Chapter 8 : Pop Tarts & Pistols

"What the hell?" Noah's voice rasped as he stirred, his cheek pressed to the floor. Cold bit through his skin; the linoleum beneath him was cracked and unforgiving.

Dust coated his lips, bitter as a bad tip. He squinted—being horizontal gave him the worst perspective. The tiles weren't just dirty; they were a graveyard of neglect: pubes coiled like question marks, dupes—whatever the hell those were—stuck in a gluey film of spilled booze and worse.

"Wait, this is the classy joint," he muttered. The kind of place where even the dirt had dirt.

It was the kitchen—the place where he had to shove food together instead of fixing it. Maid? Keep dreaming, Noah. Cooking wasn't something he was bad at or good at—just straight-up shit.

But wait, how did he end up here? The question loomed over him. Wasn't he close to the hoodie guy?

His body ached. Had he crashed harder than the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs? It sure felt like it. But why?

Noah had no answers—just like his life choices. Not that any of them had ever been intentional.

Then, a smell hit him.

Burnt. Acrid. Sugary.

He whipped around. The toaster was charring his Pop-Tart.

"Holy fuck!" Noah yelled. Disaster incoming.

He yanked the cord from the socket. A cup toppled, shattering against the floor. Great job, Noah.

Wait, he was cut. Noah wasn't imagining things—just losing his grip. His emotions were spread too thin, stretched past breaking.

Overwhelmed. That was the word. Perfect.

But the toaster was still going, crisping the goddamn Tart. He had to do something. God gave him a brain, but Noah never used it. Well, at least it would sell high on the black market.

Noah grabbed the hot pastry. His bruised fingers skimmed the blazing metal tray. Pain seared through him. His hands were in hell, and he was goddamn there.

Miserable. Broken. Now, burned.

Noah shoved his hands under the icy stream pouring from his broken faucet.

The water was cold, but burning? It didn't stop.

Noah's face drowned in sweat. After a few minutes of stupidity and courage—moments of water wasting its preciousness for this idiot—Noah felt a bit relieved. But burning? It was a hot sensation.

Fortunately, the toaster turned off, but how the hell was it working? Wireless tech? Nah—looking at history, the only thing that advanced in humanity is how to kill a human in many ways.

Noah took steps into the bedroom. He was dizzy as hell.

He froze. Stood still. Breaths hiked.

There lay a pistol. It seemed familiar. Wait—it was the Glock, Glock 19, the same he remembered pointing at his head. But it was new, brand new, and black. If you're wondering how he knows, he was a proud, boastful pro gamer in high school. He knew guns.

"This has to be the script," Noah muttered, his guts twisted as the future moved like chess pieces under the hand of a grandmaster. God? Maybe. That, or the script itself—the real dick in charge.

The pistol was on the desk where his laptop was—Noah saw them together, a combo inferring that something bad or worse would happen.

Mia was nonexistent. She had vanished into thin air. Noah was puzzled but yet, he went toward his cupboard and took his phone.

"3rd March," Noah freaked, but this was just the start: It was 6:13 A.M.

Noah rushed towards his desk, opening his laptop.

His eye caught something—a note. What note? Noah didn't remember writing. Bad handwriting had been his curse since childhood, so writing wasn't the companion he was looking for.

The note read: "Leaving you a gift?"

Noah hesitated. A gift? That felt far beyond his realm.

It was the gift of life he had been cursed with this far; now this? What exactly is a gift—a financial burden or a random ass pistol?

Noah went on to open the script.

Blank. What?

Noah had no idea why it was just a blank—a white blank.

Wait, was it updated or stuck?

Noah had enough problems; getting stuck was just another way for shit to go wrong. He had nothing to do but live in this misery.

A memory blew up: He had put the gun there. Why? And how? Was he the one who had put it there?

The fridge hummed like a fly—ever present—but it was louder than usual. Or had his hearing gotten better?

Noah stood up and went toward his rusty fridge. He swung the door open—empty. Pop Tarts with holes. What? The holes were like bullet holes, and there was a stack of Polaroids.

He took one and went into deep introspection. Some showed him aiming it at someone; some were just black, but he felt there was something hidden in them.

Noah was in dread silence. He anxiously and swiftly scanned the house. Yeah—nothing noticeable.

---

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The front door banged hard—it was going to break. Noah quickly backed up and went toward the script.

His laptop was open. The Echo Script was writing.

[INT. NOAH'S APARTMENT – NIGHT]

Noah checked the gun. He hesitated, but he knew what had to be done.

---

Noah was shocked; he looked down—the script had his exact thoughts before he even moved.

The thumping on the door stopped. Silence.

Noah got a memory flash. He suddenly recalled eating frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts in college… with someone familiar.

The face was blurred. He couldn't remember or guess, but he was sure it wasn't Mia. He had met her in high school, though.

Wait—it was a man with a hoodie. The same guy he followed, or the guy who clung to him.

Either way, it was him!

The guy whispered something, but Noah couldn't grasp it.

Noah scanned the house, expecting a change. Well—it wasn't, except for his toaster.

Noah checked the toaster tray—a crumpled note beneath the crumbs: "Don't trust Martinez."

What? Before he could think of anything, the door banged harder.

"Noah, open up. We need to talk." The voice from the door was loud, and terrifying.

Noah pocketed the gun, unsure who it was meant for. Like an FPS video game, he cornered himself, waiting for the enemy to make the first move.

He opened. He failed. He froze once again.

Detective Martinez stood there. So did the hooded figure, looming just behind him.

"We've been over this before, Mr. Voss," Martinez said. "Let's not make this harder than last time."

The hooded man nodded, almost like an old friend.

Noah had options—but he had to choose one:

Shoot Martinez? 

Shoot the hooded man?

Run?

He hesitated. What the hell was he supposed to do? Martinez's muddy Glock was already pointed at his skull.

Noah's fingers moved—not by choice. He swiftly aimed, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Gone. Martinez and the guy were gone.

He shot at the wall. Noah looked at his hand, the pistol, and the blood.

The gun was still smoking.

The script on his laptop updated in real time.

[NOAH CHOOSES WRONG.]

[EXECUTE PUNISHMENT]

His vision blurred, then faded into darkness. Void.