You pull out the gun and shoot. Twice. The act feels unnatural, but the result looks satisfactory.

He stumbles back, looks at the blood seeping out of his wounds and then at you. He's shocked, but more than that – he's confused. You tell him he's not part of the solution, but that doesn't mean anything. Not to him, not to you. You don't care. It was your one last job. He mumbles things. He falls and points at you.

You sigh. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not now; maybe not ever. The song has ended and the show is done. You drop the gun and leave his corpse to rot.