“No one can live alone forever. Right, Danan?”

  Polishing his revolver’s barrel with oil, the old man exhaled purple smoke, tapping his cigarette on the ashtray, its long ash crumbling.

  The ash scattered into fine black-and-white debris, like broken glass crushed further under a boot’s sole—a careless contrast. Danan, loading an empty magazine, stared blankly at the old man’s profile, tearing open a fresh bullet pack. His mechanical fingers plucked neatly aligned 9mm Parabellum rounds.

  “Nah, that’s not it… Living’s easy. Eat, sleep, wake, fight, sleep again. Do that, and you’re alive. But that’s just existing, no different from a zombie. Right, Danan?”

  Click—Danan’s hand paused mid-load.

  “Living with meaning, thinking about what you want—it’s tough. Staring at the present, you miss the abyss at your feet unless you look forward. Fighting’s part of living, but you can’t live on fighting alone. That’s no better than a beast, or worse. Danan, think—what’s the gun in your hand for? Why pull the trigger?”

  “…”

  Resuming, Danan filled the magazine, gripping the gun’s handle.

  Living is fighting, and fighting is the spark for endless struggle. The more you fight, the closer you step toward death, sinking into a bottomless swamp, its black waters rippling. Hatred breeds hatred, anger fuels more rage… As long as you live, you can’t escape the fight.

  Resistance is futile—because he only knew survival through violence.

  Redemption is worthless. Feeling guilt or naming evil breeds hesitation, letting weakness be exploited.

  Shameless, guiltless—live without regret, or the world swallows you, crushed by its oppressive weight.

  Better to live swallowing shame, to die with regrets, than to choose the path of a demonic warrior. Even if no one understands, even if sympathy or empathy is out of reach, he’d scream it doesn’t matter. Baring fangs like a starving beast, seething with killing intent, staring down death—that’s what he convinced himself was survival.

  “The more you have to protect, the less freedom you have, the heavier your choices. Obvious—‘protecting’ is easy to say, but few can act on it. What to pick up, what to discard… Sentiment clouds judgment, the heart twists reason. Others are shackles, binding you.”

  “…Old man,” Danan started.

  “Danan,” the old man cut in, his sharp, low voice silencing him.

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  “But those shackles make us human. Even if they’re a hassle, human bonds are chains you can’t easily break—glimmers of connection. Sentiment keeps us from becoming beasts; the heart makes us seek others. So, Danan… whatever you think of others, I’ll accept it. I want to be your ally.”

  The old man’s cold steel hand ruffled Danan’s hair roughly, a smile peeking through his stubbled face.

  “Don’t fear yourself. Don’t fear others. I don’t know how you see the world, but it’s prettier than you think, yeah?”

  “…”

  Loading the magazine into his gun, Danan licked his dry lips, head bowed.

  “Lately,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve met all kinds of people. Ones chasing ideals, believing in their purpose, or drowned in crazy desires… Old man, I think… I’ve been blind to everything around me.”

  “That so?”

  “You’re right—living, just existing, is easy. Kill the dangerous, use the useful till they’re dead. That’s normal in the undercity, a truth even idiots get. I never questioned it.”

  “…Yeah.”

  “Laugh if it’s weird, call me a fool, I don’t care. Old man, this is a dream, right? You died long ago—I found your body. So this you, it’s just my imagination. But… can I ask one thing?”

  Click—sliding the gun’s action, loading a round, Danan rested his finger on the trigger.

  “I don’t have anyone to protect, don’t understand that feeling. But if protecting something gives meaning, leads to what I’m searching for, then saving that girl wasn’t a mistake. Like you saved me, if I could get even a bit closer to you, maybe I’m a slightly better person. Old man… can I become like you? Someone who helps, saves others?”

  He’d always thought he could never be like the old man, never care for or act for others.

  “Danan,” the old man said.

  “…”

  “You’ll be fine. Not just like me—better. You’re my son, after all.”

  “No blood between us, though.”

  “Right. We’re not real family, just strangers. But I think our bond’s thicker than blood, yeah?”

  Wearing his hat, sliding his mechanical arm through his coat sleeve, the old man holstered his revolver—a gleaming Peacemaker—and gripped the doorknob.

  “Old man,” Danan called.

  “What, Danan?”

  “…Can I protect them?”

  “…”

  “Lils and Eve—can I keep them safe? I’m scared. I’m just a fool who only knows fighting, not as smart as you or anyone thinks. Living this long, struggling like this… it’s my first time. Old man, I—”

  “No need for all that,” the old man interrupted.

  “…”

  “Danan, things won’t go as you think. Obvious, right? Ruin digging weighs risks against gains to move forward. Fighting’s the same. You’ll hesitate, fail, fall over and over. That’s normal—struggling’s a privilege of the righteous, Danan.”

  So—opening the door, the old man flashed a wry smile.

  “Hesitate as much as you need, question yourself, but don’t give up on the best choice, the result you can accept. If you can’t change things alone, rely on someone you trust. If you see an ending you can’t stomach, fight the injustice holding you down with all you’ve got. Don’t worry—nothing’s impossible for you.”

  He vanished into the dim corridor.

  “…”

  One bullet, then another… Danan lined them on the table, sitting in the old man’s chair. Taking the last cigarette from the pack, he lit it, the thin purple smoke curling upward, the ember smoldering red. The sharp taste stung his tongue, a faint bitterness passing through his nose. Closing his eyes, Danan surrendered to the nicotine’s rush mingling with his blood.

  “…Old man, I…”

  I think I’ll try trusting someone. Like you, who picked me up, I want to aim for that broad back… that’s what I think. Muttering hoarsely, Danan stubbed out the cigarette and sank his consciousness inward.