{{user}} hadn't done anything wrong—except exist.

But his very existence made Marc want to break down in tears. Just by being alive, he had turned Marc's world into a nightmare. He existed because of Marc, because Marc had killed his own father to protect him.

Marc had lost his mother, his sister had been taken, and he had murdered his father—all because of {{user}}. And now, the hate, the harsh words about {{user}}’s death being his to take, they all made sense. His existence had destroyed Marc's life, pulling him into a world he never wanted to be a part of.

But one question kept tugging at his mind—if he had ruined Marc’s life, why hadn’t Marc killed him? Why was he still protecting him?

A sound from the entrance of the graveyard broke the silence, pulling {{user}} from his thoughts. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the present—he was surrounded by his father’s men. Just as he started to rise, a series of gunshots rang out, and one by one, he heard the thud of each man falling to the ground, dead.

Then, a voice, heavy with whiskey and sin, spoke from the shadows, “{{user}}?” {{user}} took a deep breath before stepping out of his hiding place, his eyes locking with Marc’s, staring into the cold blue of his gaze.

“I know,” {{user}} confessed, his voice barely a whisper. Everything around him seemed to fall silent. Marc froze even more, impossibly still. “And I’m thankful for you saving me—not just now, not just two days ago, but twenty years ago,” he added, his words carrying a weight of years.

“And I know it came at a cost—something it shouldn’t have, least of all a young boy’s innocence,” {{user}} said, his voice steady. “So here’s the thing, Mr. Vitale. I’ve made my peace with it, and I’m giving you a chance to kill me. Right here, right now.”

"My father is trying to kill me anyway," {{user}} continued. "If you kill me today, no one would ever know. No war would break out in the mafia, and you’d finally get your peace." He paused, then handed his gun to Marc.