“Pull the trigger, Arthur.” A man’s voice echoed through the dimly lit room. “This is your only chance to survive,” he added, his tone calm, his pale blue eyes steady and unwavering.

  Arthur’s hands trembled as he raised the gun, his grip unsteady. He bit his lip hard, his brow furrowed. “W-Why are you d-doing this, Ray?” he stammered, his voice breaking as his breath hitched. This wasn’t something he had ever prepared for—not in the most dreadful scenarios he could imagine

  Ray smiled—a soft, almost serene smile that didn’t belong in a moment like this. Despite the odds against him, he still found it in himself to smile. “It has nothing to do with you,” he said quietly. He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a long, steady breath, as if bracing for what was to come. When he opened them again, the determination in his gaze was unshaken, fearless.

  Arthur’s heart clenched. “R-Ray…” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The words hit him like a knife to the chest, cutting deep. He wasn’t ready to hear that. The pain twisted inside him, showing in the tight set of his jaw and the slight quiver in his lips. His eyes gleamed with tears he refused to let fall.

  “PULL THE GODDAMN TRIGGER, ARTHUR!!!” Ray suddenly roared, his voice cracking under the strain. He grabbed the barrel of the gun and shoved it against his forehead. “SHOW YOUR FUCKING OWNERS HOW LOYAL THEIR DOG REALLY IS, YOU IDIOT!”

  Ray’s outburst sent Arthur’s emotions spiraling. His breath quickened, his vision blurred with hot tears, and a scream tore from his throat. He tightened his grip on the gun, every muscle in his body trembling, and pulled the trigger with all the strength he had left.

  All of a sudden, he heard a voice, a familiar one. It kept calling his name, growing louder and more insistent.

  “Arthur!!”

  “Arthur! Wake up!”

  His eyes fluttered open, taking in the ornate light bulb on the ceiling that cast a soft glow onto the lavish wooden walls. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, blinking away the haze, and saw a woman looking down at him, her eyes clouded with worry.

  “Arthur, are you okay?” she asked, her voice low but thick with anxiety.

  He raised his hand to her cheek, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What’s wrong, Alice? Why do you look so worried?”

  Her hand covered his as she leaned into his touch. “You were panting in your sleep,” she said softly, her eyes downcast. “And you kept saying the name Ray.” She closed her eyes, her brows furrowing. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

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  Arthur drew in a deep breath, forcing a small, reassuring smile onto his face. He leaned closer to Alice, his fingers brushing through her hair with slow, deliberate care. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice gentle. “You don’t need to worry about me. Let’s focus on curing your disease.”

  Alice let out a soft sigh, leaning into his embrace. Wrapping her arms around him, she rested her head against his chest. Arthur closed his eyes, holding her close, his grip firm as though grounding himself in her presence.

  It had been three weeks since her leukemia treatment began. Her condition had started to improve—the symptoms were subsiding, and her once pale complexion had brightened. She was slowly returning to her usual self.

  Yet, despite the progress, Arthur often seemed distant. Like today, he sat on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, his expression devoid of emotion.

  In the kitchen, Alice watched him, a flicker of concern crossing her face. Was it related to what happened last night? Could his dream be tied to the weight of his past? She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts. With a determined breath, she walked over to him and stood in front of him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with concern.

  Arthur blinked and looked at her, his lips curving into a faint smile. He patted the empty seat beside him, gesturing for her to sit. Alice lowered herself onto the couch, her gaze fixed on him.

  “Tell me,” she said, her tone soft but firm. “What’s gotten into you so suddenly?”

  Arthur’s gaze faltered, and he let out a shaky breath. “Alice,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with emotion. “Do you want to know about my past? The reason I couldn’t let go of my trauma before I met you?”

  His hands trembled slightly, the movement subtle but noticeable. Alice caught it and placed her hand over his, squeezing gently.

  She smiled at him, her eyes warm and reassuring. “My ears are always open to you, Arthur.”

  “It escalated so quickly that I had to force myself to accept the fate laid out before me,” he said, his voice heavy as he drew a deep, shuddering breath, struggling to steady himself.

  She fixed her gaze on him, her expression sharp and questioning. “Force yourself?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with disbelief.

  He gave a faint nod, his eyes drifting upward to the ceiling as if searching for solace in its blank expanse. “I had to force myself to kill the only person who ever respected me—the only one who saw me as a human being, not just a tool. That person was my best friend.” he said, each word dragging out of him like a confession.

  The weight of his admission struck her like a blow. Her breath hitched, and her eyes widened, the shock of his words coursing through her. It was sudden, too raw, like a blade slicing through her resolve. She wasn’t expecting for him to say that to her face directly.

  “H-Huh?” she murmured, words wouldn't come out from her mouth.

  "You heard me right," he said, his voice trembling as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. "I stained my hands with the blood of my best friend to get where I am today." His breath hitched, and his gaze locked onto Alice’s, unwavering and intense. His eyes burned with a mix of pain and guilt, his lips pressed into a hard line. "I killed my own best friend."