Then it begins. Our final moments.

A large screen lay across the room, displaying how long we have left to live in bold, red numbers.

“Come on, come on, come on-!” I find myself mumbling under my breath frantically, struggling against the rope that holds me to the chair. My skin burns, and I have to bite my lip as a distraction from the friction. I twist and pull at the rope to no avail. I don’t even realize tears had slipped down my face until one runs over my lip, a salty taste following it.

After a few moments, I come to a stop, heaving breaths of air as I look around.

Where... What…

Then I see it. Feet away from me, a pocket knife lay on a table. Immediately, I squirm in the chair, jumping and shuffling over as quick as I can.

Panic begins to rise in my chest as I look up to see how long there is left.

Two minutes. I can make it count.

It takes a second, but I finally get to the table, and I maneuver the chair around so I can grab the knife. The cold metal of its handle grazes my hand. I pick it up and flip it open, sawing at the rope as fast as possible. Again, I hear myself mumble unintelligibly under my breath, glancing up at the screen every few seconds.

With a jolt, my hands pull free, and I feel a smile stretch across my face, overwhelmed by a sense of panic and happiness all at once.

Just as I move forward to free my legs, a pair of hands wrap around my arms, forcing them back behind the chair and twisting my hand painfully until I drop the knife.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

My blood runs cold. When I don’t answer, he pulls my arms back further, causing me to wince in pain.

“I asked you a question. I’d suggest you answer it,” he threatens, nearly whispering in my ear.

Shrugging my shoulders and struggling against his grip, I snarl at him, “Trying to get free; what does it look like?”

As I speak, I feel cold metal snap around my wrists. My eyes widen as I realize he cuffed me to the chair.

Finally, he lets go of my arms, leaving me to fight against the metal instead. He steps around the chair, circling me until he stands to my right, letting out a soft sigh. “Time’s almost up.”

In horror, I snap upwards, staring at the numbers grow lower and lower.

In my peripheral vision, I see him shake his head softly, mocking me. As he does, however, his expression shows pity. “This is what happens when you play the hero.” He stares into my eyes with a cold demeanor. “Having hope… being delusional… it costs you in the real world. Life really isn’t fair.”

Ten.

My mouth opens as I go to say something, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Nine.

“Now their blood is on your hands.”

Eight.

Everything grows cloudy and I breathe heavier, feeling pressure build up behind my eyes.

Seven.

I can feel the guilt clawing its way up my throat, threatening to choke me. I shouldn’t have stepped in. And now they’ll die because I was stupid and now it’s my fucking fault-

Six.

He moves, pulling a pistol out from his side and making sure it’s loaded.

Five.

“Nhg- No… N-No! Pl- Please- NO!” The sound bounces off the walls, seeming almost foreign to me, as if I hadn’t been the one to scream. “Stop it! STOP IT!”

Four.

The sound of a gun being cocked is the response I receive.

Three.

The numbers blur together, a mass of color before me as my face contorts in grief.

Two.

With a final shake of his head, the man shrugs, waiting for the timer to end.

One.

One moment I’m staring at the screen, not really seeing it, and the next, a bright light consumes my vision. My eyes close instinctively as my ears ring. I look back up, feeling sick to my stomach.

They’re gone. And it’s my fault. They…

The cold barrel of a gun rests against my temple, and I stiffen in response.

Just barely, I hear his voice speak solemnly, as if from experience. “That’s what you get for having a dream.”