Moretti’s footsteps echoed through the damp underground tunnel, the weight of exhaustion pressing on him like lead. Twenty-five years of blood, sweat, and terror—all of it built brick by brick—were collapsing around him. It felt unreal. Unbelievable. Yet here he was, a king without a crown, fleeing through the filth like a rat in the dark.

He reached out, steadying himself against the cold stone wall. The authorities were close—he could feel them. Their footsteps, distant but relentless, echoed behind him, like vultures circling. They wouldn’t stop until they had stripped him of everything.

Is this how it ends? His jaw tightened, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Is this really how it all falls apart?

The knife in his back wasn’t metaphorical. It was his most trusted friend—his right hand—who had delivered the blow. Betrayal tasted bitter, sharper than any bullet. They’d built this empire together, forged it from the blood of enemies and allies alike. Now, it was dust.

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For three days, Moretti had wandered the tunnels—starving, delirious, the gnawing hunger turning into a hollow ache. He couldn’t remember the last time he had water. He wasn’t getting out of here alive. Not unless he did something drastic.

And then he heard it. Voices. The authorities were closing in, their search relentless. Panic clawed at his chest. He couldn’t let them take him—not after everything. The thought of rotting in a cell, of being paraded as a failure, stripped of his legacy, was worse than death.

His hand trembled as he pulled the gun from his coat, the cold steel steadying him. One bullet left. One shot to decide how this all ended. He pressed the muzzle to his temple, his pulse thundering in his ears. His finger hovered over the trigger, his heart racing.

It would be quick. Clean. Better than the alternative.

The muzzle was cold against his skin. The tunnel seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as time stretched impossibly thin. In the frozen moment, his life flashed before him—his first kill, the first time he tasted power, the moment he realized he’d become a king.

Better this, he thought, than dying a rat in a cage.

His finger twitched. He squeezed.

The world slowed. The bullet crawled from the barrel, cutting through the air like it was swimming through molasses, inching toward its mark. The tension in his chest eased, his final breath already halfway out of his lungs.

Then… nothing.

Not darkness. Not light. Just… nothing.

And in that nothingness, Moretti realized something: death had always been easy.

Living with what you’d done—now that was the real hell.