Something jumped at me, something heavy.

Moving, I reeled back in rushed fright until I hit the desk, prompting me to regain some sense of control. Chest heaved in panic as I pointed the rifle at the cause of all this hysteria.

It didn't follow me? I looked at the floor.

Eh?

I froze when I finally got to see clearly what jumped out of the locker. I felt my throat clogged by something heavy as if it were obstructed by a boulder. My trembling eyes locked on the unmoving thing on the ground.

I staggered forward, toward...

"Z-Zane... Zane."

A motionless body lay on the ground at a strange angle. The feet are still inside the locker. The torso is against the ground while the head is facing backward. Lifeless eyes stared up into the void while the mouth hung open.

A black cattleman hat was on the ground beside him.

Zane's body.

Crouching, I put my trembling hand on the shoulders and shook it slightly, then aggressively when there was no response. A part of me knows what I'm doing is stupid. The man is dead. And checking for a pulse or shaking him awake is useless. A waste of time and effort. There is no way anyone could pivot their head to completely and totally face their back like that and still be alive.

Yet I'm still doing such a useless action.

Why?

The question was for and about me. I do not understand why I'm having difficulties accepting what I'm seeing. I swallowed hard; the taste of the saliva felt like dust as it went down my arid throat.

Are three days enough to make a difference between him and the villagers?

Surely not, right?

Yes, yes, it's not. Three days aren't enough. I'm just shocked that someone I talked to, someone I drank with, is now dead.

He was a cool guy in his proper style. He talks a lot—a little bit too much. He is a good guy, probably, perhaps.

"FUCK!"

I attempted to understand, but I couldn't. These unfamiliar emotions are stabbing and throbbing more painfully than the Shredder's claws.

Barely three days, man. He is a stranger. You don't know him; you don't know anything about him. He is a random soldier you come across for a brief moment, and now, just like every hapless soldier, he is dead.

Pull yourself together, damn it.

He is dead. Compared to the villagers and the hunter, he had a decent death.

I raised my hand and...

Slap.

The deafening sound echoed through the large space as if it were the only sound in the world. Since reason doesn't seem to work, hopefully, physical language would.

Slap.

And another.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Feeling my cheeks burning, I as got up. When did I lose sight of my priorities?

Zane died by human hands. I shuddered at the thought that I was this close to being in the same inanimate state.

Eric? Naturally, the officer is the first suspect. But why? What did he have to gain?

Zane is his teammate, and whether he liked him or not, that will not change. The act of betrayal aside, killing a teammate while the threat of Shredders looms over us is reckless and destructive. Such action is akin to shooting oneself in the foot.

Turning around, I begin pacing back and forth on the vast stage, occasionally shooting a glance at the motionless corpse.

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Hate and rage? The only plausible explanation I can think of for the reason behind this tragic event.

Zane had a knack for irritating people. And Eric is his favorite target, which is what I inferred from the short time I spent with them. But was that it? Did Eric's anger get the better of him? killing his teammate in a fit of unrestrained anger?

I shook my head. That feels hollow and cheap. Besides, Eric doesn't strike me as an impulsive soldier, at least not to the point of losing rationality and killing a teammate.

Unless the impulse was so strong that a human will couldn't restrain it. A word popped up in my head—or, more precisely, two words.

Blessing's Toll.

Eric is a Blessed. His supernatural ability is some sort of living radar. From what I picked up through their conversations, he can sense living beings within a certain range. I have no clue, however, on the exact range and type of living beings he could sense or on the Toll his ability exerted on his body.

Just as I would be spent and sustain an uncomfortable headache after using my ability, Eric too should experience something similar, albeit in a different manner.

My theory is that Eric's Toll is something along the lines of a lack of emotional control or amplified emotion that is so amplified it can hardly be controlled. I'm not sure if that is plausible since I only have my own ability's Toll as a reference, but it could explain the reason behind Zane's death.

Or it could be something else entirely.

Halting my pacing, I sat down on the desk's chair. The theater's vastness greeted me. Placing the rifle on the desk, I clutched my head in my hands and sighed.

Zane is dead.

Eric is a traitor and can't be trusted. Whether he did it intentionally or impulsively.

What about Alec and Bart? Were they in proper shape? Could they still fight? Or are they dead already? Killed by Shredders? By Eric?

And if they are still alive, should I find them? If I do that, should I inform them of Eric's deed? Will they believe a stranger over a teammate? After all, excluding the murder, I was the last one to see him alive. Bell was with me; she might attest in my favor, but her words won't be credible.

What a fucking pit!

Leaning back on the chair, I placed my forearm on top of my closed eyes. My mind wandered to everything and nothing. Three days was it? They felt so lengthy. I experienced so much that my previous life felt so distant, like a dream.

How much death did I see and experience in so little time? A complete contrast to my previous life. Two deaths. The first death I ever witnessed was that of Gramps. My parents were already not in this world—in that world—when I gained awareness. And later on, when Grandma passed away, I was abroad striving for my career and couldn't even attend her funeral.

What a fool I was—and probably still am.

Am I regretting it now? Why now? I had no regrets at the time. Now that death is scouting me, I...

"What a hypocritical bastard!" I chuckled.

How did it turn into this? Office politics and the ties to wear were all my worries. Now... now it's human monsters and literal monsters alike.

Aah, I want to sleep, sleep, and never wake up.

Just as Bell said, I'm a sissy. A cowardly hypocritical bastard.

... and I probably deserve it. I deserve every disaster that happens to me. Yes, it's my retribution for all those I got fired, those whom I stole their achievements, and the one that got himself—

Tap. Tap.

The sound of limping footsteps pulled me out of my haze. Peering from under my arm to the source of the sound.

Bell, with a rifle as a stick, hobbled her way down the stairs of the theater slowly, stopping from time to time. Making it up to the stage before halting a distance from the corpse. After a moment passed and she didn't say anything, I closed my eyes. This is likely the only peaceful moment I will ever get in this life; I should enjoy it as much as possible. For some reason, even the voices in my head have gone silent.

After who knows how much time has passed of silence and tranquility, a warm hand clasped mine.

"Hey," she called, her voice so soft I would have doubted she was the Bell I know. She lifted my hand away from my face, and I winced as the red lighting bombarded my eyes, forcing me to open them and blink.

"How do you feel?" I said after I got my eyes focused on her.

"Wobbly. My head felt as if someone pumped up my brain through my ears, but other than that..." she trailed off, turning her head back to the corpse before eventually sighing. "We need to get moving, Vic."

I got up. "Can you walk?" I asked.

"If I use this," she said, lifting barely the rifle she is using as a crutch. She then turned around and limped to Zane's body. "Gods know where he squandered his assault rifle, hopeless idiot...," she said, pausing for a moment. "He still has his pistol on him; take it." Her voice was firm, and no speck of emotion leaked out.

I stayed still, alternating my gaze between her and the corpse. Her back seems so small for some reason. I opened my mouth to say—I honestly don't know. To ask if everything is alright perhaps? But I hesitated. Shaking my head, I neared the body and did as she asked.

I didn't face any difficulties removing the holster. Different from Bell, who had it strapped at her thigh, a drop leg holster as she calls it, Zane's holster was equipped directly on the belt.

Standing, I tried to awkwardly attach it to my own belt, but my thick clothing made it difficult.

"Give me that."

After some embarrassingly failed attempts, Bell took it from me and set it on her own belt. As I was about to give words to my dejection, she opened three buckles, each with a click sound, and then she handed me her holstered gun. "Strap this on," she said. "Make sure to tighten the sides."

Nodding, I did as she instructed. Strapping the holster around my right thigh, I closed two buckles.

"Don't forget the hat," she said with her back to me as she was on her way descending the stage's stairs.

"Any reason for that?" picking the hat, I dusted it off before following her, the hat between two fingers as I held the rifle with both hands.

"I'm not sure of the details, but the Ruhals believe their hats are proof of the experiences they lived. Usually, when they settle down or they feel they are about to kick the bucket, they pass it on."

"Pass it to whom?"

"Their children, successors, other Ruhals, or even random strangers. As far as I know, it doesn't matter."

Exiting the theater felt like entering a caged arena. We stopped chatting and steeled ourselves. All the complex feelings and unnecessary thoughts were put aside.

None of us said anything about where we were going or what would happen.

After all, we only have one way.