Do Apocalipse

Mid-September, ten o’clock in the morning.

While most people were either at work or school, I had requested leave from my university and stayed behind in this rented apartment off campus. Today, I had something far more important than attending class.

I understood perfectly well that what I was doing could not be spoken aloud.

Haunted by a guilty conscience, I hadn’t opened the window for ventilation this morning. When I approached the window, I only dared to pull the curtain aside a sliver. The dazzling sunlight struck my face, and the early morning scenery of the neighborhood unfolded before my eyes.

The outside world was peaceful, oblivious to the fact that within this room lurked two people rejected by society.

I picked up the cold metal object to my right and held it before my eyes.

It was a handgun.

I didn’t know its exact type or model. In all my previous life, I had never handled real firearms or ammunition, nor did I know anything about them. The only thing I could discern was that this was certainly not the toy model gun I played with as a child, but the real deal—a weapon that could blow someone’s brains out and land its owner in prison for life with a single pull of the trigger.

Verifying its authenticity was simple. Awkwardly, I unloaded the magazine, finding three cold, golden bullets within, while another was already loaded, murderous intent lurking in the chamber. There was no doubt—these were live rounds.

Legal statutes I had looked up online flashed through my mind:

Illegal possession or concea