Zeno’s eyes focused on her, watching carefully. After seeing her act in the scenes they shared, he knew that she was a good actress, and he wanted to know what route she would take.
#1 stood in the middle circling around the three remaining revolvers.
“I’m alone,” she said. “The earthquake took everything and everyone.”
She laughed—a hollow, broken sound.
“My mom. My dad. Our house.”
She looked around, daring anyone to pity her.
“That’s a nice look,” the staff whispered.
Victor nodded with a smirk. “She’s not just a pretty face.”
“You probably think I should’ve died with them. That’s why I should die here, too—because I don’t have anyone with me anymore.”
She paused before a small smirk appeared on his lips.
“But I’m happy they’re dead.”
“My father was a drunkard. He used to throw bottles more than he threw hugs. My mom turned away every time I asked for help. Every single time.”
“They died. And for the first time, I felt like I could finally live. This is where my life begins. This is my new chance.”
It didn’t take long before she was handed a gun.
She accepted it without flinching. She turned her head, spotted #25, and aimed.
#25 merely smirked as the man next to him dropped. Then, she moved back to her seat without saying anything else.
Next came Desperate #94, played by Billy.
He bounced forward, his demeanor different from the others.
“I want to be famous,” he said, grinning nervously. “I’ve tried everything. Dance, singing, acting, even stand-up. It never worked out.”
“I came here because… even if I die, at least someone will remember my name.”
The crowd waved him off, and he sheepishly threw a smile.
’He’s good at acting annoying,’ Zeno thought. However, he inferred it wasn’t acting at all.
Time passed, and stories flowed like water. The hourglass that loomed above their heads dripped closer to empty.
And still, #25 stood untouched.
Until someone spoke.
“Why don’t we just kill that guy?” one voice asked, pertaining to #25. “He’s killed enough already. He didn’t even hesitate.”
Another chimed in. “Yeah. He’s not desperate. He’s a killer.”
“He’s had enough chances!”
“Give the bullet to me, and I’ll shoot it right to his skull!”
There were only two bullets left.
#25 finally took a step forward. He let the room hiss and seethe.
“You don’t want to bother listening to my story?” he said, his voice calm.
He stopped in the center of the room, tilting his head just slightly.
“Funny. You were all so eager to talk when it was your turn.”
“But now that it’s mine, you want to skip it?”
His eyes gleamed as he looked around, settling on #41 for a moment.
“Let’s hear what he has to say,” #41 said.
#25 was silent as he stared at the two revolvers, then he opened his mouth.
“You might think I’m cruel,” he said, voice dry and toneless. “And I am. I agree.”
He let the silence linger.
“I’m a monster.”
There were murmurs in the crowd. But then his lips twitched—not in humor, but in something much more bitter.
“It’s because the world taught me to be one,” he added with a crooked, mocking smirk. “So I learned.”
And just like that, the mood shifted.
Devon covered his mouth to suppress his gasp. He changed the tone in the blink of an eye, but it wasn’t awkward at all.
“I wish I was never born,” he continued. “Because not living is better than waking up in this hellhole.”
“But here I am.”
“At a young age, my father was already buried in debt. Gambling, mostly.”
“My mom, on the other hand, worked at a hostess club. That’s where they met—both of them trying to survive.”
He let out an amused sigh.
“They had me. Another mistake among others. The biggest one, probably, because the moment I was born, I was labeled as a headache. I was useless because I was young and couldn’t help them with the expenses.”
He looked up, the faintest gloss of tears in his eyes.
“It was clear I was their first child because they had no clue what to fucking do. They left me to starve. They left me to clean up after their mess. It should have been a lesson to them not to have any children, but they still did.”
“My parents had two other children, but not with each other. It was with different people, yet these kids still came home to us.”
He licked his dry lips, continuing.
“How is he not stuttering at all?” some staff asked.
Moby, on the other hand, was too immersed in the scene, his brows furrowing, intrigued.
“They left their only child to parent children that weren’t even mine. I was nine years old, changing diapers, feeding screaming babies, stealing from neighbors, and lying to debt collectors. My father was already halfway to disappearing by then. My mom came back every now and then. Just enough to mess up the routine I built.”
His arms lowered, watching with an unreadable expression.
#25 sniffed once but didn’t wipe the tear that finally rolled down.
“They died before I turned eighteen. My dad got knifed by some loan shark he owed. My mom overdosed in some motel a few cities over. They didn’t even leave a note. Just debt.”
His jaw clenched.
“Debt I had to pay.”
A murmur from the side. One of the staff members behind the camera whispered, “Holy shit. He’s really going there.”
Another leaned in. “Shouldn’t he be in the writing department with this talent?”
“I was ready to die. Gosh, if I could leave this place, I would.”
“But those little kids they left behind still need someone.”
He shrugged, trying to look unaffected—but it didn’t land.
“They don’t know what hope is yet. I don’t want them to grow up thinking the world is a place you crawl through just to die… even if it is.”
His next words were quieter than ever.
“So, I’m here.”
The only sound that followed was the sound of breathing—forty-three hearts trying to understand the boy they thought they feared.
Sangwon wanted to ask a question at that point. Zeno stumped him with a question, and he wanted to return the favor. In the end, however, he couldn’t even bring himself to. How could you even ask a question about that kind of story?
With that, he could only settle on one thing.
#41 cleared his throat. “I think… I think you can have a gun.”
Some faces turned to him in disbelief.
“What?” someone whispered.
“He’s dangerous—”
“He’s manipulative—”
But none of them could bring themselves to stop him.
Because at that moment, despite everything, despite how cruel #25 had been, they saw him.
A broken boy. A forgotten child. A protector.
And Zeno had portrayed it too well.
#25 didn’t hesitate. He walked forward and knelt down.
But as his fingers curled around the weapon, something changed in his expression.
The vulnerability was gone in the blink of an eye. His sadness was nowhere in sight.
He tilted his head, smirking again.
“…You didn’t believe that, did you?”
Gasps erupted from the group—genuine and uncontrolled.
And then, with a swiftness no one expected, #25 reached for the two guns and fired them in different directions.
Bang.
Bang.