Plagued by the memory of the man he killed, almost on the verge of despair, the protagonist is lost in the various passages of his own nightmare. When his eyes finally opened, just in time to see the same face under the same wide-brimmed hat, the same stench of rotten cigar less than an inch of their noses, the same gun pointed at his forehead and staring at her cold steel ring. He already knows he is dead when the other flexes the index and you hear a click coming from far away.
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