By evening, the storm broke.
He grabbed the pistol, his hands steady this time. His mind surged like a tidal wave, dragging me down. I clawed for control, shouting inside his skull:
"Stop! You don't want this!"
"You don't understand!" he roared back. "Every breath I take is stolen from the dead! I see their faces every night. I hear their cries. And you want me to keep living with that?"
The barrel pressed against our temple. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
"Yes!" I screamed. "Because living with it means you still have a chance to make it right!"
The world tilted, the struggle tearing me apart. My vision split—half battlefield, half memory of my rooftop. Two suicides, locked in one body, one decision.
And then, at the breaking point—hesitation. His finger froze on the trigger.
The smallest breath. The smallest pause.
The crack widened.