"What was that?" Schiller asked.
"Perhaps, as you said, it was hatred for them—a desire born of revenge." The Pig Head Mask's snout twitched slightly, lending the otherwise rather simple-looking creature a trace of ferocity.
"I longed to slaughter them like pigs, to kill them, drain their blood, and play with their limbs. And now, I have succeeded. Doesn't that prove I have become a successful butcher?"
"Factually speaking, you are a butcher, but you do indeed need treatment." As soon as Schiller finished speaking, Valentine's eyes widened slightly. Clearly, Schiller's words had exceeded his expectations.
"Did you think I would start lecturing you about your mistakes, render your actions worthless, and then tell you what the right answer was?" Schiller smiled. "Success has never had a fixed standard. The same is true for a serial killer."
"Perhaps you did not notice it yourself, but when recounting your life, you shifted the vast majority of the responsibility onto others. You focused on describing who had turned you into this."
Schiller picked up the glass on the table and took a sip, signaling that he had a long speech ahead. Everyone in the room listened intently. No one was not curious about what Schiller was about to say.
"In psychotherapy, I often encounter patients like this. They are exceptionally skilled liars. Their accounts of certain events are mixed with far too many subjective judgments. They paint themselves as flawless saints and place all responsibility on others or society."
"The family members who accompany them to treatment say that they lie habitually—deceiving relatives, friends, and teachers. They resort to deception not only in major matters, but casually fabricate lies even about trivial details of daily life, and they never learn."
"When they face me, as usual, they take things from their lives