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Summary
Khun Mae asked Fadel to kill Style, and so he did it.
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Style’s breath came faster now, his chest rising and falling in short, uneven bursts—his body must have been flooded with adrenaline. Once more, he whispered, “I love you.” It was clear he was waiting for an response.
Fadel gave it to him with the two gunshots echoing through the small room.
Style’s breaths came in ragged bursts, his body still fighting even as warmth drained from him. His blood splattered everywhere—on the floor, on Fadel’s hands, even across his face. He had killed before, many times, but never like this. Never while holding them. Never while looking into their eyes. Never while feeling their final breaths against his skin.
The gun clattered to the floor as he instinctively reached out, catching Style before he could collapse completely. His lips moved, forming words that never came—only garbled, choked sounds. His pupils had lost focus but those deep brown eyes never once strayed from Fadel’s face.
And Fadel, as if caught in some terrible trance, couldn’t look away. He held him close, gently, almost like lulling a child to sleep. One arm cradled the back of his neck; the other gripped his trembling hands, clutching desperately at Fadel’s blood-soaked shirt. They clung to each other in a way that almost looked impossible.
Even without words, the plea in Style’s eyes was unmistakable. He wouldn’t go without hearing it. Fadel felt the wet tears mixing with the warm blood on his cheeks and dripping between them only when his vision blurred.
Style was holding on, waiting. But he had asked for enough. Fadel refused this final wish. He only held him tighter, feeling the warmth seep away, silently praying for it to end.
And the gods heard him.
First, Style’s fingers loosened, slipping from his shirt. Then, his lips stilled. Finally, his shallow breaths ceased. However, even when he stopped struggling, he hadn’t closed his eyes.
The gods had granted Fadel’s prayer, but left him with a cruel gift—the lingering gaze of the man who had died in his arms. But it wouldn’t last long.
The weight of what he had done suddenly crashed down on him like a hammer. His lover was dead. And worse—because of him. It was as if he had watched those final moments from behind glass, only now returning to his own body.
With trembling hands, he shut Style’s vacant eyes. What would it have changed if he had just said that he love him? If he had just whispered it back? Why had he let him go like that?
Why? Why? Why? Why?
Fadel wanted to scream, but the sound never came. He wanted to run—leave this room, leave Style behind and just run. But the thought of abandoning his body, still so fragile in his arms, made his stomach churn. He should take him to Khun Mae. That was the plan, wasn’t it? To load him into the trunk and drive. But for once in his life, Fadel wanted to win.
Could he? What was there left to win anyway?
His life. His right to decide its end. For the first and last time since his parents died, he would get to choose.
Slowly, he laid Style down. His head tilted slightly to the side, and the way it rested against the floor made something inside Fadel ache. He didn’t bother wiping his bloodied hands before reaching for the gun.
This time, it would be easy. He had rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. He pressed the barrel against his temple. No hesitation. No shaking hands. No cold sweat.
It wasn’t surprising—he had known for a while. He had loved Style more than he loved himself.
The thought had crept into his mind the first time Style broke in the car, slowly growing with every word Style spoke, until it took hold of everything. At first, he had only wanted to give him what he asked for—privacy. There was no way to grant a final wish like that in front of Khun Mae. Maybe she wouldn’t have even allowed him to do it. Style was right. He deserved at least this much.
And that had led Fadel to a different thought: What did he deserve?
Nothing.
Not a single breath more—not after stealing the life of the one person he had ever truly loved.
He glanced at Style one last time.
Wherever they were going after this, they wouldn’t be together. Style had never been a saint, but Fadel was a sinner. So he let himself look, drinking in every detail—Style’s face, peaceful now, as if only sleeping. He wanted to burn it into his memory.
He had considered closing his eyes. But he couldn’t stop looking at him. Instead, he moved closer. Unlike Style, Fadel wouldn’t linger. It would be quick. He wouldn’t even have time to think about the bullet tearing through him. So he allowed himself these last few seconds.
Still holding the gun to his temple, he carefully lay down beside him—slowly, as if afraid of waking him.
And then, he pulled the trigger.
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