It was with the mere, simple sound of a sigh that the end of a story began to be written.

In an ordinary street, just after sunset, a girl, appearing to be around 15 or 16 years old, sighed as she sat on a wooden bench.

— Another rejection, huh... —  she muttered, her voice hoarse, low, and self-deprecating, as she buried her head in her hands.

Once again, she had been rejected; once again, an interviewer had just looked at her and decided against hiring her.

You see, this girl, although she appeared to be a teenager, was actually a 22-year-old adult who had never held a job in her life.

Whether it was due to her innate frankness, her quiet demeanor, or her appearance, she had never succeeded in a job interview, no matter how hard she tried.

"I even spent so much time in college..." 

She looked up at the sky, exhausted, already dreading going home to see the disappointment on her mother’s face.

"I really... can't..." 

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off as something hard and cold was pressed against her back.

Her blood ran cold, and the face of a man appeared in her peripheral vision, his voice nearly a whisper against her ear.

— Put everything on the bench, quick! Or I’ll blow your brains out. —

She swallowed hard, fear making her thoughts race as her hands trembled, clumsily pulling her bag from her shoulder.

The man pressed the object lower, pushing it against her hip as he extended his free hand for her bag, glancing inside and letting out a displeased grunt before pressing the gun harder against her side.

— And your phone? Where is it? —

The woman opened her mouth to say something, but it came out as a barely coherent stammer.

The man shook her more forcefully, irritated words spilling from his mouth as he ordered her to speak clearly.

— IIii... I...—

She couldn’t, under any circumstances, give him her phone. Her life was in there—her contacts, all her accounts and passwords, the book she was writing…

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God, her father would kill her if she lost her phone.

— I won’t say it again. Hand it over, NOW! — His voice was louder, sharp in her ears, his impatience and fear of getting caught overtaking him.

— O-okay! Okay! — she said, her hands moving to her waist, lifting her shirt slightly to reveal the phone tucked against her abdomen by her waistband.

She slowly put the phone in her bag, praying that someone, anyone, would appear on that cursed street.

A wish left unfulfilled as the man yanked the phone and bag from her hands with one irritated pull, quickly removing the gun from her hip and turning to run.

In that moment, everything seemed to slow down in her mind, except her thoughts—a cacophony of fear, internal screams, and panic over the items he had stolen.

Her ID, her cards, a copy of her birth certificate, and other documents she had taken for the interview…

The information in that bag could destroy her life, especially when combined with what was on her phone.

Her legs moved before she realized it, a mixture of fear, desperation, and pride guiding her as she jumped onto the thief's back with all her strength, wrapping her arms clumsily around his neck in a sloppy chokehold as they both fell to the ground.

The man grunted in confusion, in indignation, as the woman tightened her grip around him, trying to shake her off.

It was foolish, stupid, just like everything in this scene, but she couldn’t scream. No, better put, she had trained herself not to scream, not to make a sound, ever since she was a child, with even the smallest untimely noise irritating her parents.

A pained groan escaped as he elbowed her stomach, breaking her shaky hold on him.

She nearly choked, unaccustomed to such intense pain, wishing she could scream, could cry out.

A hero? She was nothing like that; she was just afraid—afraid of everything she researched, everything she said, being exposed online.

Afraid they’d use her documents to put her in debt.

Afraid they’d use her against her parents, her friends.

This madness, this idiotic action, was driven by fear, for an animal that feels cornered always attacks more desperately.

And though it was a small part of her, her pride and possessiveness were also motivations here, because she refused to be just another victim in the street, another fool robbed because she hadn’t paid enough attention.

Because those things were hers.

She knew it was foolish; she knew she had messed up the moment she looked up, seeing the man now pointing a gun at her, his green eyes angry, a drop of blood from where her nails had scratched him trickling down his neck.

He said something to her, but it sounded shrill, unintelligible to her ears. She blinked, trying to block out the sound in her head, but this only seemed to make him angrier as he waved the gun back and forth, his mouth moving more furiously.

— Senseless… I… damn… bitch… I…—

.....

BANG.

.....

A sharp, deep pain cut through the shrill noise, and the woman went into shock.

He shot her.

He shot her!

HE SHOT HER!!

A groan of pain escaped her lips, tears beginning to stream down her youthful face.

It was foolish, but she hadn’t believed he would shoot her, hadn’t thought he’d have the courage to take a life.

After all, stealing was one thing; killing was another.

"Hahaha… ha" she laughed to herself internally. How foolish, stupid, arrogant, a useless piece of trash.

"Don’t react" was the first rule when being robbed, and she hadn’t even managed to do that. No wonder she’d never been hired for a job.

In the end, as she bled on the ground, regretting her actions, her life, the weak body she was born with, she died.

Her final thought?

"Wonder if they have Volume 18 of Overlord in hell."