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Conflicts resolved through blood and tears were the methods of those without the heart or the stomach to face them head-on.
Not for those who had once shared their lives, their secrets, and certainly not for those who had shared the crushing weight of their losses.
Friends. A fragile, abstract notion—one so delicate, so fleeting, it had become nothing more than a legend to Fluixon.
Maybe, in his youth, the naivety of innocence had kept him from seeing its eventual decay. If things had been different, perhaps they wouldn’t be sitting at a table now, each one staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, moments away from their fate.
He knew better than anyone that he was no saint.
He had spilled blood, shattered countless dreams, to understand that forgiveness was a luxury he would never be granted. Yet, even as the final moment loomed, he would not bend. Not to these fools, these traitors. Not to the man he had once given something too precious to reclaim—Trust. A word he had long forgotten, one that had died the moment he crawled out of his past, drenched in blood.
Fluixon's gaze swept over his companions, a grim, bitter smile twisting at his lips. Saparata, as ever, was the epitome of emptiness. His face is cold. It felt odd seeing him without the mask—his foolish, ridiculous mask that had been a part of him for so long.
"So, it's come to this," His voice was a faint murmur, laced with a bitter edge. "Look how far we've fallen." It was poison, pure and venomous, veiled beneath the guise of an innocent fruit—drawing the unwary closer, until the fatal moment arrived and there was no turning back.
Saparata was the second to speak, his words barely more than a breath. "I'm sorry." A weak apology, a feeble attempt to soften the wound of the betrayal, but it held no weight, no meaning. It was a hollow gesture from the man who had nothing but contempt for the one before him—yet, perhaps beneath that, a trace of pity, though he would never admit it.
A moment passed. Then another.
Silence.
Only the sound of their breath, the steady rhythm of their hearts.
It was almost poetic.
Almost.
Fluixon was the first to reach for the firearm, its cold metal searing into his skin as his fingers curled tightly around the grip. His eyes, burning with a quiet fury, met Saparata's gaze; the emptiness reflected in both pairs, a mirror of the betrayal that now defined them. "I don't want your apologies," Fluixon spat, his words dripping with venom, "I want your blood." His voice faltered, trembled, yet his grip on the weapon only tightened as his metallic hand reached for the ammunition at the side of the table, drawing a shaky breath.
"Fluixon..."
He ignored him, the sound of the other's voice lost in the frantic rhythm of his hands. Fluixon worked quickly, loading the firearm with trembling fingers. The weight of it felt foreign, alien—like a cruel reminder of the sins he had committed, the wrongs that now felt inescapable. The spin of the cylinder echoed in his mind, a grim soundtrack to the final moments.
"You are making a mistake."
"I’ve made many," Fluixon whispered, his voice breaking, the weight of his past crushing him. "Mistakes that haunt me. Mistakes that define me." His breath hitched, as if the weight of every error he had ever made was crushing him in that very moment. "This is the least of them."
And he was right. If death was his fate, then he would meet it by the other's hand. He would make sure his blood stained Saparata’s pristine clothing, the purity of that white attire forever tainted by the mark of his sins.
"I can't."
"Then let me." Fluixon hissed.
No amount of apologies, no amount of regret could undo the damage that had been done. There was only one path left, and it led through the barrel of the gun. Fluixon finally let the weapon fall from his grasp, sliding it across the table toward the man who seemed almost angelic compared to the demon that had consumed him.
"Your turn."
The words stung, sickening in their truth, but still, Saparata’s hand reached out. His fingers wrapped around the cold, hard metal, the weight of the gun grounding him in a twisted sense of familiarity. He had took a life before, his own and others, and yet—nausea twisted in his gut. Slowly, he raised the barrel to his head, eyes closing in resignation, a single, shuddering breath escaping him as his finger curled around the trigger.
A click.
Silence.
Nothing.
"Fuck." An empty cartridge.
Saparata’s eyes fluttered open, the silence now deafening. His gaze shifted to the side, a resigned sigh slipping from him. He had expected nothing less.
"Fluixon."
"I know."
A bitter smile curled at Fluixon’s lips
"You are truly a cruel man."
"As are you."
They were both liars. Deceivers. Neither had been innocent in this game.
Saparata’s hand trembled as he reached for another cartridge, his grip still tight on the firearm. The weapon felt wrong in his grasp, alien, as though the very air around him had thickened. The silence between them was deafening. He loaded the gun again, the click of the cartridge punctuating the stillness. He met Fluixon’s gaze for a brief moment before passing the weapon back across the table.
"Now."
Fluixon's hand shot out for the gun, his eyes never leaving Saparata’s face. There, in the hollow depths of the other’s expression, he saw resignation—a flicker of something that might have been regret. He pulled the firearm towards him, his hands trembling, a sharp breath escaping him. His gaze shifted back to Saparata, his resolve hardening. Slowly, deliberately, he aimed the barrel toward the man sitting across from him.
Fluixon could feel his heartbeat, each thud louder than the last, his grip on the gun tightening. His finger moved, wrapping itself around the trigger, a shudder running down his spine.
"Last chance."
"It's too late for that."
The air was thick with a suffocating quiet. Time itself seemed to have paused for a second. Fluixon exhaled sharply and then squeezed the trigger. The sound of metal clattering to the floor was followed by a cold, sharp click that reverberated throughout the room.
An empty cartridge.
"...Fate has a twisted sense of humor," the vice-president remarked, his lips twitching into something resembling a smile. Amusement laced his tone, but none of them dared to respond. Saparata took the gun from Fluixon, his fingers curling around it with an odd mixture of hesitation and resolve. He spun the barrel once more,trying to ignore the fact it was his friend sitting at the other chair. This time, the barrel was pointed directly at Fluixon’s head.
Saparata's hands trembled, his nerves screaming in protest. And yet, Fluixon—without a hint of fear, without a single ounce of hesitation—leaned forward, pressing his forehead directly against the cold, unforgiving metal.
"I'll give you the honor."
The silence grew, suffocating, their heartbeats becoming synchronized, a rhythmic pulse of anticipation. The moment dragged on, stretched beyond its natural limits, and then—Saparata pressed the trigger.
Click.
"What is this?"
"It appears to be your fate," The leader replied, a breathy laugh corrupting the midst of his words. "I guess I was never destined to die by your hands."
"Neither was I." A bite of the apple.
Another round, another spin.
The other's grip on the gun tightened, his fingers white with the strain. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else. His skin slick with sweat as adrenaline flooded his veins, a sharp, electrifying rush that made his breath catch. His jaw clenched, throat bobbing with a loud swallow. "Damn it."
"Patience, Saps."
"Fuck off." His hand, trembling with restraint, hovered for a moment before he forced it into Fluixon’s grasp, pushing the other's head back with an almost violent urgency. The action was swift, too swift to be countered, and for a moment, there was nothing but the cold, dissonant quiet between them. Fluixon, still laughing—an unrestrained, guttural sound—let the gun slip from his grasp. The laugh echoed through the room, rich and full of something almost unnatural, like the final throes of a man who had long since accepted his fate.
"Why did you do it?"
The deceived confronted the serpent, their voice trembling as it spilled forth like venom, words heavy with the weight of guilt. The juice of deceit dripped from the mortal’s lips, staining the air with the tang of corruption. It was not merely a question—it was an invocation.
"Excuse me?"
Saparata’s voice broke through the silence once more, his words laced with a quiet desperation. "Why did you betray me?"
"You know the answer to that." The same serpent, ever elusive, ever sly, whispering truths that felt like lies.
"Indulge me."
It was surreal—an unsettling sight, to witness Fluixon’s usual arrogance fade into an unsettling silence. The man, once a serpent coiled with venom, a hydra whose heads devoured all before him, now reduced to nothing more than a man, bare and vulnerable. A being who, too, had once sought the elusive truth, the reason behind abandonment.
But he did not know the answer.
No matter how hard he searched, how deep he dug, he could not find it. He could not understand it.
Saparata’s silence hung between them like a suffocating fog, thick and unyielding. His expression was unreadable. The vice-president’s words were heavy with something Saparata couldn’t place—regret, bitterness, perhaps even a plea, though he would never admit it. "We were friends once,"
"Once." The word hung in the air, brittle and broken, like glass shattering upon impact.
"Do you not miss our days?"
"Of course, I do."
"Then why? Why did you throw it all away? Why did you abandon me?"
Saparata remained silent, his eyes hollow. The words that could have bridged the gulf between them sat dormant, trapped beneath the weight of guilt and regret. He had never meant to abandon him, never wanted to turn his back on a man who had once been his equal, his companion. But in the face of corruption, of a rot that had seeped into the very core of Theria, he had chosen the path of suicide. A coward's choice, perhaps, but a choice made in the hopes that his absence might spark change, might force the others to see what had become of their world.
"You know why."
Fluixon, despite all his rage, despite the venom that had once dripped from his every word, could only look at him, powerless and hollow. He wished, desperately, that he knew. Amid the hollow ache gnawing at his chest; he was weary, the kind of tired that seeped deep, filling every empty corner where hope once resided. The weight shaping his silence into something jagged and sharp. In that moment, he was stripped of every veneer—no longer the serpent, the hydra, the devourer—just a man, and a tired one at that. Alone, utterly and irrevocably alone.
"Do you remember the day we first met?" His voice was barely a whisper, tinged with a bitterness that made the question feel more like a wound reopening.
"Yes." Saparata’s answer was quiet, almost reverent.
"Do you regret it?"
"I regret nothing." The response was immediate, unflinching—a truth wrapped in the gentlest of lies.
A pause settled over them, heavy and palpable, as Saparata closed his eyes, his mask slipping for the briefest of moments. A flicker of remorse, the smallest fracture in his facade, crossed his face. His jaw clenched as he took in a shuddering breath, his gaze steadying as he looked across at the man he had once called friend.
"Then why?"
"Because I was a fool."
"As was I."
"I think we were destined for this."
"Or maybe, we were not."
"Maybe."
Silence fell once more.
"It's your turn."
The click reverberated in the air as the barrel rotated. The gun had been hoisted by Fluixon, who narrowed his eyes as the chilly metal touched his skin. His heart was racing, and his hand was shaking. The air grew silent as he put the barrel on his temple and let out a single, trembling breath.
"Do you remember what I told you?" Fluixon’s voice was steady, but his words had the sharpness of a blade.
"Of course, I do." Saparata’s response was quiet, but it carried the weight of history, of things left unsaid between them.
"Tell me."
"That I would always be by your side."
"And do you think it will come true?"
"No."
"Good."
The simplicity of that answer stung. Fluixon had once clung to those words like a lifeline, but now, they seemed as fleeting as a dream forgotten upon waking. He could feel the air shifting, the silence thickening, suffocating them both.
"Are you not going to ask me why?" The deceived murmured.
"I trust you."
"I do not."
A flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or a fleeting realization—crossed Fluixon's face, but it was gone before Saparata could grasp it. The silence returned, oppressive and relentless. "That is your problem." Fluixon's words were soft, but their meaning cut through the other like a blade. His hands shook, but his resolve remained steady. His finger pulled again, the hollow click ringing in his ears.
Another round. Another click. And yet, silence.
The silence itself hurt more than a bullet.
"Why are you doing this?" Saparata asked, his voice barely a whisper, a crack in his own facade.
"To spare you the pain." Fluixon’s answer was final, irrevocable. It was a promise wrapped in cruelty, a gift tied in a bow of unspoken despair; when no bullet came out, he simply lowered the firearm with a shaky exhale.
"There is no need for that." Saparata’s voice, though steady, held a faint tremor—a small crack in his usually impenetrable calm.
"There is no other choice," Fluixon's reply was a whisper, unyielding, a bitter edge hidden beneath.
"We can find another way."
"There is no other way."
"Do not be a fool," Saparata countered, his voice almost pleading now, desperation slipping through.
"Do not be a coward."
Saparata’s eyes hardened, his jaw clenching, but he remained silent. The accusation echoed between them, hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "I am not," he murmured finally, his tone barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would unravel him entirely.
Fluixon’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. "You are."
Saparata was a little stunned by the statements. As Fluixon's hands steadied his own and moved his fingers around the metal and toward the trigger, he gasped. A mixture of anger and tenderness, of grief and cruelty, it was a bizarre moment. Fluixon did not let him move away or release his hands. He refused to allow Saparata look away from the seriousness of the situation as his eyes met his. And there they were, both hands wrapped around the weapon, neither really wanting to let it.
Fluixon’s grip held firm, his voice a low threat that cut through the moment. "If you don’t shoot me," he whispered, voice edged like a blade, "I’ll shoot you."
Saparata’s fingers trembled, the weight of the gun unbearable in his hands. He shook his head, a flicker of defiance behind his fear. "That’s not a choice."
"No," Fluixon agreed, his eyes cold and resolute. "It isn’t."
Saparata tried to pull his hands free, but Fluixon’s hold was relentless, the barrel pressing into his skin, cold and unyielding—a twisted embrace. He could feel Fluixon’s gaze, steady and unforgiving, a reminder of the path they had walked, the choices they had made. Every breath between them felt like a step closer to the edge.
"You cannot run from this." Fluixon's voice was a low murmur, steady and certain, like a judge reading a sentence, knowing it would tear them both apart.
"I know." The words barely escaped Saparata, the resignation in his tone mingling with a flicker of fear. He swallowed, his throat dry, as though confessing a truth he had buried long ago.
"Then why?" Fluixon's eyes bore into him, searching for the answer they both knew.
Saparata's gaze dropped, his voice soft, almost breaking under the weight of the moment. "Because I am afraid." The betrayed lay exposed in the embrace of the serpent, allowing the creature’s blood-soaked fangs to release crimson drops into their mouth—a silent surrender, as if craving the poison. Predator and prey, saint and sinner, bound in a grotesque intimacy, like a beast and the sacrificial lamb entwined. The serpent’s scales glistened with malice, each droplet an oath broken, each touch a wound that could never heal.
In another light, the serpent and the deceived could have been lovers in a dark, twisted symbiosis; a dance of giving and consuming, where intimacy was savored just as violence was offered.
"Of what?"
"Of the pain."
"Who isn’t?"
The distance between them shrank to a mere sliver of air as Fluixon drew in and his breath ghosted across Saparata's skin. The tension between them felt like its own heartbeat, so close, almost suffocating. Chests rose and fell in a cadence that reflected the pandemonium inside as their bodies crushed together. With a steady, methodical motion, Fluixon moved Saparata's hand and the cold barrel metal to his chest, directly over the throbbing beat of his heart, which thumped beneath his ribs. His eyes remained fixed on the angel-like man, unblinking, unflinching, as though he were daring him to do so.
"Feel it."
A shuddering breath escaped Saparata.
"Feel my heartbeat."
Saparata could hear it—the steady, thumping rhythm that matched his own. He could feel it, the heat of the other's skin, the rush of blood beneath his fingers.
"Feel my life."