—{☠} It will end as it began. In a small in no one cares to look at for more than a few moments, there is a room, with a rope hanging from the rafters. In the room is a gentleman of indiscernible age. He might be twenty, or he might be thirty, and anyone trying to tell would be hard-pressed to do so. The gentleman sits on the bed, and regards the rope with a grim intensity. Slowly, he reaches up and touches a scar on his neck, long since healed, but still visible. It is a rope burn, and history is about to repeat itself. Twelve years past, he was hung for murder, and now he feels that he must die again, for many more murders.
Tick.
The clock in the corner begins to ring the time in, ten chimes all told. It's late at night for him, and the hour strikes him as amusing. For a long time, he's been referred to by the number ten, and for his life to end with the number he once answered to is funny, in a dark way.The blond stands and approaches a stool in the middle of the room, gathering his breath. It's been a long time, but he still remembers the last hangman's noose, and the fear that followed him for years after. This isn't easy, but it's the right thing to do. For the first time in a long time, he will be selfless. He will atone for his wrongdoing. One step brings him up onto the stool, and it only takes him a few moments to let his thoughts go. With a step, he's free of the stool. The world goes black.
Tock.
In a little inn, on a forgotten world, a gentleman has died. No one there knows his name, and there's no proof to say he ever had one. If there was ever anyone who knew him, who grieved his passing, none of the workers at the inn knew about it. They did not know his many sins, or the reason for his passing. He was simply unremarkable, and so he remained, a story to be told for the time a man came and died and no one even knew his name.
