The walls felt closer now. The room felt too big. The air felt hostile.

Six left. Only six.

Mark could hear the static buzz of his own thoughts scraping against the inside of his skull. His fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve, gripping tight like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

Jett was dead.

Jett, the only one who ever tried. The one who insisted on calling him "broskii," who always filled the silence Mark left behind, who never gave up on getting a reaction, even when Mark wished he would. Jett, who would’ve been here, standing right next to him, whispering some nonsense like “Dude, we’re gonna make it out. Trust me!”

Except he wasn’t.

Because Jett was dead.

He couldn’t take it. The weak died first. The strong, eventually. He knew what Wenona meant when she spoke about easy targets. He knew what he was.

But he promised.

He promised Jett he’d survive. And this—this was survival, wasn’t it? Before they got to him. Before someone did. He won't die like a helpless victim.

Which is why—why—his grip tightened around the cold handle of the knife.

Why he stood behind you now, heartbeat pounding in his ears, watching your back as you spoke. Oblivious. Trusting. You, who had never pushed too hard. You, who hadn’t treated him like a puzzle to be solved. You, who had somehow managed to become the closest thing he had left to something safe. You were the closest to him, after Jett. You were—you were—and now you are the easiest target.

His breath hitched, finger trembled. The knife felt wrong in his grip, too heavy, too sharp, like it wasn’t meant for him. Like it was burning his skin just for thinking about it.

He could do it. Just move. Just one motion. Just—

The knife hit the floor with a clatter.

You turned.

Mark’s throat closed up, words clogging in his lungs. His arms felt useless, hanging limp at his sides. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

And then, finally—broken, hoarse, barely above a whisper—

“…I’m sorry...”