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THIS IS HOW it ends.
She is standing, bravely, awaiting her death.
In his hands is a gun, and in the gun is Antigen V. His hands shake, his fingers curled unsteadily around the grip. He must've shot hundreds of zombies before; must've killed dozens of times before.
But this is the most difficult thing he will ever do.
Half-hidden behind the door of her lab, Taehyung has a front row seat to her death. He's watching her, watching him, watching him kill her. Bile churns in his throat, his stomach twists in knots and his chest feels suffocated. He has been dredged through hell and back, hurt by zombies and people alike, but nothing pains him as much as this. He forces himself to watch anyway, barely breathing, keeping his eyes wide open.
This is the last time I will ever see you.
He etches every inch of her into his mind. Her eyes, already listless, and her cheeks a sallow pallor. Her hands twitch nervously by her sides, but she holds herself gracefully, her spine straight and chin levelled as she looks at his other self. Even at her worst, even at her death, she is still lovely, still the woman he loves.
His other self stands with his back to him, so he can't see the expression of his other self, nor does he want to see. He can picture it: his face a deathly pale, split between devastation and despair, a glaze in his eyes. He's a dead man, even though he's the one doing the killing.
What must my other self be thinking? he wonders, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry—
"I'm so sorry." Amidst the deafening silence, his other self speaks, his voice so infinitely broken it cuts through his heart.
She looks at his other self with all her affection—and fuck, please, don't look at me, don't look at me like that, because if you do, I might never be able to end this—and smiles softly. That is her sunshine on snow smile, but he finally understands what it means:
It's okay. It's going to be okay, but I'm going to miss you so much. So damned much.
"Don't be," she tells him gently. Then, he sees it. A slight shift of her eyes, a fleeting movement. For a single second, her gaze lands on him. Him—half-hidden behind the door, watching it all unfold. Her lips lift a fraction higher; her gaze softens. "I've been well loved."
He clenches his jaw; his knuckles tightening on the doorknob until they turn white. His thoughts collapse in on themselves, a myriad of incoherence, and I know, I'll miss you too, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, don't go, don't go, don't go—
He pulls the trigger.