"Harder... just a little more..." Michael grunted, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
The cold metal of the gun pressed against his temple, the weight of his decision hanging heavily in the air. His finger moved back and forth on the trigger, undecided, trembling with uncertainty.
But then again, what did he have to lose? He had absolutely nothing left, so with a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger.
The deafening bang echoed through the small room.
And then, nothing.
No flash of light, no rush of memories. Just a void, nothing like the flashes of memories they said would appear when someone is about to die.
Perhaps it was all a lie. Or maybe Michael simply had no life to flash before his eyes, no joyful memories to recall.
As far back as he could remember, there was nothing good.
His earliest memories weren't of bedtime stories or family dinners. They were of cigarette smoke curling through a dimly lit room, the bitter stench of alcohol, and the distant sound of his parents screaming at each other.
His mother was a ghost—thin, jittery, lost in the high she was always chasing. His father, a war veteran drowning in his own demons, spent his days either drinking himself into oblivion or staring blankly at the walls.
But amidst the chaos, there was one thing that made life bearable: his little brother, Danny.
They had no one else, so they became everything to each other. When the fridge was empty, they learned to steal. When their parents fought, they hid in the closet, whispering stories to distract each other from the breaking glass. When things got bad, they promised they'd run away together one day—somewhere far, somewhere safe.
But fate had other plans.
Their father kept guns in the house. Not locked up, not hidden—just lying around, as familiar as furniture. He never bothered teaching them proper gun safety. Just barked the occasional warning: "Don't be stupid with it."
Michael and Danny played with them all the time—unloaded, of course. Pretending to be heroes, spies, outlaws. It was a game. It was always a game.
Until the day it wasn't.
The gun felt the same in Michael's hands as it always had—cool metal, reassuring weight. But this time, when he pulled the trigger, it didn't click.
It roared.
Danny staggered back, eyes wide with shock. For a second, Michael thought he was playing. But then he saw the red spreading across his brother's chest, too fast, too much. Danny opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but no words came. He just crumpled to the floor, a puddle of blood growing around him.
Michael's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.
He dropped the gun, hands trembling as he crawled to Danny's side.
"You're okay. You're gonna be okay." He pressed his hands against the wound, but the blood wouldn't stop. It just kept coming, soaking through his fingers, warm and sticky.
Danny's hand twitched. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Then—nothing.
The front door slammed open. Their father stood there, swaying slightly, reeking of whiskey. His bleary gaze flicked from Michael to the gun to Danny's lifeless body.
Silence. Then a sound Michael had never heard before—a deep, guttural howl, raw with grief and rage. His father lunged at him, fists swinging.
The first hit split his lip. The second sent him crashing to the floor. He barely had time to curl up before the kicks started, each one worse than the last.
"Monster," his father spat. "You killed him. You killed my son."
Michael wanted to scream that it was an accident, that he hadn't meant to—but the words wouldn't come. Because maybe his father was right. Maybe he was a monster.
The next blow landed.
Then another.
And another.
Until—sirens.
Neighbors must have heard the gunshot. Or the screaming.
The door burst open again, and suddenly the room was filled with shouting officers. Strong hands wrenched his father away. Someone was calling his name, but the world had already begun to fade.
Then—darkness.
Michael woke up in a hospital bed—his head throbbed, his ribs ached. Then the memories hit him all at once, suffocating. Danny. Blood. His father's screams.
The police had arrested his parents—his mother for drug possession, his father for assault.
That was when he learned the truth.
His father had loaded the gun earlier that day, intending to end his own life in a drunken haze. But he couldn't go through with it. So he left the gun there. Loaded.
And that was how everything happened.
But none of it mattered.
Danny was still dead.
And Michael was still alive.
How was that fair?
Even after knowing it was an accident, he never forgave himself.
How could he? His brother was dead because of him. A single pull of the trigger—an innocent, childish mistake—and his whole world had collapsed in an instant. The look in his father's eyes that day never left him. The pure, unfiltered hatred. It burned into his soul, carved itself into his very existence.
Monster.
That's what his father had called him. And maybe, just maybe, he was right.
But fate wasn't done with him. No, fate had something even crueler planned.
With his parents in jail and no known relatives—or at least none willing to take him in—Michael was thrown into the system. A cycle of suffering disguised as "care."
Foster homes were supposed to be safe. A second chance for kids like him.
But for Michael, they were a slow descent into hell.
The first home was bad. The second, worse. The third? He didn't even want to remember. Each one found new ways to remind him just how worthless he was. Some foster parents just wanted the government check. Others wanted a punching bag. A few just didn't care whether he lived or died.
By the time he turned eighteen, Michael had been through so many homes that he'd lost count. But somehow, against all odds, he made it through high school. Not because he was smart—he wasn't. He had to claw his way to passing grades, studying twice as hard as everyone else just to keep up.
While others breezed through tests, he stayed up through the night, poring over textbooks that made no sense. He barely made it, but he did.
And then came college.
Of course, there was no trust fund waiting for him. No rich uncle. No safety net. So, like every other poor kid who still
And then came college.
Of course, there was no trust fund waiting for him. No rich uncle. No safety net. So, like every other poor kid who still believed in the lie that hard work would pay off, he took out student loans. He piled them up, one after another, thinking that if he just kept pushing forward, if he just endured a little more, he'd eventually find a way out.
After graduation, things seemed to get better—or at least, he thought they did.
He got a job in the financial department of Generic Corp.
It wasn't anything special, but it was enough. Enough to live a normal life, pay his bills, and enjoy a little bit of luxury here and there.
Maybe life was finally changing. For once, he felt free. For once, he started to believe that maybe all his hard work would actually lead to something better.
But reality had other plans.
He stayed at Generic Corp for ten years. Ten long years.
Ten years of showing up early, working late, taking on extra responsibilities, and giving his best. But none of it seemed to matter. No raise. No promotion. Nothing.
Every time he brought it up with his boss, Mr. Stevenson, he got the same response: "Keep up the good work. It will pay off." And a pat on the back.
But it never did. Year after year, it was the same. Still, Michael kept pushing forward. He believed that eventually, someone would notice. Eventually, his effort would be rewarded.
Then, after ten years, the Senior Accounting Manager position opened up.
Finally, some hope.
Out of all the candidates, he was the most qualified. He had the experience, the results, the loyalty. He was looking forward to finally getting what he had worked so hard for.
But then came the shock.
Mr. Stevenson announced that Sandra had been given the position.
Sandra. A junior employee who had been with the company for less than six months. Someone who hadn't even accomplished a fraction of what Michael had done.
When he confronted Mr. Stevenson, all he got was, "She's a more qualified candidate. Keep working hard, and maybe your promotion will come someday."
That was when it all became clear to Michael.
His hard work, his sacrifices, his loyalty—none of it mattered.
In this world, people like him were just background characters. Just filler. Just collateral.
No matter what they did, it never counted.
Sandra didn't get the job because she was more qualified. That was a lie, a big one.
She got the job because she knew how to play the game. Because she seduced the boss. Because she had something that pleased him.
Ten years of sweat, overtime, and loyalty—worthless. It couldn't even compare to a few flirty smiles, a short skirt, and layers of makeup.
That's when Michael realized everything he believed in was a lie.
He thought the world was fair. He thought hard work would lead to success.
But this world didn't reward effort. It rewarded connections. Appearances. Manipulation.
People like him were the losers from the start.
It reminded him of the fantasy novels he used to read. Where the so-called villain was hated for killing one person, but the "hero" who wiped out an entire village got sympathy—just because they cried about it afterward.
Now, Michael finally saw the truth. Now, he finally understood the game.
But little did he know, his nightmare was just beginning.
A week after losing the promotion to Sandra, money went missing from the company's accounts.
Not a huge amount, but enough to raise eyebrows.
At first, Michael wasn't worried. He knew he had nothing to do with it. But as the investigation continued, things began to take a strange turn.
The evidence pointed to him.
At first, he thought it was a mistake. But then he saw the pattern. The setup. The trap.
It was all carefully planned. And it was Sandra who had planned it.
Maybe winning the promotion wasn't enough for her. Maybe she wanted him completely eliminated.
Michael tried everything to prove his innocence, but it was no use. The evidence was stacked against him. The money had been moved using his login credentials.
He pleaded and explained, but no one listened. In the end, he not only lost his job—he was also buried in debt.
From there, things just got worse.
No company would hire him with that kind of stain on his record.
No job meant no money. And with debts piling up, he was drowning.
He tried.
He really tried to stay strong. But three months later, he reached his breaking point.
He had sold almost everything he owned just to pay what little of the debt he could. Rent was due, and he had no money left. That meant he'd be on the streets soon.
He was finished. He had nothing left to lose.
So he made a decision.
He sold the last of what he owned and bought a handgun. He had decided to end it all.
But he didn't want to go alone.
He found Mr. Stevenson and Sandra. The ones who had ruined his life. The ones who had used and discarded him like trash.
He put a bullet in both of their heads.
And then he turned the gun on himself.
At first, it hurt. The bullet shattered the roof of his mouth and tore into his brain.
But then came the silence.
Everything became quiet.
Finally, peace.
Not the peace he had hoped for, but enough.
And just like that, fate had the last laugh.
Or so he thought.