The world glitters in jewel-bright colors; the wind sings songs of long go. Here there is no pain, no suffering, no death.

There is simply peace.

I'm tired, he says as his knees start to buckle.

A thousand hands reach for him, supporting him, lending him their strength. Do not worry, young hero, they say. We will fight for you.

But how is that courageous? he counters. I must fight my battles myself.

You would make the wrong choice. Your overwhelmingly merciful nature is not one which is partial to your duty, they try to assure him. We would choose correctly. We would not fail.

All life is sacred, he argues. Everyone deserves to live.

But not this one. He is past the point of redemption in anyone's eyes. Are you blind to that? they ask scathingly.

I am not oblivious to the man's faults because my mercy has not blinded me as much as you think it has. His newly adopted tone is cold, vacant. But I can do something you cannot—see the good inside every person, including him.

So what will it be, young hero? they ask carefully, as if scrutinizing him. What choice will you make?

The shining world fades, and a battered one takes its place—a world bathed in violence and bloodshed, with an empty man trapped at his feet, expecting his end.

What choice will you make?

He turns away and closes his eyes, one voice shouting against thousands.

"No. I'm not going to end it like this."