I stood up calmly, opened the backpack, took out the Taurus .357 revolver – only one bullet in the chamber.
— Everyone, let's play a game I invented: "Truth Roulette."
Simple rule: I ask, you answer honestly.
Lie = click.
Truth = you live… for now.
The class laughed nervously, thinking it was a prank. The air grew heavy, the smell of sweat and fear starting to spread.
First victim: Mizuki, second row, little face like she had no idea what was coming.
Barrel to her forehead. The cold metal made her tremble.
— Question number 1, sweetheart: how many guys did you fuck behind my back?
Dead silence. Her heart beat so loud I could hear it.
She stuttered, trying to manipulate like always:
— S-Satori… what are you talking about… I love you, it was just once, I swear…
Click. Empty.
— Wrong. Try again.
Second click. Empty.
Third. Empty.
The class was already sweating cold, smell of fear mixing with cheap perfume.
Fourth click. Empty.
Fifth… empty.
Sixth click she cried, makeup running:
— Okay! It was 14! I… I like attention, okay?
I smiled ear to ear, voice low and sweet:
— What a beautiful confession!
But you know what's worse? I was the only idiot who thought you were exclusive. I bought gifts, paid for movies, dreamed about you… and you cheated with 14.
She tried again, voice sobbing:
— Satori, please… I really love you! It was a mistake, I swear! Forgive me, we can start over…
I laughed.
— Love? You don't know what love is.
And now… guess what? I killed them all. One by one. Creatively, like they deserved.
She blinked, confused, panic rising:
— What? Lie… you wouldn't do that…
I listed, voice low echoing in the room, gunpowder smell already in the air from my backpack:
— The baseball captain? Head turned into a home run with a nail-studded bat.
The nerd? Melted from the inside with acid in his veins.
The rich tennis guy? Electrocuted and strangled with his own racket.
The biker? Roasted alive in his exhaust.
The artist? Painted with poison and glass until he convulsed in colors.
The soccer player? Face shredded with a bladed ball.
The musician? Cut and electrocuted with barbed strings.
The photographer? Face melted with acid in the camera.
The swimmer? Drowned in chemical water.
The hip-hop dancer? Legs broken to the beat, throat slashed.
The gamer? Hallucinogenic overdose until his heart exploded.
The cooking club guy? Poisoned stew and skewered.
The theater actor? Crushed by the curtain.
Now only one left on the list… the 14th. Your defender back there, Nakamura Takeshi, my "best friend" traitor.
Mizuki trembled, eyes wide. The class froze. She stuttered trying to save herself:
— Satori… please… I really love you! It was a mistake, I swear! Forgive me, we can start over…
I laughed.
— Anything? Too late. The last bullet was for you… but it goes to the last on the list first.
I turned the revolver to Nakamura, who stood up angry:
— You son of a—
POW.
Shot in the middle of the eyes. Fell dead.
Mizuki screamed, covered in brains.
I swapped the revolver for a loaded Glock.
POW.
Half her head turned into tomato puree on the wall.
I opened my arms.
— Anyone else want to defend the queen of the mattress?