Away from Morse's troubles, there was something different.
Darkness. An absolute, crushing darkness had been smothering Bing Xuan's consciousness for a long time. If darkness were the only thing, it would have been simpler for Bing's heart—but it was the regret.
He was sick of it, sick of the regret, because of the regret itself.
The nightmares that forced him into endless cycles of remorse and rage were many; the self-loathing for what his own hands had wrought. All these things made him realize one thing: Life is one grand, massive regret.
Bing Xuan thought—or rather, he had just enough consciousness left to think amidst this featureless void. And he remembered more, for here, he could do nothing but remember.
He recalled that he, Bing Xuan, always wanted to be special. In any way, by any means—the method didn't matter. Why? Simply because he didn't want to be like anyone else.
