Three guns.

Three men who should be dead.

A triangle of death, one finger squeeze away from the end.

But no one pulls.

Because this isn’t a fight. It’s a confession.

Your hands shake from memory. You’ve felt death. You’ve tasted the grave. You know exactly what waits.

That’s why you don’t pull.

Drewitt, you’ve outlived bullets. Outlasted pain. Not because you’re strong, but because you can’t escape.

You hold your pistol like it’s justice, but it’s just a prayer with a trigger.

And you won’t fire.

Because you’re tired. Not of killing—Of surviving.

You clutch Colt like he’s going to make life matter again. But a copy doesn’t bark like the original.

And deep down, you know it.

Mariachi Muerte, you want me to flinch. To regret. To bleed for what I did to you.

But I don’t regret killing you.I regret that it didn’t last.

Now you’ve got a pistol to my head, a fresh coat of revenge in your eyes, but the rhythm is off.

Because deep down you remember what it felt like when your throat opened, when the blood filled up your lungs, when I took everything.

And that’s why your finger won’t pull.

Because you already know how the song ends.

And me?

My gun’s pointed at a dog, an abomination.

Not to kill it, but to see if you’ll stop me.

To see if there’s anything left in either of you willing to finish something.

But I already know the answer.

You’re statues in a standoff, hoping someone else blinks, because blinking means it matters.

But me?

I blinked in the fire. I flinched when my flesh melted. I screamed when my name burned off my bones.

And when it was all gone I didn’t die.

I became what comes after.

You two are locked in this triangle. Guns drawn.

But triangles don’t move. They just hold the shape until someone breaks it.

So I’ll break it.

Not because I want to. Because I can.

I killed you once, Mariachi.

Drewitt: you can’t die, but you can lose.

Colt’s not real. None of this is.

Not the grudge. Not the stand-off. Not the fear.

Just echoes. Smoke. Unfinished things pretending they haven’t already been decided.

You hold guns, but I hold truth.

And the truth is this: You were never going to pull the trigger. You knew what would happen if you fired. You knew what I’d become when you missed.

So I’ll save you the choice.

I’ll knock the gun out of your hands, Mariachi, and shatter your second life like I did your first.

No song, just the sound of your spine snapping between my hands.

And Drewitt, I’ll rip Colt apart in front of you, then drag you through what’s left of him.

You can’t die, but I’ll make you beg to disappear.

Because this triangle?

It doesn’t end with restraint. It ends with ruin.

Yours.

And when the moment comes: when your hands drop, your bodies twitch, when the lights go out…

You’ll see.

Not pity.

Not purpose.

Not peace.

Me.