"On the brink of death" always sounded like a cheap novel cliché. But when I lived it, I realized it meant this—being lifted by the throat in midair by a nightmare agent, dangling like a dead rat.
It happened fast. We were resting in an abandoned church, stained glass long shattered. Moonlight poured through the holes like interrogation lamps. Then—bam! A nightmare agent burst through the wall.
It wore a suit, face twisted like chewed rubber, Bureau badge pinned to its chest.
"E—than." Its voice grated like rusted gears.
"Oh, I'm touched," I wheezed. "Even assassinations are real-name these days."
It clamped my throat, hoisting me up like a toy. I kicked helplessly, thinking: shouldn't have eaten that extra bread roll at dinner—makes me look heavier.
Air drained fast, head pounding like drumbeats. Just when I was about to add this scene to my "final words anthology," a gunshot cracked. The agent's arm burst, grip loosening. I dropped like a sack of potatoes.
"Cough—cough!" I gasped. Air burned harsher than whiskey. Through blurred vision, I saw him—the friend I'd insulted a chapter ago.
"You always cause trouble," he said, reloading calmly.
"Yeah, but that's my charm," I rasped.
The agent wasn't dead. Its wound spewed black smoke, tainting the air. With predator's malice, it lunged at him.
For a split second, I enjoyed the irony: finally, not me.
Then instinct kicked in. I grabbed a fallen iron bar and smashed its back. A hollow clang rang out—like hitting an empty oil drum. Brilliant. Either I'd die by monster or by stupidity.
My friend seized the chance, kicked it off balance, and fired a volley. Bullets tore its chest. It screamed, convulsed, then dissolved into smoke before the ruined altar.
Collapsed, I wheezed like I'd just run a hundred kilometers. My coughs scratched worse than a broken record.
He walked over, holstering his gun, staring at me.
"You owe me a life." His words were soft, but cut like knives.
I forced a grin. "Can I get a discount? Half a life?"
He shook his head. "You always hide fear behind jokes."
"Please." I raised my hand, mock solemn. "This isn't hiding—it's professional habit. Without black humor, I'd have lost my mind long ago."
He stayed silent, weighing trust. But no matter what, he had just saved me. That fact was absurd in itself.
Once comrades, now somewhere between ally and enemy. He might be a traitor, an illusion, or worse. Yet, in that moment, he chose to save me. And I almost wanted to thank him.
But I didn't.
Because I knew once spoken, thanks would make things even more dangerous.
So I sat on the cracked church floor, dusting myself off, forcing a crooked smile.
"Next time, don't save me. Heroic rescues don't suit us. They're an insult to literature."
He glanced back, faint smirk tugging at his lips. Made me wonder—maybe he understood black humor better than I did.
Night wind whistled through broken windows, glass fragments chiming like a jagged funeral hymn.