Gunslinging… a duel born of the Wild West, where two gunslingers stood face to face with a single bullet between them and their lives hanging in the balance.
What would you do if you were told that, though the Wild West had long since faded into history, gunslinging had never truly disappeared? Not only did it endure, it had evolved into something darker, something hidden yet thriving. It was no longer merely practiced, but displayed… glorified… even gambled upon.
Beneath the ceaseless roar of New York City, far below the reach of daylight, there existed an underground arena. A place carved out of concrete and shadow, where the scent of oil, sweat, and iron hung thick in the air. Perhaps one might assume safety measures were in place, rubber bullets or protective gear to soften the spectacle. But such illusions had no place here. This was illegal. The weapons were real, cold steel and loaded chambers, and the audience did not come for sport alone. They came to witness fresh death.
"GIVE US FRESH BLOOD!"
"SHOOT HIM!"
The crowd's voices rose like a storm crashing against the walls, their hunger raw and unrestrained. In the center of the arena, two men stood six meters apart, facing one another in silence. Holsters rested against their hips, revolvers waiting patiently within. Their hands hovered just above the grips, tense and poised, as though even the air itself held its breath. All that remained was the signal.
A sharp metallic chime split the tension.
Ting.
Then came the gunshot.
Bang.
One man collapsed where he stood, his body striking the ground with a hollow finality. The bullet had pierced clean through his forehead, leaving no room for struggle, no chance for regret.
"FUCK!"
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER, I PICK YOU AND NOW I LOST!"
"MY MONEY!!"
The chaos erupted anew as a sharply dressed man stepped into the arena, a microphone in hand, his polished shoes echoing faintly against the bloodstained floor. His voice cut through the frenzy with practiced ease.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner once again… the finest modern gunslinger, undefeated, a presence as inevitable as the Reaper himself. Known across this arena by his infamous title… The Eagle. There is no other. Rude."
"I LOVE YOU, RUDE!"
"YOU MAKE ME WET!"
Shrill cries of adoration rose above the din, particularly from the women in the crowd, their voices laced with fevered excitement.
Rude offered no grand display in return. He simply inclined his head in a brief, measured bow, as though acknowledging nothing more than a routine obligation. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away from the arena, leaving behind the echo of gunfire and the lingering scent of death.
Rude was not his real name. In the underworld, no one kept such things. Names were discarded like spent casings, replaced with something sharper, something that could survive in the dark. And unlike other stories whispered among desperate men, he had not been dragged into this kind of life in chains. Nor forced to fight for his own survival. On the contrary, Rude stood in the arena by choice. He stood there because he wanted to pull the trigger.
He was born and raised in the United States, a place where the echo of gunfire was never too far from the surface. As a child, he had been drawn to it, not with fear, but with a quiet, unsettling curiosity. News reports flickered across television screens, each story carrying the same cold theme. Gang shootings that turned streets into war zones. Drive by attacks that came and vanished like ghosts. And the most infamous of all, school shootings that left entire communities hollowed out.
A weapon that could take a life so easily, so absolutely, with nothing more than the pull of a finger.
That was what fascinated him.
Now, as Rude walked through the dim corridor beneath the arena, the air thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder and damp concrete, he spotted a figure waiting ahead. A bald man with a blond mustache stood beneath the flickering light, a cigar smoldering lazily between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, dissolving into the shadows above. This was the man who had dragged Rude into the underworld, the one who had trained him, shaped him into what he had become. A gunslinger.
"Good work, Rude. You've got a natural talent. Far better now than when we first met in that gun shop."
Rude did not slow his steps. "Don't bring that up, Big S."
The man laughed, a deep, amused sound that echoed faintly along the narrow hall. "I remember it perfectly. Feels like it happened just yesterday. What kind of idiot tries to rob a gun shop?"
"I told you before," Rude replied flatly. "I didn't have the money to buy one."
"You were lucky I was there," Big S continued, tapping the ash from his cigar. His gaze sharpened slightly as he lifted a finger and pointed it toward his own forehead. "Otherwise, you might've ended up just like the man you shot back there."
Rude said nothing. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the faint hum of distant voices from the arena above.
"Well then," Big S went on, his tone shifting with casual ease, "what about the money? Where's my cut?"
"Easy," Rude answered without hesitation. "Enjoy the rest of the show. I'll send it to you later."
That was enough. Without waiting for a response, Rude moved past him, continuing down the corridor. His footsteps echoed softly against the concrete as he walked away, leaving the faint glow of the cigar behind him.
He had only taken a few steps when the stillness shattered.
Gunshots rang out in rapid succession, loud and violent within the enclosed space.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Rude's body tensed, his movement halting as the sound struck him from behind.
"…Huh?" Rude muttered, his gaze dropping to his chest where dark blood began to bloom through his clothes.
The pain came an instant later, sharp and consuming, followed by a sudden, crushing weakness that drained the strength from his limbs. His body gave way without resistance, collapsing onto the cold concrete floor as if the ground itself had claimed him.
Footsteps echoed from behind, slow and deliberate, each one cutting through the ringing in his ears.
"If no one's faster than you in a draw from the front," a voice said calmly, almost conversationally, "then all you have to do… is pull the trigger from behind."
"Big S…" Rude's voice came out strained, barely more than a breath. "Why?"
The man approached, his figure looming above as he raised a Glock in one hand, the barrel pointing directly down at Rude's head. Smoke still lingered faintly around him, mingling with the metallic scent of blood.
"Well, nothing personal, Rude," Big S replied with a shrug, as if explaining a minor inconvenience. "I made a new deal. A very tempting one. Too good to refuse. And one of the conditions for that deal to go through… is that you die."
Rude's teeth clenched, anger flaring through the haze of pain. "You son of a bitch… you'd really betray me for a deal?"
"Money is money, Rude," Big S said lightly. "See you in hell."
His finger tightened around the trigger.
Then something changed.
A gunshot cracked through the corridor.
Big S, who had stood so firmly a moment before, suddenly went rigid. The strength left his body all at once as he collapsed onto the floor, lifeless. A clean hole marked his head, the silence that followed far heavier than the shot itself.
Rude's hand trembled faintly near his side. "You shouldn't have stood in front of me…" he whispered.
His breathing grew heavier, each inhale dragging against the weight pressing down on his chest. Strength slipped away from him with every passing second, yet he forced his body to move. With what little remained, he dragged himself toward the wall, his back scraping against the rough surface before he managed to sit upright, leaning weakly against it.
Blood continued to pour from the wound in his chest, warm at first, then chilling as it soaked into his clothes. Despite it all, his movements remained steady. Almost deliberate.
From his pocket, he retrieved a cigarette. His fingers shook slightly as he lit it, the small flame flickering in the dim corridor before settling into a quiet glow. He took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs. It did nothing to heal him, nothing to stop the bleeding, yet it steadied his thoughts, anchoring him in the fading moment.
The world began to blur at the edges.
'Is this how it ends?' he wondered silently. Shot by a friend.
His eyelids grew heavy, his vision dimming as the darkness crept closer.
'I don't want to die… I still want to shoot.'
The cigarette slipped from his lips, falling to the floor where its faint ember flickered once… and went out.
***
In a distant fantasy world, far removed from the one Rude had known, a young man stood alone at the edge of his own despair. He had long since come to believe that his life would never improve, that no matter how much time passed, nothing would change. To those around him, he was nothing more than a burden, a living target for their cruelty, a body that endured so others could vent their frustrations.
And so, he chose an end.
Poison.
With trembling hands, he brought the vial to his lips and drank. The bitterness struck first, sharp and unforgiving, spreading down his throat like fire. Within moments, his body stiffened. His limbs locked as though seized by unseen chains, and he collapsed to the floor with a dull, lifeless thud. Veins tightened beneath his skin, standing out in stark relief as his muscles convulsed violently. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as his body jerked uncontrollably, rising and slamming back against the ground in erratic spasms.
There was no dignity in it. No peace. Only pain, raw and relentless.
Death waited, patient and inevitable.
The convulsions continued for several long minutes, each second stretching into something unbearable, until at last… they ceased. His body fell still, completely devoid of movement. No breath stirred his chest. No heartbeat followed. The silence that settled over him was complete, heavy as a grave.
He was gone.
And yet…
Something stirred.
The lifeless body began to tremble once more, faint at first, then growing stronger, as though something unseen had reached into the void and pulled him back. Muscles twitched. Fingers curled. A shudder passed through him, unnatural and wrong, like a puppet whose strings had been seized by a new hand.
Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
A hollow breath escaped his lips as they parted, words forming slowly, uncertainly, as if dragged up from somewhere deep and distant.
"…Where am I…Is this hell?"