After a few hours, it was almost Christmas Eve. I haven't been outside since.
I lingered in my room, uninterested yet half-expecting the call of my aunt summoning me to join the revelry downstairs—to the mild chaos of laughter, final touches on the ornamentation and decoration of every wall, and the fairly warmth of my extended family: Uncles, grandparents, cousins... My cousins are here too? What a pain.
In the meantime, to stave off boredom from completely destroying my senses, I idly rambled through the soft blue glow of my phone. Sitting at my desk, legs crossed, my feet planted on its wooden surface.
I scrolled aimlessly through a parade. Instagram, at this time of the year, was a gallery of contentment—in every story, my classmates in their small, rectangular frames, looked like they're having a great time.
Some posted the family dinner with their glint of tinsel; others shared the glowing streets outside, wrapped in cheap garlands and little-to-no snow And, inevitably, there were those flaunting their significant others—faces too close to the camera... I really don't want to see that shit.
Shortly after, I received a message from the ever-cheerful Isaac: [Yo. I just bought the game] He wrote, and his excitement was practically leaping off the screen.
Then came another message, followed by an attached image: [Look!!!]
It was a picture of his hand clutching a garish game case featuring an illustration of several wide-eyed girls fawning over a lone, over-the-top and blatant protagonist, all rendered in that overly saccharine, "moe" art style. What's more: The title, "Heart Breaker", was emblazoned in an obnoxiously flashy font like a neon, cyberpunk sign.
What the fuck is this? That was my immediate reaction.
[What the fuck is this?] I texted back.
[bro whats wrong?? Ts a masterpiece, can't you tell?] He shot back instantly. I could practically picture him lounging wherever he was on the Mall—grinning stupidly at his phone screen, smug as ever.
[No, what I see is a ugly ass game you wasted money on. Honestly, I don't think I want it anymore man] I replied, unimpressed.
Despite my indifference, Isaac was unwilling to concede defeat: [WAIT WAIT plsss] He begged, attaching a bizarre sticker. Then he added, [just this once, try it out. I swear on my mom u gonna love it fr 🙏]
[Your mom is dead now bro] I replied dryly. Then, without much thought, I added, [Whatever. When are you giving it to me?]
[I knew u loved me 🥹] He proclaimed triumphantly. His ridiculous words didn't even warrant a response from me. Moments later, another message popped up: [Ill drop it off now, I think]
[What?] I typed back, perplexed.
[yeah] Came his curt reply.
[How?]
[by pulling up to ur house dumb bitch] He said, as if the answer was self-evident.
I couldn't help but feel exasperated by his sudden decision to visit me. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and I know he would be with his family all day, so why now? You don't care about the Christmas Spirit, you fake?
I considered asking him such queries; however, I knew he would simply respond with his characteristic "Because I can" response. Instead, I opted for a more practical approach: [Well, come then. I'll wait for you at the door]
[Aight!!!1 Wait for me] He responded excitedly.
Isaac was nothing if not persistent.
Over half an hour had passed when the chime of the doorbell finally echoed through my room, breaking the monotony of its quiet. It wasn't exactly a gracious peal, but a discordant metallic clang that lacerated with the ferocity of a blade upon crystal.
I merely stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop on its own. It didn't.
Thus, reluctantly, I dragged myself off the bed—despite my earlier promise to "wait by the door," which had clearly been a lie told to end a conversation—and trudged toward the staircase battling between inertia and non-essential duty.
As I reached the base of the stairs, I spotted my auntie opening the front entry. And there, framed by the biting winter air, stood Isaac, clutching the game in both hands. His thick winter jacket and knitted beanie couldn't hide the unrestrained excitement gleaming in his face.
«Here it is, man!» He announced with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in two. «Make sure to complete it entirely. I'll be seeing you in like a week, alright?»
I sighted instinctively, unable to fully suppress such. It wasn't that I despised the game or the gesture—it was just... I don't know; his enthusiasm maybe, which was infectious, albeit exhausting.
Still, I relented, murmuring a quiet, rudimentary: «Alright. Thanks, man,» as I took the cold plastic case from his outstretched hands, and the cover art, physically, seemed to mock me—all pastel smiles and bubble-letter optimism.
With his mission accomplished, Isaac turned on his heel and disappeared into the wintry, night environment before we exchange one final, friendly hand-shake. I retreated to my room, game in hand, and booted up the console.
Well, let's begin! The premise was straightforward: you played as a protagonist navigating the labyrinthine intricacies of romance—a domain I had yet to truly explore. The concept felt foreign, almost daunting, but I was never one to back down from a challenge.
Minutes later, once I delved deeper into the game, it became glaringly obvious how uninspired the character designs were. Each one was a walking stereotype, shamelessly molded from the same tiresome tropes: the shy girl, the popular guy, the aloof boy—you name it.
In addition, the dialogue lacked ingenuity, adhering to predictable patterns ripped straight from a cookie-cutter romantic-comedy anime. And, as if to drive the point home, the situation I currently find myself in perfectly encapsulates one of those interactions.
Picture this: there's this... girl—What's her name again? No clue. I haven't been paying attention to the names. Let's just say it's one of those encounters with a girl who's clearly smitten with us, the protagonist.
For some context, I ventured into the city and entered a café—one of the game's choices—and then stumbled upon this lady. Apparently, this interaction is classified as a "side quest," and I was unceremoniously forced to approach her.
The conversation kicked off in a ludicrously awkward manner—clearly meant to be comedic, I suppose. And how does she respond? With a scowl and the line:
[Yuri: "Oh, it's you. What do you want?"]
Mm-hmm, I see. Can you feel the charm radiating from her? Because I certainly can't. However, isn't this supposed to be the point of the game? Is it the point of the game! That's how she's supposed to act, like a passionless dick.
But I couldn't care less. Now, here are the options displayed on the screen:
[Option 1:Apologize for the teasing and offer to accompany her for a coffee.]
[Option 2:Mock her and challenge her to a battle of wits.]
[Option 3: Persist and express your curiosity about her.]
Wowwww, how delightfully transparent. Hmmm, I wonder what answer would be the most convenient? It's painfully obvious which option is the "correct" one. Option 1, naturally. Let's see how this unfolds, shall we?
["Ah, my mistake, Yuri-san. It wasn't my intention to strike a nerve," you reply, feigning innocence. "Why don't we set aside our usual banter for a moment? How about I treat you to a coffee and keep you company?"]
[Yuri hesitates for a moment, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, before releasing an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. "Huh? I told you don't call me by name. It's disgusting. But fine! Do what you want. And don't think this means I like your company. I just need someone to pay for my food, now that you're here," she huffs, stuffing her book into her bag and reluctantly rising from her seat to the bar.]
...Alright, fuck this guy.
I'll admit, there was something almost gallant about the line—chivalrous, in that overly rehearsed way most fictional men are written to be. Yet, it also carried that stomach-turning aroma of creepiness. Or maybe it's the aftertaste of too much idealism, long expired and poorly preserved. Was it creepy?
Nonetheless, on a side note: honestly, is this truly what boys are into these days? Girls who seemingly can't manage a shred of honest communication? How utterly sad for them. If affection is the prize, this must be the slowest, most tedious lottery imaginable.
Moreover, I couldn't help but notice the formulaic, glaring lack of originality in the plot. So far, it was the same time-worn narrative of boy meets, woos, and wins over girls. Nothing more!
The system itself was insultingly recyclable: You check the status/information of some airhead, analyzing her attributes like intelligence, kindness, courage, luck, and—last but certainly not least—affection. Then, you go around chatting up any other bitch until they all inevitably fall for you.
Then it's off to the next one. Another caricature of femininity painted with a different shade of trope: the shy one with a freaking Bob, eternally apologetic, as if existing were an inconvenience. The sporty, tanned one—Guess what? She's competitive and her entire personality orbiting around the word "energy."
Surprisingly, there wasn't any trope that had the label "childhood friend"—which, by "label", I meant they're saying it and that's their whole role. And, of course, the "most beautiful girl on school", member of the Student Council—the archetypal ice queen whose soul thaws only for the player's affectional persistency.
What a marvel of pretense. As I've been playing, the choices presented in the game are limited and seem to have little to no meaningful impact on the story's outcome. Where is this story even headed?
It was frustrating to go through the motions of selecting options, only to discover they all seemed to lead to the same insubstantial cul-de-sac—there's no risk, no randomness, no true failure, nothing! Nothing, really! We, the player, only have the illusion of multiple choices, that's it.
There was nothing unique or thought-provoking about it. I was right all along!
As a self-proclaimed intellectual, I yearned for something that could challenge my perceptions and emotions, something with greater depth and complexity in its interactions that show closeness without consequence. That's not how relationships works!
Still, despite my criticisms, I couldn't entirely dismiss the effort that went into it.
The 3D graphics were respectable; the anime-style character sequences were dynamic, and the music was hauntingly beautiful. Additionally, despite the clichéd portrayals of the characters, a small handful of them were at least respectably decent—in terms of friendly interactions, that is.
What's more, there's still a cycle you're obligated to follow. Time progresses in the game and there's a seasonal checklist to do: There's the Golden Week, the School Trip Arc—with the shared, public hot-springs—The School Culture Festivals, Halloween—for some reason—, and I'm here on the Winter Break.
You know what that means? Fan-service: cute and suggestive poses of all the women in the field wearing a numberless of different outfits corresponding each event, including the teachers. It this shit a Gacha Game too?
Then the dialogue of the protagonist and main bitches resumed, and the illusion dissolved. It wasn't enough to salvage a truly immersive experience. Bye-bye, game! I'm going to take some water.
***
As my musings deepened, the clock's hands continued their stealthy march, until the building transformed into a desolate refuge of silence.
The raucous clamor from below—the dull household clatter, the casual laughter; basically the familiar proof of other human existence—vanished, as effortlessly as smoke devoured by open air. Not a gradual tapering-off, but really sudden it kind of creep me out.
I hadn't noticed when it happened. That alone should have been a warning. Becoming so engrossed in anything, especially something as superficial as this piece of shit game, was unusual for me. I rarely granted any sort of fiction the authority to hold me.
The time also slipped away, although, isn't that obvious? How much: Two hours? Three? Perhaps more. The clock face read 11:45—That's strange... No, that's absurd! Considering I thought it was barely past nine... I don't even remember what I did these last few hours.
And yet, something else was wrong, because as I strained my ears, a crawling awareness settled in—something was amiss. Sterile. Breathless. Emptiness. The void. The house was suspiciously muted.
Then, without warning—like a bolt of lightning—an earsplitting crash erupted, ricocheting through the floorboards and into my bones, jolting me out of my stupor. My body froze in shock, and the fine hairs at the nape of my neck stood rigid, bristling with unease.
What the fuck was that?
What's in from outside: A blown tire, fireworks? It couldn't have happened here: maybe a piece of furniture toppled over? Then, why was everyone so quiet? The possibilities raced through my mind, but the subsequent cacophony quickly quashed any hope that this was a mere accident.
Another noise resounded—then another, and another.
These were no ordinary sounds, I realized with a mounting sense of trepidation that it was the unmistakable discharge of a firearm, and with each shot, the anguished cries of the ill-fated souls below grew louder and more desperate.
My mind raced, frantically trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding; my breathing grew heavier, and my eyes darted erratically around the room, searching for answers that weren't there.
Someone is shooting. In my house, in my house? Not outside? Is this a nightmare? It's not it, I can feel myself touch the ground. Had someone broken into our home? Why were they shooting my family? Were they shooting at my family? Why my house? Why my family?!
A deep-seated panic clawed at my chest as the gravity of the situation sank in.
Without hesitation, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers trembling uncontrollably as I was about to dialed 911, just before I heard the telltale creak of my staircase piercing the suffocating silence of my room.
However, the noises emanating from the steps were slow, almost as if they were cautious and deliberate—each one measured, as though the person going up sought to remain... Unnoticed?
Oh, my God. My heart plummeted; a tidal wave of dread washed over me as the realization took hold—someone was coming to the second floor.
With a surge of urgency, I rose to my feet, my gaze darting to the narrow space between my wardrobe and the doorway; I slipped into the cramped alcove, positioning myself behind the partially ajar door, my body pressed into the darkness.
Gripping my phone tightly in my hand, I elevated it and offered a silent prayer to whatever god, to any deity of any imaginable faith who might hear me, fervently imploring that my room remain undisturbed.
Unfortunately, fate seemed to have no intention of granting me mercy; my prayer proved futile, and my supplications were unavailing, because right after I perceived the presence, the penetrating smell, of the intruder.
As he crept into my room, my eyes was inexorably drawn to the ominous silhouette of an object clutched firmly within his grasp.
A fucking gun! Of course, of course he'd have one.
The intruder was laughably small—a grotesque diminutive figure, a folkloric dwarf. This creature, no taller than my desk, positioned itself at the center of the room; its movements carried the measured grace of a prowling feline, surveying its surroundings like a CCTV camera.
What is he trying to do now?
He approached my belongings with a curious look, inspecting each item as though appraising its worth. His fingers traced the edges of my cherished collectibles, lingered on the spines of my books, and toyed with the buttons of the PS4 controller, like a child discovering a new plaything.
From my concealed vantage point, I observed in silence.
He's distracted—should I do something? He's distracted—should I run? He's distracted—should I attack? Could I even stand a chance against him, given his size? But judging by appearance could be dangerous; he's probably a professional in Chinese martial arts.
Either way, engaging in physical combat with the intruder was a perilous gamble; as someone utterly lacking in hand-to-hand combat skills, it was far from an ideal option. Maybe if I—No, just forget it.
Fleeing, too, posed its own set of dangers. There was no guarantee that I wouldn't run straight into another accomplice lying in wait outside. Yet simply remaining hidden, paralyzed and passive, while the trespasser roamed freely, was no longer a viable alternative—eventually, he might detect me.
As the indecision enshrouded me like a paltry drape, the intruder picked up something from my desk: a photo.
It was small, made of glass—cheap, perhaps—; yet, inside: a family snapshot, all mirthfully smiling with saline-kissed faces, taken during a sunlit vacation at the beach. I hadn't thought about that particular picture in months; I couldn't even remember who'd bought the frame, and why I had it in my room.
...That's why: Holy shit, I thought.
There are many ways to rob a house; there are fewer ways to violate a life. Someone rummaging through your drawers is inconvenient; someone touching your belongings, on the other hand, is sacrilege. It wasn't righteousness so much as a hot, animal indignation—like, the kind that arrives before thought and refuses to leave behind a rationale.
In other words: the sight of a stranger handling something so profoundly personal with such careless indifference ignited a volatile cocktail of emotions within me. Was I angry? Anger is a practical fuel; it simplifies options. So, I guess I surely am angry.
I think that was the tipping point. My resolve crystallized in an instant. I couldn't—wouldn't—allow this sucker to defile the sanctity of my family's memory... No, that's not it either. I think it's because he's practically facing his back towards me it's easier to do something.
However, my feet moved of their own accord before my brain had finished arguing, carrying me silently across the room toward the burglar. For a second the room stilled to the exact frequency of my heartbeat; a bead of sweat trailed down my palm as adrenaline coursed through my veins in equal measure.
You can do it... You can do it, you can do it.
As I closed the distance with this soundless, deliberate stride, I found myself standing directly behind him. My hands curled into fists without asking permission and the skin at my knuckles tightened like coiled wire.
Thus, with every ounce of strength I could gather, I rushed towards him and delivered a ferocious blow to the back of his skull. The impact sent him sprawling to the floor, clutching his head and groaning in pain—surprised and immediate.
«Argh...! Ow....!»
«Hmph....!»
It hurts. This position made the web space of my fingers hurt. But, notwithstanding the pain, in one swift motion, I maneuvered his left arm behind his back and twisted it into a painful lock that forced him to face me.
With resolute determination, I shifted my weight, straddling the abdomen of the prone figure and pressing down with all the force my body manage to muster. It sounded ridiculous in my head, but in practice it's unwinding.
I could feel the sinews of the muscles straining against my hold, and every movement was simply a futile struggle. Yet, I was unwavering in my purpose.
Raising my arm high, I unleashed a relentless barrage of blows with my right hand: my strongest weapon, I suppose; each strike landing upon his face with unyielding resolve as I did my best to make both the sounds of his groan—covering his mouth—and the clashes of my blows sound as low as possible.
«Ugh...! H-Hah-arhhg...»
«Sh...Sh-Shut up, shut up. Please, please....»
Fatigue clawed at me, but I paid it no heed.
The only thought consuming my mind was his weapon.
Genuinely, where is it? He doesn't have it on him—did it fall? The floor...? It's nowhere near. Or is it hidden? Pocket, jacket, under his body? My hands were still raw from hitting skin, but my eyes were scanning the room frantically. Either he had dropped it or hid it within reach.
Still, as my punches connected, a perverse sense of vindication coursed through me. A bitter, ugly relief. Why? Maybe I'm doing the right thing—I wanted him down so I could find that metal barrel and end this.
Then, abruptly, my grim reverie shattered; a sharp, searing pain exploded across my cheek. The intruder had landed a solid punch, sending me reeling backward, dazed. What the hell happened just now?
«Wo-Woah... Oh, fuck.»
Before I could regain my composure, he moved with startling speed, retrieving a pistol from inside his jacket. Be fucking for real, It was his jacket... The cold barrel wad held, pointed at me despite the chaotic circumstance he was in before.
His voice, raw with fury, erupted.
«Stay right where you are, you little piece of shit!»
Oh, fuck—I'm done. The metallic sound of the firearm reverberated through the room, slicing past the tense silence with an eerie resonance that seemed to linger in my ears.
As I turned my gaze toward the wretched figure, the barrel of the weapon gleamed ominously under the faint glow of the TV, sending an involuntary shiver cascading down my spine. Slowly, I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender, intertwining them behind my head in compliance.
«L-Look, I don't want any trouble,» I said, my voice steady despite the storm of fear brewing within me. «I was defending myself. It was self-defense, it was...»
The offender scoffed and, with a thick accent, continued speaking: «You think I'm a fucking idiot, huh? Do I look like one to you? Do I look like a fucking idiot? Making a fool out of me? Defending yourself while pounding me into the floor? That's aggression—»
«I-I assure you, sir, I meant no-no harm!» I reiterated, a faint edge of desperation creeping into my tone as I clung to the hope of de-escalating the situation. I was about to cry, honestly.
But the criminal's demeanor remained cold and unyielding.
«Don't give me horse-shit; whining for yourself. Trying to reason with me is pointless because the fact is you took me down, and I'm sure you tried to steal my gun. What, you thought it would be that fucking easy? You're a fucking idiot,» he retorted, his tone dripping with contumely. «You fucked up my face... It hurts, it hurts, you punch really good, you mother-fucker, little shit.»
I tried to grasp his motives, but he didn't seem inclined to entertain any form of dialogue: «Please, at least tell me your… y-your plans? What do you want fr-from our family? Money, money, right? W-What do you want, man? You want money? Please, tell me!» I pleaded, my voice trembling with desperation, hoping to glean even the slightest hint of his intentions.
In our family, financial resources were scarce. We lived comfortably, but only in that placid and discreet way where every expense was calculated prudently and every need was met with moderation. The idea of us being targeted by criminals wasn't just shocking—it was nearly inconceivable.
However, I know that criminals often prey on their own rather than attacking the wealthy. They fear drawing too much attention. The opulent have alarms, surveillance systems, law enforcement on immediate alert. Individuals such as ourselves possess only economical deadbolts and the hope that misfortune will happen elsewhere.
But, why us, though? Why?! Is it a coincidence? Misidentification? Something personal? Do we have relations with gang member or the fucking mafia? The inquiries persisted, incessant and futile.
With a low, ragged exhale, the intruder planted a palm on the floor and pushed himself upright. As he straightened, his muscles tensed and rippled beneath his fashionable suit, casting shadows across his grim face. When did he became so tall? He became taller, right?
Moreover, the firearm remained steady, with his finger resting on the trigger.
Breaking the silence with a sudden, almost offhand remark, he issued a command with a tone carrying a faint trace of authority: «Get up and face the wall,» he said, gesturing toward it with a slight tilt of his head.
My pupils widened, and I could feel the tremor in my voice as I stammered: «No-no—Excuse me, but… but, you're not going to kill me, right? Please, please?» I followed with a nervous smile, my attempt at humor falling flat.
«—Buttagot! Get the fuck up and face the wall! I don't care if you shit yourself, I don't give a fuck about you. I can kill your stupid face as many times as I want. That's my business, that's what I do. So, shut the fuck up!» He overflowed my words with a despotic yell.
«No, no! Please! Ahhh, fuck! O-Okay, okay...! Ah....!» I blurted out as he spoke.
At that moment, any remaining hope I had, evaporated.
This is it. T-This is it, folks. The end of my life!
All my dreams, my aspirations, my future—shattered by the whims of an unyielding stranger whom I've never encountered. I have never actually seen him in my life, but his face is vaguely recognizable to me. But does it mean anything?
I had always believed I was destined for greatness, that I had a purpose in this world, or that I would, at some juncture, unleash my prodigious capabilities in... What? I don't know, nor do I care to. What the hell?
In any case, it's fucking bullshit. I've try to think of ways to save myself—to negotiate with the intruder, to launch a desperate counterattack—but deep down, I knew it was useless. He had the upper hand, and I was on the firing range.
How absurd, damn it!
Fuck this guy, fuck him! If this were to be the end, then I would face it with dignity. I would not beg for my life or weep like a fucking weakling, candy-ass pussy. I would not grant him the satisfaction of seeing me cower in fear, because he'd assuredly be accustomed to it, given his sadistic, foul-mouthed behaviour.
Yet... Somehow, intertwined with the despair and fury coursing through me, I felt an unexpected wave of introspection rising within. Well, I suppose it's only natural to feel a shadow of melancholy creeping over me. It's not as though I'm an emotionless husk.
But, strangely enough, I find myself unable to articulate it fully, since I'm certain this weird, uncanny feeling isn't directed at the situation itself. Yeah, no—it's aimed squarely at me.
All this time, I've wondered: Why hadn't I taken more risks in life? Why had I squandered so many hours on meaningless pursuits? Why had I been so passive, so apathetic, so stupidly bad-tempered?
But regrets won't change a damn thing now, will they?
I cursed myself for my cowardice, for my inability to take bold steps, for failing to rise to my potential, for not speaking out, for giving up easily, for not meeting others' expectations. Regret always, always swept over this pathetic human.
Pathetic, yeah. Pathetic, isn't it? It's patheti—I'm pathetic!
As if I'd been sleepwalking through life, I've never done something truly remarkable. Still, I regret all the things I left undone, the people I left behind. I regret the life I didn't live, the adventures I never embarked on, the love I never experienced.
It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing time is slipping away, knowing I might never get the chance to do those things—Ironically, my life is not slipping away, it's going to end abruptly by a backchat, potty-looking man. Fuck, just... Fuck y'all.
Hah, but who am I kidding?
Who cares about any of that crap?
I'm not defined by my achievements or failures. After all, I gained nothing of societal value. To hell with that nonsense! I define myself by the very essence of who I am.
I've always been curious, analytical, introspective—and that's something no one could ever take from me. I sought knowledge, understanding, and wisdom—things that transcend time and space.
I've always been true to myself, and that's something I could never compromise. Screw the people who live by others' opinions! Don't you believe that being yourself is more than enough? Why the fuck would they care?!
Thus, I stood up and turned to face the wall. I felt neither fear nor despair, but rather a strange sense of detachment. I no longer cared—about anything, at all. I knew my physical body would soon perish, but my spirit would endure. This is poetry, Shakespeare!
So, go ahead!
Point that gun at me, you deformed, con-artist, phony-gangster, insulting-looking twat mother-fucker! Finish me off, because I wouldn't deliver a grand speech or scream at the top of my lungs! I would face it head-on—not literally—just as I had faced my own shortcomings.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to savor every last trace of my life.
My end, finally, I thought.
But even so, I'm not finished yet.
Shit, I'm shaking. My legs refuse to respond to the instinct to flee; some automatic mechanism keeps them rooted in place because I know—there's no way out. None at all.
I can't block out the fear—it's pointless. No matter how much I try to bluff, death is a terrifying certainty. I'm going to die, I'm going to die? I'm going to die...
Should I have strangled him instead of just knocking him down? I was so impatient to have him subdued that I didn't think clearly about the circumstances. This is my fault. I shouldn't have done that!
Isaac, I'm sorry but I guess I can't tell you directly how the game was. Wait, Isaac? I don't remember his face anymore, why is that?
«I'm sixteen years old, man... I'm not justifying my reaction, but I was desperate, and too naïve to reason properly.»
«....»
«If I'd done nothing, and you found me hiding behind the door, would you have shot me anyway? Are the people downstairs... are they still alive?»
No response.
«I'm scared. I'm scared... You fuck, what are you waiting for...?! What are you waiting for, you idiot? Shoot me! Just shoot me, just shoot me already!»
Even as I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, there was still no answer. Was he still there? I heard nothing, and sensed nothing behind me. But even so, I was too afraid to turn around, even though my life was already sealed.
«I'm gonna run to you, fucker. What's wrong? Did your balls shrivel up~? Go ahe—Shoo... Shoo-t me alrea...dy—ghh...»
And then, as the gunshot echoed throughout the room, a searing pain exploded at the base of my nape, and everything went dark.