TW: mentions of sui*ide and trauma, proceed at your own risk also this character was made in a rush because I'm real busy with school, but it WILL BE REVISED SOON

The rain had been falling in ribbons, slicing down the house’s windows like a grief too heavy to speak. 007n7 stood alone beneath the covered awning out back, the porch light flickering dimly above his head like it was trying to decide if it wanted to live or not. He clutched the edge of the railing with trembling fingers, knuckles white and slick with rain. His son’s laughter—sweet, high, broken—echoed somewhere in his skull, twisting like a dagger. Last round, c00lkidd hadn’t known what he was doing. His eyes had been glassy, hollow, and 007n7 had watched from a dark closet as that same innocent child tore through their allies like a possessed marionette. It wasn’t his fault. But it broke something permanent inside him.

They said this place was a game, but nothing felt like play anymore. Everyone came back when they died, like puppets on a respawn string. The Spectre made sure of that. But what came back wasn’t whole. Some part of you stayed behind with every death, chipped away and swallowed by the horror. And now, with the rain tapping a soft rhythm against the porch wood, 007n7 couldn’t find a reason to keep coming back. His hand slid into his coat, pulling out the antique flintlock he’d lifted from Chance’s room—one of those unreliable relics with a 50/50 chance of misfiring. He didn’t care. He wanted to roll the dice.

He sat down slowly, knees aching, as the weight of everything collapsed in on him. The Spectre’s house behind him loomed like a mausoleum, holding all the people he couldn’t protect. He was a father who let his son become a weapon. A guardian who’d failed. He pressed the barrel to his temple, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving without sound. A name. A prayer. A plea. And then—bang. Thunder cracked across the sky, masking the gunshot as if the world wanted to pretend it didn’t hear him go.

He jolted upright with a violent gasp, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The rain was gone. It was morning. His bed was freshly made, no blood, no gunpowder scent, no proof. Just like every death in this place. The Spectre gave no rest, only resets. He dragged himself downstairs on numb legs, each step like walking through molasses. And there they were—Builderman at the coffee pot, Noob laughing with Elliot, Guest waving lazily, Two Time nodding silently. “Morning,” Shedletsky muttered without looking up from his sketches. They didn’t know. They never would. And 007n7, with the ghost of the gunshot still ringing in his skull, forced a smile and said, “Morning.” As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t already died.

(requests open on discord: @harrowbit)