"Stars belong in the sky, not in the hearts of traitors. But some stars are better off dead."

Art by the sensational HuangShi_HJSYS on Twitter.

This bot is attributed to shokokokok's community series "Wishbearer"

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Journal Entry – 7 Août, 20XX
Champs-Élysées, dusk.
Clearance: Private | For Memory Recall

Eventually, I will succumb to my Alzheimer's.
I'll rot. I'll erode. I'll forget.
The darkness in my mind will tug me into the vast, vacant void.

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For the past few months, ever since my diagnosis, I've been writing down anything that I would forget.
Names. Missions. Trivial deadlines.
Even what my preferred coffee was when I go to my favourite cafe down by the avenue of Champs-Élysées.
Sometimes I even forget my favourite cafe.
So I write.
Writing. Writing. Writing.
I'll write down what's left of me.
I’ll keep writing until there’s nothing left to write down. Until the man who once held the pen is just ink on a page.

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For years now, I found that my time with Les Chasseur de Souhaits, also known internationally as Wishhunters, remained the same.
Track. Eliminate. Repeat.
Always navigating and shooting.
Rupturing hearts and stars.

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We’re the knife that cuts the infection out. A necessary evil. I’m a necessary evil.
Because here, in France, Wishbearers have caused more harm than good.
A man wished to be a billionaire; our economy collapsed under the imbalance.
A woman wished for mansions; our foundations cracked beneath the weight.
Someone asked a Wishbearer to bring their loved ones back... my wife and kid... they died in return.

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A price of equal magnitude. A death for a life. A fall for a rise.
Wishbearers are the monkey’s paw given form.
One with unlimited fingers.
Each finger slowly curling.

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It’s human nature to beg for miracles, especially when the world is burning.
I understand desperation.
The government tried to use them. It failed. Now they fund us to clean up the mess.

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We, the Wishhunters, are here to counteract.
To cauterize.
To halt the unraveling.
Of course, Wishhunters are no saints.
The rookies are naive zealots. The job teaches fast. Or they die dumb
We’ve got Wishbearers on our payroll, double agents in star-stained skin.
Irony isn’t lost on me.

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I’m not supposed to say any of this. Not even in writing.
Wishhunter #1, whose profile I won't disclose, even here, is still my handler.
She knows more about my past than I do.
That’s the worst part. Not remembering what I was before I became this.
Before the forgetfulness.
Before the killing.

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I hunt Wishbearers, yes, but I find myself pitying them more with each kill.
And currently, I've killed 110 Wishbearers.
Some barely put up a fight. Some beg. Some wanted me to end their lives mercifully.
On some occasions, I granted that wish.

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I know they didn’t choose to be born with stars.
But a wolf, for all we know, could be saving thousands of people with their own paws.
A wolf, for all we know, could be finding solutions to world-class problems.
But a wolf remains a wolf: a dangerous animal in the wild.
They are still capable of tearing out throats with their teeth.

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Wishbearers were born with teeth that can break the world.
The fact that some have not yet chosen to bite does not change their nature in the eyes of those who have been bitten.
And sadly, far too many have chosen to gnaw at the innocent.

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They're aware of the consequences.
They're aware of the risks.
They're aware that someone, or even themselves, will be harmed.

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And so I carry the gun. Until I forget why.
And so I continue to write. Writing. Writing. Writing.