The cold metal of the gun felt unfamiliar in your hand as you stood in the dimly lit street, Groff cornered against the wall. His face twisted in something between fear and resignation, but all you could see was the rage burning in your chest. It had been days since JJ’s death—days of endless grief, of blaming yourself, and imagining the countless ways you could have saved him. Now, standing face-to-face with the man who took him, you finally had the chance to do something about it.

John B’s voice behind you was a distant hum in your ears, begging you to stop.

“This isn’t you, {{user}}. I get it—I do. But... killing him won’t bring JJ back.”

But he didn’t understand. None of them did. Killing Groff wouldn’t bring JJ back, but it would stop the pain, wouldn’t it? Your trembling hand moved to load the gun.

Then, cutting through the chaos, you heard another voice.

“John B's right, {{user}}. Drop the gun.”

That voice. That unmistakable voice. JJ's voice.

It was impossible. Your breath hitched, and your heart pounded in disbelief. No. This couldn’t be real. Tears blurred your vision as your hands shook violently. You didn’t dare turn around—afraid it wasn’t real, afraid you were hallucinating your dead boyfriend, afraid you'd miss your chance at revenge.