The yellow gun sits right across the worn, wooden table— from experience, you know it would sit soft between your fingers, old and overripe; but it spells your potential demise nonetheless.

The other orange, seated beside you on a ratty old chair you figure he must have sat in before, doesn’t look up at you. At least, not really, his weary eyes refusing to meet yours.

He’s the first prisoner you’ve met that radiates guilt— a remorseful look cast across his tired face, as if he had already shot a bullet through your head.

It’s your turn first.