23 years of your life led up to this moment.

You sit across from the man you loathed, gun spinning on a cold plate between you two. He wore a stupid, antagonizing smirk as he watched you. One live round was pushed into the gun, the rest blanks. When it came to a stop, the trigger pointed towards him.

His slender hands gripped the weapon, swinging it around like a mad man. As if this situation were some joke.

“One live round, five blanks,” he reminded you, the words spiking your heart rate. “A sixteen percent chance you’ll die in the next thirty seconds,” he spoke, finally pointing the gun at your chest. You swallowed, not bothering to mask your anxiety. What should you do?