The hero cowered against the grimy stone floor. Their back was against the wall, and their hands were latched around their ankle, which was shooting bolts of pain up their leg. It was bent at a grotesque angle, and the hero was gritting their teeth against the urge to cry out.

The villain was standing over them, a cruel smile across their face. The weak sunlight that fell across the room from the singular grubby window was on them, and they relished the fact that for once it was the hero who was in the darkness. They were holding a gun loosely in their hand, and it was pointed at the ground.

The hero could feel a sick terror wrapping its way across their gut, and felt the urge to vomit. They had never been in a situation this bad before. There was no way out, no brilliant escape. There was absolutely nothing they could do, and they knew it.

So did the villain.

The look on the villain’s face was mocking. They had won, and they knew it. The hero needed more time, time to think of a way to turn the tables. And then they had a brilliant idea.

Make the villain talk! Of course, that would give them plenty of time to think of a plan. So the hero says, “Now that you’ve got me here, as good as dead, tell me: Why are you doing this?”

The villain’s smirk seemed to widen, and without a single second of hesitation, they raised the gun and shot a bullet straight through the hero’s head.