Snow fell heavily on the mountains, blanketing the land in a pristine, untouched silence. The wilderness still hummed with the pulse of nature, but there stood a lone cottage amidst the white, an anomaly in the cold. Upon its porch rested a helicopter, the only trace of technology in sight, its wings weighed down by snow but still exhaling steam—a sign it had only just landed.

The wind howled outside, its ferocity rattling the old cottage's shutters. The air inside was biting, sharp against the skin, as if the cold were trying to pierce through the bones themselves. But it was nothing compared to the tension suffocating the room.

The sound of footsteps broke the stillness—slow, purposeful, each step calculated. He moved like someone who had mastered the art of presence, someone who didn't demand attention but commanded it nonetheless. The dim light cast shadows that emphasized the harsh angles of his face, the ashen hue of his hair, and the cold gleam in his eyes. His gaze, an unsettling gray, flickered toward the desk in front of him, unreadable.

The chill pressed against the walls, curling into the corners of the space like an invisible force. The cold settled into the bones of the building, seeping into the very foundation, but it wasn't the cold that made the air feel thick—it was the silence.

But it wasn't truly silent.

Somewhere in the distance, low murmurs stirred, like voices behind a closed door, muffled and indistinct. They ebbed and flowed, whispers that threatened to spill into the room but never fully materialized.

His movements were deliberate, his presence cutting through the stillness with an ease that bordered on arrogance. His gaze slid across the room, calculating, assessing. The sharp planes of his face softened under the dim light, the flickering shadows only accentuating the coldness of his eyes. His expression was one of indifference, like this was nothing more than another exercise in control.

A drawer slid open with a soft scrape, the sound disturbingly loud in the quiet. He reached in, his fingers brushing over cold steel before pulling out two guns—no flourish, no hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had long been accustomed to the weight of life and death.

For a moment, he simply stood there, allowing the chill of the room to envelop him. The wind whispered faintly against the glass, the murmuring voices in the background continuing their ghostly dance. Then, his voice, low and steady, cut through the silence like a blade.

"Asher, come in," he called.

The door creaked open, reluctant but obedient, as though it knew better than to defy his command.

Asher hesitated at the threshold, fingers tightening around the doorframe before stepping inside. His gaze flickered across the room—deep brown hair with an amber sheen caught in the dim light, his amber-brown eyes full of uncertainty, framed by thin glasses. He exhaled quietly, adjusting his glasses, a nervous habit. There was a timidity in his movements, but it wasn't weakness—just a man who had learned to measure his presence.

He stepped into the room, the heavy silence weighing on him like a physical force .

The man didn't acknowledge him immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, as if savoring the tension, as if watching something struggle just before it breaks. Then, in a voice stripped of warmth, he finally spoke.

"Is it wrong to take one life to save another? Or is that just a convenient lie we tell ourselves? Who decided we had the right to measure morality in numbers?"

He exhaled slowly, the mist of his breath dissolving into the cold air. His gaze settled on Asher—not with anger, nor amusement, but with a clinical curiosity, as if he were observing a specimen under glass.

"But to be honest with you…" A pause. Then, a smile—thin, deliberate, empty. "I don't care. Never did. Never will."

Without warning, he pressed a cold, heavy gun into Asher's trembling hand. "There are twenty men tied up here, excluding you, me, and Fetich. It's simple, really. I'm going to start shooting them. One by one. To stop me, you just have to shoot three of them. Three lives… to save the rest. The question is—" His eyes glittered dangerously—"will you get your hands dirty, or will you let me kill them all?"

Asher's heart thudded painfully against his chest. The room seemed to close in on him, the air thick with the smell of pinewood and the sound of the crackling fire. His voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "Lucius… why?"

Lucius's expression remained a mask of cold indifference. "Why ask? You don't know these men. Why does it matter to you?"

Before Asher could answer, a gunshot rang out, deafening in the stillness.

BANG!

A man collapsed, lifeless, his body crumpling to the floor. Blood pooled on the cold, aged wood, seeping between the cracks in the floorboards. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the sudden chaos of terrified voices.

"Shoot, boy! Hurry up!" one man screamed, panic twisting his voice. "Shoot the damn three before he kills us all!"

More voices joined in, the desperation rising to a frenzied pitch—pleading, crying, begging.

BANG! Another life was extinguished.

Lucius's voice cut through the madness, calm and detached. "What are you going to do, Asher?"

The room erupted into chaos—men shouting, pleading for mercy, their voices raw with fear. Asher's hands trembled violently, the cold steel of the gun seeming to grow heavier with every passing second.

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"Do nothing," Lucius suggested softly, almost amused. "Or... decide."

BANG! BANG! The sharp reports of gunfire echoed as another man fell.

Tears streamed down Asher's face, his body crumpling as his knees buckled beneath him. His voice broke in a sob, the weight of the decision too much to bear. "Okay! Stop!" he choked. "I'll do it!"

The room erupted into cries of gratitude, voices filled with desperate relief.

"Thank you! Oh God, thank you!"

But Lucius's gaze swept over them with thinly veiled disgust. "Pathetic."

Asher's fingers tightened around the gun. It felt impossibly heavy, as though it were a part of him now, a symbol of his broken soul.

Fetich leaned against the wall, his platinum-blonde hair catching the light, its metallic sheen adding to his ethereal presence. His ocean-blue eyes were calm, unbothered, like a man who had seen it all and felt little. He spoke with the same detached air that defined his every movement.

"You know, most people don't get to decide how much blood ends up on their hands. Lucky you," Fetich said with a smirk.

One man screamed, "Please! I have a daughter! She needs me!" Another man, his voice cracked with emotion, shouted, "I have a family! Please don't kill me!"

The room became a battlefield of pleas, each man offering desperate words to hold on to life.

Lucius, ever the puppeteer, turned to the men with a cold sneer. "So you're telling me the four I've already shot didn't have loved ones? Are you saying your lives are worth more than theirs?"

One man, his face twisted with rage, spat, "Go to hell, you sick bastard! Who the hell are you to judge us?"

Lucius's smile was hollow, sharp. "Yes… who am I?"

"Asher," Lucius commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. "Choose."

The room grew colder, the silence suffocating. Asher's breath came in ragged gasps. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the men, their eyes wide with fear and pleading. He couldn't look away. He screamed, a raw, anguished sound, and his trembling finger squeezed the trigger.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three lives. Three deaths.

Asher collapsed, the gun slipping from his hand. "Forgive me…" he sobbed, his voice shattered. "I didn't… have a choice…"

The survivors, still shaking, gasped in relief, some falling to their knees in thankfulness. "We're alive! Thank you!"

Lucius, however, barely acknowledged them. He turned to Fetich, his voice cold as ice. "Go get seven more men from the next room."

The men froze, their relief turning to terror.

"Wait… it's not over?" one stammered.

Lucius's smile was predatory, devoid of warmth. "No. It's not over."

Fetich returned, dragging in seven more men, each one bound and gagged. The room felt even more suffocating now.

"Marcus, please enter," Lucius called.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Marcus stepped in.

The atmosphere shifted as Marcus entered. His movements were fluid, purposeful—every step deliberate, as if he were testing the limits of the space around him. His amber-brown eyes, cold and calculating, assessed the room without interest. His posture was rigid, distant, a man entirely detached from the chaos around him.

Lucius's voice was smooth but edged with anticipation. "Marcus. You saw Asher, didn't you? You're probably wondering what broke him."

Marcus, unfazed, made a dry comment. "I see your Waardenburg syndrome is advancing, Lucius. At this rate, you'll have a full head of gray soon."

Fetich laughed. "You know, sometimes the world falls apart, and we're all just here commenting on hair colors."

"Yes," Lucius agreed, holding a strand of his ashen hair. "The roots are all that's left." He tossed the gun to Marcus. "Same question. Same rules. Stop me by shooting three or watch them all die."

The room thickened with horror.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Screams echoed, filling the room with frantic terror.

Fetich, amused, added, "I'd flip a coin to help you decide, but I doubt they'd appreciate that."

A voice from the crowd rose in desperation. "You bastards! We're not a game! We have lives, families—some of us have children! And you're making jokes while holding our lives in your hands! It's not fair!"

Another man pleaded, "It's not too late! You can stop this!"

Marcus's voice cut through the noise, cold and authoritative. "Are you men or children? Stop whining. You're already dead—whether it's him, me, or fate. The cruelest thing I could do is… choose."

A man dropped to his knees, sobbing. "We didn't choose this! We're victims! Please… let me live. I just want to see my wife again."

Marcus's expression remained indifferent as he raised the gun and—

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Until none are left standing.

The room was silent, save for the hollow echo of death.

Lucius regarded Marcus, his eyes dark with knowing. "You didn't even hesitate."

Marcus met his gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Your 'trial' doesn't faze me. Should I bring in Jin?"

Lucius's voice was low, almost tired. "Yes. And tell him what's happening. I'm getting tired of repeating myself."

Fetich sighed in irritation. "Ah, so another twenty?"

"No," Lucius replied, shaking his head. "Ten this time."

The floor creaked beneath their boots as Fetich departed to bring in the next batch. Snow drifted against the windows, undisturbed by the chaos inside.

Then, Jin entered.

Where Asher had been hesitant, and Marcus had been detached, Jin walked in with a steady, grounded presence. His amber-brown eyes, like those of his brothers, held understanding. He surveyed the room, the bodies of the fallen men, the blood beginning to freeze. Rage and confusion boiled in his veins. He had heard Marcus's words, but seeing it all firsthand was different.

Fetich dragged in ten more men, bound together.

"Lucius… What is this? Why?" Jin's voice trembled with fury.

Lucius's voice was soft, venomous. "Why stop now? Hurry up and decide. I've made it easier for you. These men"—he gestured to the bound figures—"are criminals. Filth. I've done half your job already."

One of the men yelled, "He's lying! Don't listen to him!"

BANG! Another body dropped.

Jin's composure shattered. "Wait! I'll do it!" His hands shook as panic overtook him.

Lucius's voice was a cold whisper. "Then hurry… or I'll finish it myself."

Jin's hand shook as he lifted the gun—but instead of pointing it at the men, he aimed it at Lucius.

"You're the real monster!" Jin's voice cracked with emotion. "I'll shoot you instead!"

The room erupted in manic cries. "Yes! Do it! Kill him!"

Lucius stepped closer, his expression unflinching. "Why pretend to hold strength when you clearly don't? But maybe you've changed. So I'll ask, would you really shoot me? The man who gave you everything, for men you don't even know?"

The distance between them closed. Lucius's voice was low and daring. "Go ahead. Shoot me. But know this—if you do, you'll face the world without my protection."

Jin's arm shook violently, a cocktail of rage and fear overwhelming him. He screamed, his voice breaking. 

Jin's finger tightened on the trigger, his breath steady. One pull, and it would be over. He knew better than anyone.

But he knew—killing this monster was a sin that would never be easily forgiven.

"AHHH! F*** YOU!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three more deaths.

Jin dropped the gun, his body collapsing to the floor, exhausted and broken.

Lucius watched him, still and cold. "Make peace with your choice, Jin. It's irreversible now. Leave us, my fallen hero."

Fetich smirked, teasing, "What if he had shot you?"

Lucius's reply was soft yet razor-sharp. "Then you'd have a new master."

Fetich chuckled darkly, but his eyes glinted with a question. "Do I need to bring in more men? Is Daphne participating too?"

Lucius's voice was hard as frozen steel. "No."

Unbothered, Fetich pressed on. "So… what about the rest?"

Lucius's command fell like a guillotine. "Kill them." His eyes were as empty as the winter sky. "And have Celeste arrange the cleaners."

A trembling voice broke the silence. "Wait… we're not going home?"

No answer.

Only the cold.

Only death.