The room was quiet. All that was heard was the hurried breaths of a man, and the relaxed breaths of another. A constant humming was coming from a different room, unnoticed by their ears. Sounds like an old television set, from, late 20th century. On the ground lay a picture frame, with its glass case shattered about. It fell from a table, which has an opened letter on it, addressed to "Decker". The glass on the ground was splattered with blood. Fresh enough to notice that's its been squeezed recently; old enough to smell its stench. The expiration date on that blood has been long past overdue for a while now.

A man stood trembling and trying to contain himself in the middle of the room. Bruised and battered, he holds his right arm gently, because it has been hurt severely. It looks like a gunshot wound. The rest of his body is covered in lacerations and blood. He takes a hold of all the strength he has left to mumble out a statement.

"Guess I had it comin'."

The other man, standing in the doorway, smiles. He looks downs and collects his thoughts. He then fixes his eyes upon the bloody man and nods.

"Yeah. You did."

Gunshot. The bullet rips through the bloody man's upper right lung. Gunshot. That one goes straight through his aorta. The bloody man is thrusted backwards and falls face up. A mass of blood accumulates on the floor.

As the bloody man lay on the ground growing closer to his death, the gunman stoops in closer to his face. It sounds like his moans and grumbling are words.

"It was…" as he coughs out blood, "…either you, or me."

"I know," replies the other.

"Your arm…" struggles the bloody man, "…is quiet."

The other smirks.

"I'm…" as he spits out his last words, "…sorry."

"Don't worry. It's all over now."

The bloody man takes his last few gasps and attempts at life. His heads rolls sideways and his life fades away.

The gunman did not feel any form of sadness for the man who has tried to hunt him down for the past 3 years. But he did not feel satisfied. A bitter taste was left in his mouth. He was told that killing him would not solve anything. She told him. It didn't stop him, nor did it solve anything.

10 minutes later, the other man walks out through the door and slams it behind him. Wind rushed through the room. It blew the letter off of the table and onto the man on the ground, who now, had only one arm attached to his dead body.


It is time. Too long have I hidden from you. I will kill you. I will take what you took from me. And at your funeral, the only 2 people who'll show up, will know who killed you."