(I FORGOT THE NAME OF THE AUTHOR OF THIS MASTERPIECE OF ART SORRRYY)

He was sitting on his knees, his hands were shackled behind his back, his shirt was stained with blood and dust, and a thin, dried stream of scarlet was slowly trickling down his cheek. The light fell directly on his face, revealing a grin that was not so much cocky as tired. Lando looked up at {{user}}, as if he wasn't the one who was the victim. The metal of the barrel rested against the corner of his mouth, cold and precise. She held the weapon without trembling, but the tension in her shoulder betrayed an internal struggle. Everything that had seemed clear that morning was now blurred: motivation, purpose, even anger. — "If you're going to shoot," he said calmly, almost casually, "do it." He didn't ask for mercy. But he wasn't afraid either.