It would not be long before he leaves the station. He knew it, regardless of whether the Midnight Squad was competent or not.
The standards of human beings were set to three things: the amount of profit, the amount of bliss, and the amount of reputation they would receive from whatever they did. But these things were not always respectively money, innocent joy, and the hope of keeping a good image. Some of these things were revenge, guilty pleasure.
The hope to instill fear upon all that stand before one.
He remembered a young girl he visited at a hospital. She was diagnosed with an incurable illness. She asked him, "You're a bad person, aren't you?" when he shared some of the tales from his life he thought was interesting to him. And he revealed to her with a flat "No," because what he did was not necessarily bad. All he did was follow the three unwritten standards of mortals; he just followed them differently.
History could be perceived in different ways. The leader of a Faunus rebellion organization may be viewed as a psychopath, but to others, he had the right to ask for sympathy. Calculus never ever had a single way to solve problems. All smart men knew how to use their mathematical knowledge flexibly. From simple equations such as permutations to complex structures such as multiple integration, anything could be used to find a result. Different methods led to different perspectives in every day life; he learned this.
Both humans and Faunus rambled on about each other, claiming they were greedy and hypocritical. So it was natural for Volk to realize:
Everything that is sentient can always be right and wrong. Because when the gift of sentience grants the three standards of mortal life to every single sentient life form, why was it wrong of him to simply... simply...
Break... those standards...
The girl died a few days later. He made sure to borrow her body and have his business associates chop it up for money. He liked making money, whether it be slow or fast. It showed progression in life and never ceased to bore him. But one day, if it did bore him, what would he become? So he thought about it, and he pondered about it, and he wondered about it. He was sure of one thing; if his interest in earning money died away, then he would simply be interested in something greater or lesser. And either way, he would view it as the right thing to do.
Even if such things were not the happiest things to do.
He remembered dozens of things. Things that left impressions on him. One time he actually helped a girl get her cat back. A king of a black market economy was not exempt from participating in society's trivial problems. All people who had class were proper people, regardless of how wrong their actions are viewed upon. It may seem repetitive, but again, no actions are wrong when they have reason.
Only monsters were always wrong. They can't cry or think. Perhaps that was why it was so hard to find a monster. Not even the Grimm lacked the ability to think.
He also remembered the more realistic side of his job. He remembered standing in a surgery room that did not belong to a hospital. It lacked nurses, but it was full of tools, so that was good. A loan shark had failed him big time, and when the man sent hundreds of men to kill Volk, it was only natural of the black market dealer to push aside his own men to safety. "Step aside," he remembered saying. "I deal with my trash." And those hundreds of men, he pummeled far more harshly than he would to a monster. Their reason for trying to kill him may not have been wrong, but alas, conflicts always began due to clashing reasons. His reason to fight was simply because he wanted to live. So he killed them.
Before the chairman settled into a small, slightly red styrofoam box, Volk told him, "I'm brighter. That is the only reason why you lie here, lying with no more lies to amuse anyone with." And he made sure to watch the chairman move in comfortably into the styrofoam box as his right-hand man placed a screwdriver through his tongue. And then his teeth. And eyes. But his right-hand man was smart enough to leave the human mind for Volk himself to remove. And this event repeated itself over hundreds of times.
He felt the touch of the organ that controlled the entirety of the human body. He observed it; he actually kept one in his office back at where he worked with the Midnight Squad just to muse over it when he got bored. Anything fresh, raw, ripe seemed perfect for profit. in a sense, Volk was a farmer. He would pick the ripest of crops and sell them for fair prices. He would open his own anonymous websites in the deep web; he played his cards right underneath the Internet's surface. People would not only buy the crops he bought, but they would also pick up the souvenirs he prepared. After all, it was hard to find weapons specifically designed to kill people these days. He was the best kind of farmer in the black market economy of its entirety. He had so many names, but everyone who made a deal with him knew of who he was. He was the sole reason why the black market stays strong.
And he made sure that everyone feared him.
Here he sat in a low-quarantine cell in a red suit. He remembered wearing a black suit before he became a big shot in the black markets. Yet, now, he wore a red suit, and he wondered why. It was no childish reason such as "I tainted my clothes with the blood of my enemies." He simply enjoyed the color red. Sometimes he would wear blue, but his personal assistants would berate him for wearing something that contrasted with his name. And he had to agree, it was childish of him to not live up to his name. But more than his name, he wanted to remember who he was at all times. So perhaps that was the reason why he did not wear red when he was not busy.
Volk remained seated, his eyes closed as he meditated. He had fallen to the trap of bloodlust far too many times. He had gotten overboard and tarnished his redless clothes with red, even though he wanted to avoid such circumstances. He spoke silently, his mouth wording wise sayings straight out of old proverbs of various artifacts.
After all, it would be problematic if he killed everyone in the entire station just by being a little ticked off at how they made his suit dusty.
