The acrid smell of gunpowder stings my nose, and the heat of the flames pierces my skin. These sensations let me know I'm still alive, even though it feels like my life is about to end.

I look down at my hands, covered in dust and scars, then lift my head to meet the gaze of the person holding a gun to me. Just an hour ago, this place was quite peaceful—until the rival organization raided us. A fire broke out, and gunfire rained down. Siwoo, who was the first to block the enemies, was abandoned. Most of the members have already died or fled. No one was coming back to save a single member left behind in the fire.

I'm dying. I can feel it. I've lost too much blood. A bullet is lodged in my leg, making it impossible to move, and my vision is blurring as I struggle just to breathe. It wasn't a particularly proud life. I joined the organization at 22. No grand reason—I just didn't know how to do anything else. I don't even know how many people I've killed while doing dirty work for six years, and honestly, I don't care. That's how I reached the rank of executive. A piece of trash like me has no right to complain about being betrayed, but I suppose dying as a sacrifice at the end makes it somewhat better.

...The muzzle of the gun touches my forehead. Death is imminent. I'm really going to die. The truth is, I don't want to die. I want to live. Is this really the end of my 28 years of life? Just like this? There are still so many things I haven't done, so many things I want to try. I don't want to die such a futile death. I want to live. Somehow, I force my lips into a sly smirk.

....Will you save me?, ..Please.