After the escape, the world didn't become brighter.
It became indifferent.
Charles wandered.
At first — out of fear that they would find him.
Later — simply because he didn't know where to go.
He had no documents.
No education either.
More precisely, he had knowledge, but no papers to prove it.
He quickly learned a simple truth:
a mind without proof is worthless to anyone.
No one would give him work.
Sometimes — out of pity.
More often — they didn't even look him in the eye.
He slept wherever he could.
Ate when the opportunity arose.
Hunger became familiar — not pain, but background noise.
Then, one day, luck smiled on him.
He was hired as a janitor at a bank.
No one cared that he had read books, knew the basics of medicine, understood lock mechanisms, and could read lies in people's faces.
The only thing that mattered was that he stayed silent and mopped the floors.
He stayed silent.
And he mopped.
Every day he saw people.
Clerks with empty eyes.
Visitors with forced smiles.
Guards who were bored and dreamed of the end of their shift.
Sometimes he thought:
if my parents ever saw this place, they would call it a temple.
Money.
Fear.
Submission.
It fit perfectly.
The robbery happened suddenly.
A scream.
A shot into the ceiling.
People on the floor.
Three of them.
Two inside.
One outside, in the car.
Charles didn't think long.
He knew the building's layout.
He knew the back exit.
He knew which doors jammed.
He started leading people out.
Quietly.
Firmly.
No persuasion.
"Faster," he whispered. "Or you die."
One of the robbers noticed him.
"Hey!"
Charles ran.
He deliberately turned into a narrow corridor.
Door.
Turn.
He knew — if he stopped, he would die.
When the robber followed him in, Charles struck first.
The pistol felt heavy.
Cold.
Familiar.
A shot.
The body fell.
He felt no joy.
No fear.
Only clarity.
He ran toward the back exit.
And then the second shot rang out too close.
He managed to turn.
He managed to fire.
One bullet entered the robber's head.
Another entered his own lung.
Air vanished.
His legs buckled.
He tumbled over the emergency stairs and fell.
The pain was strange.
Not sharp.
Dull.
All-consuming.
He lay there, staring at the sky.
That's it, he thought.
Faces flashed before his eyes.
His sister.
The attic.
Books.
People lying on the bank floor.
He laughed.
Blood filled his throat.
"Funny…" he rasped. "I never… even wanted to be a hero…"
He remembered the gods.
All of them.
Those who demanded sacrifices.
Those who stayed silent.
Those who watched.
"If you exist…" his voice broke into a scream, "…then you're watching again, aren't you?!"
There was no answer.
"I hate you…" he whispered. "All of you…"
If I had a second chance…
I would live my life my own way.
The light began to fade.
And at that moment it seemed to him —
the sky trembled.
Then darkness came.