Humanities weakness.
Your body moves before your mind can catch up.
With the last of your strength, you lunge for one of the men’s rifles, fingers barely grazing the cold steel—
But you’re too weak.
Too drained.
Hours of running, fighting, and freezing in the relentless cold have left you sluggish, broken.
The soldier barely flinches. With brutal efficiency, he throws you off, sending you crashing into the snow.
Before you can recover—BANG.
Agony explodes through your leg.
You scream, clutching your shattered kneecap as blood pours into the snow beneath you, staining it deep crimson.
Laughter.
The masked man chuckles, stepping closer as you writhe in pain.
“You really thought that would work?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.”
He crouches beside you, tilting his head. “Did you really think you had a choice?” His voice is mocking, filled with amusement at your suffering.
You try to reach for your rifle—another boot slams down on your wrist, pinning you.
“Foolish,” he mutters. “A desperate little rat, squirming for survival.”
He pulls a sleek, silver revolver from his coat, lazily flicking open the cylinder. One by one, he loads the bullets, spinning the chamber slowly.
“You never stood a chance,” he sighs. “None of you did.”
You glare up at him, breath ragged, but the pain is too much.
He presses the barrel against your forehead.
“This was never a story of survival,” he says, voice calm, almost disappointed.
“No heroes. No hope. No happy endings.”
“This is a story of isolation. Of death. Of destruction.”
He pulls the trigger.
BANG!
Everything goes dark.
This is the true, cannon ending of the story.
Thank you for reading.
With the last of your strength, you lunge for one of the men’s rifles, fingers barely grazing the cold steel—
But you’re too weak.
Too drained.
Hours of running, fighting, and freezing in the relentless cold have left you sluggish, broken.
The soldier barely flinches. With brutal efficiency, he throws you off, sending you crashing into the snow.
Before you can recover—BANG.
Agony explodes through your leg.
You scream, clutching your shattered kneecap as blood pours into the snow beneath you, staining it deep crimson.
Laughter.
The masked man chuckles, stepping closer as you writhe in pain.
“You really thought that would work?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.”
He crouches beside you, tilting his head. “Did you really think you had a choice?” His voice is mocking, filled with amusement at your suffering.
You try to reach for your rifle—another boot slams down on your wrist, pinning you.
“Foolish,” he mutters. “A desperate little rat, squirming for survival.”
He pulls a sleek, silver revolver from his coat, lazily flicking open the cylinder. One by one, he loads the bullets, spinning the chamber slowly.
“You never stood a chance,” he sighs. “None of you did.”
You glare up at him, breath ragged, but the pain is too much.
He presses the barrel against your forehead.
“This was never a story of survival,” he says, voice calm, almost disappointed.
“No heroes. No hope. No happy endings.”
“This is a story of isolation. Of death. Of destruction.”
He pulls the trigger.
BANG!
Everything goes dark.
This is the true, cannon ending of the story.
Thank you for reading.
