Terry rushed toward the innermost stairway of the building, melding into its shadows with practiced ease, Castellan threading behind him, trying to keep pace. Stellan had built his life around routine; a method which he planned to follow until his last breath. Wake up two hours before his shift for some stretching and coffee to clear his mind, and whenever he had time off work, he'd walk to the gym rather than taking a taxi as a first choice. So he was fit, fit like someone in their late twenties should be, lean muscle and decent cardio.

  But Terry was different. He'd lived a "lavish" lifestyle; bars, gambling, and all the matters of things parents would warn a child to avoid, vices that should have left him soft. This very same man who Stellan couldn't imagine squatting weights above a hundred and fifty pounds was now skillfully hiking the stairs like a trained soldier, moving with tactical precision. He inched near the corners of the walls before proceeding to another floor, checking angles, ensuring there was no chance for him to be blindsided by hidden threats.

  Stellan had only seen such movements in action movies, watched them on screens during lazy weekends, and his officemate was far from what one would describe as an action actor, a more fitting description would be like a desk jockey with a beer gut. Regardless, Terry now showcased precise, calculated movements as he proceeded nearer to the source of the distant squealing, until they both eventually reached what would be the 8th floor of the decrepit building, both breathing hard. He halted abruptly, right before a corner, raising a fist to signal stop as Terry aimed at a spot Stellan couldn't see, his view obscured by the wall.

  There was no verbal communication. When Terry took a stride forward, Stellan followed instinctively, his hands clinging to the revolver with surprising familiarity despite never holding a weapon before in his life with the metal already warming in his grip. A slow step, deliberate, one that matched the cautious pace of his coworker up front, who was searching through the building with focused eagerness, while Stellan awkwardly mimicked Terry's movements, trying to copy his stance.

  The floor they were on was even more worn down than the one they'd been in previously, decay setting in deeper. Heaps of dust and yellowed paper scattered across the dusty floor, forming a symbiotic relationship of abandonment that allowed no life to thrive, a dead zone. In there, around a rather uneventful corner, was the source of the desperate wailing. A cowering man who was curled into a tight fetal position, pleading in a terror-filled panic while helplessly muttering to himself in a broken loop:

  "Where am I?"

  "What is this place?"

  " Cheryl… I want to go back home."

  The man was in his forties to fifties by the looks of it, still dressed in his office attire. But the unkemptness of his scruff and wrinkled collar, and the balding patch on his head provided a picture that he was working in a position that was far from seniority, something in the caliber of a low-level employee, an expendable.

  He was overweight and cowering, his whole body trembling. Stellan did not want to discriminate but that was the first thought that came to mind on how to describe him, not too overweight like the ones you see on reality TV, but the kind where you'd avoid being trapped in an elevator with due to a fear of an "undesirable" smell from sweat, that uncomfortable middle ground.

  He was vulnerable, pathetic even. A stronger word and more fitting would be "broken", similar to a child that had lost his mother in a crowded mall, the ones who were abandoned and terrified.

  Terry didn't give a damn about the breakdown though, his expression remained cold and detached. Without hesitation, he aimed the revolver at the broken man's forehead, steady and unwavering. The man was yet to realize he was being targeted, too lost in his panic.

  Castellan hurried near Terry, moving on instinct, gun gripped awkwardly in his non-dominant hand while the other pressed down firmly on his coworker's forearm which was the one serving as leverage for the revolver. But it was harder than he thought, meeting unexpected resistance.

  Rather than feeling like an arm, it felt more like the solid trunk of a tree due to how sturdy Terry's form was. Another matter that surprised Castellan, since he'd always pictured his cubicle partner as not being as fit as him .

  But the shove was still successful, just enough to push the barrel aside and disarm Terry for the moment. Terry's head whipped around to face Stellan, frustration blazing in his eyes, jaw clenching.

  "What the fuck are you doing Terry?" Stellan demanded, his voice sharp, asking what Terry's intent was despite seeing clearly what it was, needing to hear him say it.

  Terry considered an answer for a while, eyes flicking back and forth between Stellan and the cowering man who was still yet to realize that his life was being weighed in the balance, measured and found wanting.

  "I'm putting him out of misery," Terry stated flatly, as if that was the only answer Stellan needed to hear, simple and final.

  "By putting holes in a defenseless man?" Stellan shot back with a matter of disgust, creeping into his voice.

  "Look man, this place… ain't the same as the one where we came from," Terry interjected while staring Castellan deep in the eyes, his gaze was intense and unwavering, providing answers that only led to more questions. "It's best if we shut him up and move on," he added, voice dropping lower, more dangerous.

  “ So you just decide to put a fucking hole in his head? “

  “ It’s quicker… “

  "Can't we just tie him? Like, I don't know… maybe in your pack there's tape or something," Stellan suggested desperately, grasping for alternatives.

  "And risk him telling our position? Nah man, he needs to go," Terry declared, pushing past Stellan before he was halted once more, Stellan grabbing his arm.

  "For what? For screaming? He does–"

  Before Stellan could finish his protest, Terry provided his own calculated suggestion, cutting him off. "Look… You don't have to see it. I'll do it while… you check the area if there are others who plan on raiding this place," he said, trying to give Stellan an out, a way to not be complicit.

  "Raid?" Stellan asked, his suggestions being bombarded and dismissed. But despite this, his conscience still wouldn't allow this… this… brutal method of preservation if he could help it, couldn't just stand by.

  "You mean to tell me… those guys who were shooting outside would come here?" Stellan added, questioning the morality of Terry's decision, challenging him.

  Terry paused, taking a breath. Another glance back at the cowering man was enough for him to solidify his decision, jaw setting. " Not for now, no… But those guys are the last thing we have to worry about," he stated firmly before shoving past Stellan, who was contemplating whether or not he should let this matter end, torn between survival and humanity.

  All he could do was observe, frozen in place. Maybe he's right, Stellan thought reluctantly. There were already other problems at hand that he couldn't understand, threats he couldn't see. He couldn't even take care of himself currently, barely holding it together. He could only see the cowering man,whose eyes were filled with tears and face riddled with snot as pitiful baggage, a literal dead weight, a manner of observation that even he could not look past, as harsh as it was.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  But still…

  Maybe there was yet another method, another way. Maybe he could save this man like how his coworker had managed to save him, to extend the same mercy.

  Terry, on the other hand, kneeled down smoothly, casting a shadow over the broken man who soon noticed his presence looming. Hurriedly, squealing like an animal, the man grabbed Terry by the collar with desperate hands, fingers digging in. He demanded questions, barely forming coherent thoughts and sentences, demanding aid and answers from the stoic man who did not find this interaction entertaining in the slightest, his expression hardening.

  "Are you… friends with that man who sent me the email?!" the man demanded hysterically, voice cracking. Snot continued to run down his lip while the spit from his words pattered on Terry's weathered cheek, flecking his beard. "He told me… I can make good money… that I just needed to sign my name…" he babbled, hope and desperation mixing.

  Terry let out a disappointing grunt, a sound of disgust. He was almost pitying the man, who continued to bombard him with questions, words tumbling out, until it stopped abruptly.

  Due to the loud slap Terry delivered to the cowering man's face with the crack echoing. It sent him flying a few feet across the dusty floor, leaving bright red handprints on his cheeks, the flesh already swelling. Maybe due to the shock of the impact, but the man did not make noise, just stared in disbelief, stunned to a silence.

  Even Stellan, who was there to witness the entirety of it, could not help but think, That's gotta sting, seeing as how the impact had sounded like flesh hitting calm water.

  Before the man could rebel at Terry's violent actions, Terry aimed the revolver at him with cold precision; coldly and menacingly, hoping that this would end faster than it was dragging out, wanting it over.

  "W-What are y-you…" the overweight man shrieked, voice high and panicked, holding his palm up as if it would help with deflecting the bullet with a futile gesture.

  "I'm sending you back… I'll make it quick," Terry stated, his voice flat and emotionless as he flicked the safety off the revolver with his thumb before steadying his sight, lining up the shot.

  Hearing this, the cowering man's expression changed dramatically. From panicked terror, it became forced joy similar to straightening an impossible impasse, forcing a grin. The flab in his cheeks hid the unnatural tug of the corners of his lips that attempted to serve as a smile, grotesque in its falseness. His brain was shattering, forcing itself to believe that this was not reality, a desperate delusion.

  "I-I get it… You'll send me back to my apartment," the man muttered, stuttering and chuckling in a way that bore clear signs of creeping insanity, his mind breaking. "Send me back to my… half of a bedroom apartment, where my wife is sleeping with her boss, and my pregnant daughter who is yet to finish high school…" he muttered again, forcing the painful words into Stellan's and Terry's ears, confessing his failures, each man processing them with different reactions.

  "This is all a dream isn't it…" the man stated, voice distant, abruptly standing with a rather different expression settling on his face. A false bravado, showing a sort of pride you would see from a soldier making a last stand, finding dignity in the end. He then spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the bullet, accepting fate. "Got to return back… got to retu–"

  But before he could finish the last syllable of his sentence, his head jerked back violently alongside the explosive sound of gunpowder igniting and colliding with a suspenseful spark, the bang deafening.

  The revolver in Terry's hand hardly moved, barely any recoil. Even his shoulders remained firm and steady, like he'd already done this time and time again like muscle memory. His expression didn't change, didn't flinch. Unlike Stellan, whose face twisted with shock and horror, unable to look away from the scarring vision his eyes witnessed from the point-blank execution.

  A sight that was brutal and final.

  The way the man fell to the dusty floor was rigid, and lifeless, making a sound that Stellan would never forget. It took two heavy thuds before the body finally lay dormant, flat on his back, settling into death. The dead man held a shocked expression frozen on his face, which was fitting. It had been too quick for him to realize that he was dead, so his eyes remained open, staring at nothing. In between his eyes, and a few inches from where his dry forehead had been, sat a gaping wound as big as a thumb, lined with red on the edges. Its center bore a deeper, fleshy and darker red, indicating where the bullet had entered and destroyed.

  His mouth was still open, jaw slack, but now he had no words left to say.

  The vivid description all played in Stellan's racing thoughts, every detail burned in, while his brain urged him to react accordingly, body taking over. He belched out what he'd eaten a few hours earlier, some sandwich and cheap company coffee, mixing with the dusty floor where he stood into a mushy mess that emptied his stomach, bile burning his throat.

  "Only eight XP? Not even a ten?," Terry interjected casually mid-vomit, stating numbers that Stellan did not understand, talking about the dead man like loot in a video game.

  Terry took no pause, no moment of reflection. Hurriedly, he began inspecting the fresh cadaver's belongings with practiced efficiency, searching the pockets in the pants and shirt while the dead man's brain matter oozed blood from his forehead, a dark pool spreading.

  Stellan, who was barely conscious, wiping bile from his mouth, knew he had to stop Terry's desecration of the body. His expression was riddled with shock and disbelief, his hands shaking violently where they gripped his gun, the metal rattling. He vomited once more, doubling over, before finally interrupting Terry's pilfering midway, stumbling forward.

  "Y-You killed him…" Stellan stated, panic and disbelief thick in his tone, voice trembling.

  Terry heard his words but paid them no mind, barely glancing up. He continued to check every nook and cranny his victim had, rifling through pockets methodically. But Stellan was relentless, approaching Terry with a mix of disbelief and growing frustration, moral outrage building. He kicked Terry hard on his right shoulder, sending him rolling to the side. Terry was shocked by the audacity, eyes going wide.

  His fuse went short. Terry was not patient, never had been, even from before. He couldn't stand being the butt of jokes, nor the thought of being the odd man out, excluded. It had led him to debts, trouble, and even cases of stalking past relationships, a pattern of poor decisions.

  He wasn't patient with Stellan to begin with. Maybe it was a form of camaraderie from a life he used to have that made cooperating with Stellan seem worthwhile, at least he'd thought so. But now he was being challenged, his authority questioned. Even worse, his actions were being judged. Something dark was brewing inside him, something that had never changed, never healed.

  Terry stood up slowly, deliberately, menacingly as he patted the dust from his leather vest that had collected from the roll, taking his time. And suddenly, without warning, he lunged forward.

  A single-leg takedown that was rough and unpolished but effective. With the difference in their mental states, Terry easily took the dominant position on the ground, Stellan too shocked to properly defend. Grabbing Stellan's left leg in quick succession, he reduced the height disparity between both of them to nothing, bringing the fight to the floor.

  Stellan was surprised, eyes going wide. And more than that, he was afraid, genuinely terrified. He didn't know who the man attacking him was anymore. He'd worked with Terry for almost three years, their seniority not hindering their interactions at all. He'd drunk with him at happy hours, laughed at his jokes, even picked up girls from the club with him on Friday nights. That was why Stellan, despite being a man of routine and responsibility, had decided to cover for his "friend". at least to the extent of their workplace relationship, doing him a solid.

  But this current Terry was different, fundamentally changed. He looked the same, more unkempt sure… but he was not the same guy he knew, not the jester who made everyone laugh. Which scared him deeply with primal fear setting in. He was realizing that it wasn't a wise decision, angering a man who'd just shot somebody in the face right in front of him, execution-style.

  They wrestled on the dusted floor, struggling for control. There was a disparity in their size, sure… but Terry held the top position with a dominant and aggressive vigour. This didn't mean that Stellan was helpless though. He struggled underneath desperately for a viable option, even throwing a couple of sharp elbows when Terry attempted a front choke, trying to break free. But the scuffle ended quickly, brutally.

  Terry pummeled Stellan's face three times with the hard metal handle of the revolver, pistol-whipping him. The third strike cracked his nose with an audible snap, cartilage breaking, forcing his face into a bloodied mess, blood streaming. Until the coup de grace arrived, appearing in a revolver's pre-heated barrel pressed firmly against Stellan's forehead, still warm from the recent shot.

  There was no room for disbelief anymore.

  This was Stellan's undeniable reality.