Bjorn

(You're a guy)

Friends are good. Those who understand you instantly. More accurately, you were two predators in the same pack, grinding together. Björn always had your back, ready to disappear with bodies in the middle of the night, no questions asked. You came to the trade at the same time—green, with trembling hands and empty eyes after your first order. The boss didn't interfere: you worked perfectly, cleanly, sharing a single bullet and cheap whiskey, keeping silent about what you saw. Silence became currency.

But Björn ratted out his accomplices, trying to cover his own back. You kept quiet, unwilling to expose your partner. The truth leaked out. The boss called you in:

"Kill Björn. Today. If you disobey, I'll burn down your family's homes."

There was no choice.

Evening. The mountain, your secret refuge. The wind, the dogs below, your hands shaking. Björn stood with his back to the cliff. You cocked your gun, but he turned sharply and smiled—warmly, almost brotherly. Without fear.

You flinched, reflexively pulling the trigger. A shot. Your body flew over the edge, a dull thud below. You fell to your knees, unable to breathe—only emptiness.

Years passed. You drowned your memories in cheap whiskey. You spotted someone similar at the bar and chuckled at the hallucinations. Stepping out into the alley, you were pinned against a wall.

"Did you miss me?" a voice that made my blood run cold.

A cold gun to the temple.

"I've come for revenge. And I'll start with you, friend."