Death, at this point, is like sugar in my coffee — ubiquitous, necessary, sometimes unbearably bitter. This time, the sugar may be Karl.
We stood at the rift's edge; the ground crumbled like a stale cookie, ready to fall. The great eyes of the sky watched us like two last unconsumed chips.
"Let's go," Karl suddenly said.
"Where? McDonald's? Or straight into the rift to give the world a big surprise?" I shot back.
He didn't grin. "You know—someone has to stay."
Stay? The word sounds like "non-recyclable refuse" — a polite euphemism for final disposal.
I couldn't help laughing. "Are you serious? Last time you stabbed me to keep me alive. Now you want to die? Did we flip genres into a tragic romance? We don't do that here."
"This is necessary," he said, resolute, like he actually believed his death would save the world. I had an internal chorus yelling, No way.
Nightmare tendrils lashed from the rift — a hungry whip-forest — and the air stank with burn and rot.
Karl shoved me aside. Nightmare energy detonated around him.
"I'll hold them. You run!"
"Are you out of your mind?" I yelled. "This cliche is old! Do you think you're a heroic B-role? No!"
The tendrils hit. He took them. His silhouette disappeared into the black.
I heard his voice through the roar: "Just—live…"
Standard death line. I nearly cried with laughing at its predictability.
"Live for what? Rent? Internship reports?!" I shouted, but his form blurred into the whirlpool.
The world bucked. The rift yawned, a mouth ready to swallow all. His light flickered like a dying streetlamp.
Is he dead, or still fighting? No one can say.
What's certain is the plot is forcing me to accept "Karl's death," like a scriptwriter addicted to wringing the protagonist until he sobs on cue.
I stared into the maelstrom and grinned that bitter grin. "Fine. If you die I'll take the whole world with you. At least you won't be lonely."
Nightmare energy surged through me. Black flames licked the crumbling streets.
Someone yelled in the distance, "Is he gone?!"
I thought: does it matter? Everyone ends the same way here; only the method and stage dressing differ.
Then, in the woven gray of darkness and absurdity, I heard his voice — faint, mocking:
"You think I'd die that easily? Remember, I'm better at surviving jokes than you are."
I froze.
Is he dead? Or is this a rift trick? A nightmare echo? Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Honestly, I didn't want to know. Some answers are crueller than the void.
So I laughed, loud and raw, at the collapsing sky: "Fine! Dead or alive, it doesn't matter. This rotten world's closing time is coming. If you like sacrifices, have at it—I'll watch to see if you can play the final act all the way through!"
My laughter echoed like funeral music.
Karl's death? Maybe real. Maybe the universe's latest black punchline. (The protagonist is Isan, the friend is Karl — names replaced and the chapters translated.)