Oi! You little shit!" the seller screamed.
My feet slapped against the wet concrete, my heart pounding. The alley twisted sharply between two buildings. I was small, fast—but not fast enough.
A hand snatched the back of my collar. The seller yanked me back, slammed me against the dumpster, and started hitting me.
"Food thief! I won't let you escape!"
One. Two. Three hits. My arms flew up too late.
My lip split, my ribs burned, and my vision grew blurry. But I met his gaze unflinchingly, and spat right into his eye.
"Arrrghggggg!!!"
He paused, disgusted and wiped his face. That half-second was all I needed.
I surged forward with all the weight my scrawny body had, ramming my head into his gut. He stumbled. I screamed and punched him in the throat. Then the ear. Then landed a kick to his testicles.
I don't know how many times I hit him. I just remember he stopped moving.
His body slumped to the ground next to the spilled potatoes, his blood mixing with the rain.
I wiped the blood off my nose with the back of my sleeve and looked down at the bastard. Out cold. Just like that.
My heart was still thumping. I could feel it in my throat, like I was choking on it.
But then I saw them—those potatoes, rolling away in the dirt. The carrot too, a little bent but still edible.
"Finally, food! Aleluya!"
I scrambled toward them like a starving rat and clutched them against my chest. Dirt and all, I took a bite right there. Raw. Bitter. Cold. It didn't matter to me. It was the first thing I'd eaten in almost two weeks.
My stomach twisted in pain and joy at the same time. But then, a strange sound broke through my rejoicing.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
It was slow, rhythmic and deliberate.
I froze and rapidly looked toward the eerie source of the sound.
A man emerged from the alley shadow. Not tall, but rather built like a barrel. Thick arms, thick neck. Balding. His brown overcoat looked expensive. And he had one of those cigars—not a cigarette, a big brown one, probably Cuban or something flashy like that was dangling from the corner of his mouth.
He kept clapping, the echo of his footsteps strangely loud in the stillness.
"Well, well," he growled, his voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. "That was a real show, kid."
"Who are you?" I asked, not moving.
"You clocked that guy like it was second nature," he continued. "Quick reflexes, no second-guessing. You're packing some dangerous instincts."
He took a puff of the cigar, the smoke curling around his head like a crown.
"What's your name, brat?"
"What's it to you?" I clutched the potatoes tighter. "You tryna take my food? Then prepare to die."
The man stopped, staring down at me for a while. Then he burst out into a sudden, raucous laughter.
"Gahaha! Now that's some spirit!"
He continues. "Alright, don't bother telling me. Not yet, at least. I've got a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other."
Then he stepped closer, knelt a little and meet my eyes.
"You're wasted here. You got fire in you, yet here you are, playin' the outcast, scavenging like a rat while the real lowlifes feast off the hog. It ain't right, man. And after all the crap humanity's pulled to build this so-called civilized world, don't you think it's downright insane?"
I stayed silent.
"Hpmh, I see you ain't too fussed 'bout that, huh? Can't say I blame ya. You're still too green to be weighin' on those heavy thoughts. That aside, I got a deal, see, that a wise guy like you ain't gonna refuse."
"A deal...?" I echoed.
The man's smile grew wider, revealing yellowed teeth. He leaned forward, practically speaking in front of my face.
"You think this city's got room for a kid like you?" he asked. "You think them cops care if you starve out here or not? Nah. Let me tell ya somethin'. There's whole districts being eaten alive by the Yakuza, slow and quiet like cancer. They don't even need to hide anymore. The government's got their hands so far up their own asses they can barely scratch their noses."
I said nothing. I just listened. It was the first time someone actually talked to me like I existed.
"So here's your options, shortstuff. You keep scroungin' in dumpsters and beatin' up grocers for carrots, and eventually you die. Maybe next week, maybe next year. Who knows? Nobody's going to miss you anyways. Or..."
He flicked the ash of his cigar and pointed the ember at me like it was a loaded gun.
"...you come with me. I give ya food, water, a warm place to sleep. You get to wear shoes again. And in exchange? I use that talent you got inside. I seen it. You're something extremely worthy, and you don't even know it yet. All I want is to point you in the right direction."
Food? Water? Shelter?
My eyes unconsciously widened as I heard those words. The thought of a full stomach and a safe place to rest was alluring, to say the least.
My stomach growled before I could even answer.
"Alright," I said, without hesitation. "That's a deal."
The old man chuckled, standing back up and fixing his coat like he hadn't just recruited a street rat. "That's what I like to hear. You're gonna do just fine, kid. Real fine."
He reached down and ruffled my greasy hair, before leading me away from the alley.