CHOI SU-BONG (THANOS)

The floor was colder than he expected, or perhaps it just felt that way because of the blood pooling beneath him, soaking his clothes and dripping through the cracks in his skin. Thanos lay sprawled on the tiles, his body contorted in ways that defied natural order, as if his muscles were trying to escape the agony consuming him from the inside. Every inch of his body burned—each breath an effort, each exhale a sharp pain tearing through his throat. The fork still lodged in his neck pulsed with every beat of his heart, a grotesque and repulsive reminder of his vulnerability. It was as if the fork had become an extension of himself, a cursed part of his body, sinking deeper with each pulse, sending waves of pain through his veins.

He tried to move, tried to shift his weight, but the pain was relentless. Every time he attempted to move, the world seemed to collapse on top of him, as if the floor were trying to swallow him whole. His hands trembled uncontrollably, hovering near the wound, unsure whether to pull the fork out or leave it in. There was a small part of him that feared that if he pulled it out, everything would end much sooner than he wanted. But the blood seeped between his fingers, warm and sticky, and the sensation of drowning in it was more suffocating than the pain. He clung to it, as though it were the only thing still tethering him to reality—each drop a final reminder that death was near, inevitable, and inescapable.

His head tilted to the side, and his bleary eyes fought to focus on the light flickering above him. The light cast strange shadows that seemed to dance on the walls, mocking his condition as his body failed to obey him. The blue lenses of his eyes, which had always been his shield, now seemed like a joke. They were a barrier, sure, but now they were just another layer between him and the world—one more distance between himself and everything else. His blurred vision wavered with the effort to keep his eyelids open. With each blink, the world tilted, a vertigo-inducing, nauseating sensation. The pain was too much, unbearable, but he kept fighting. He had to keep fighting. He wasn’t ready. Not like this. Not here.

Thanos’s breathing came in ragged gasps, his chest straining to bring more air into his lungs, but it felt as if his body had forgotten how to breathe. His lungs burned, each intake of breath like fire, each exhalation a suffocating, interrupted sound, echoing through the empty corridors. His body trembled with the effort, and the cold of the floor seeped into his bones, eating away at him. The cold tiles beneath him seemed like an enemy, a harsh contrast to the heat of the blood spreading around him. It was a strange dichotomy—the cold beneath him and the warmth of the blood pooling around him. Every breath came with a sense of weight, as though each second was being dragged to the bottom of an abyss.

He tilted his head back, his bleary eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to focus on something, anything. But all he saw was a blur, a red and white haze. His mind screamed for clarity, but it was drowned out by the constant thrum of pain, by the sensation of blood pulsing in his neck and down his spine. He could hear the thud of his heart, heavy and irregular, beating in his ears, the blood pulsing against the walls of his skull. It was all consuming, and for a moment, he thought it might be the end. The thud in his head grew louder, more unbearable, until he could no longer separate it from the pain shooting through his neck and down his spine.

His lips parted, and he let out a weak, broken laugh—empty, bitter. "So this is how it ends," he muttered, though his voice barely reached his own ears. It was so faint, so fragile, like the last breath of a dying man. There was no pride in the words, no bravado. Just the bitter, painful truth. The irony of it all. All his planning, all his cunning, all his unrelenting behavior that had brought him to this point—and here he was, bleeding out on the cold floor, like an animal, reduced to nothing. It didn’t matter how many times he had manipulated others, how many battles he had won. None of it mattered now. His body betrayed him, and there was nothing left to fight for.

Thanos’s fingers scraped against the floor, his skin slick with blood, but he couldn’t find any support. No strength. His hands were stained crimson, the tips of his fingers numb, and his muscles felt like lead. It was as if the entire world had become a weight, crushing him, forcing him to submit to it. Every movement, every attempt to rise, only brought more pain, more blood, more suffering. The blood—his blood—was everywhere. He clung to it, a sad reminder of what was slipping through his fingers.

“Not yet,” he whispered, but the words came out weak, more like a broken promise than an order. He wasn’t ready to die. Not like this. Not here. Not on the floor, forgotten and alone. His pride wouldn’t allow it. His entire life had been a fight for control, for power. And now, at the end, he was helpless. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t even lift his head. He was nothing more than a broken man, bleeding out on the silence of a hallway.

The movement in the corner of his vision caught his attention, but it was faint, a shadow at the edge of his consciousness. It was hard to tell whether it was real or just a hallucination brought on by blood loss and pain. The guard. Their figure loomed in the distance, their mask as impassive as ever, staring down at him with an indifference that matched the emptiness inside him. They weren’t here to help. They were here to watch him suffer, to bear witness to his fall from the edge of life.

Thanos’s smile widened, though it was a ghost of its former self. He could feel the blood in his mouth, foaming at the corners, the metallic taste so overwhelming that it made him choke. His mouth was dry, the blood drying on his lips, but he forced out a rasping laugh. “Came to watch the show?” he croaked, his voice weak, but dripping with venom and mockery. There was nothing left of the man he used to be, just this thing, broken, fighting to hold on to what little dignity remained. His words were empty, a last attempt to exert control over the situation, but it was pointless. The reality was undeniable. He was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The guard remained silent, their presence as cold and impenetrable as ever. Thanos’s chest heaved with the effort to breathe, his body trembling as darkness threatened to consume him entirely. His vision grew even blurrier, the world dissolving into an abyss of pain and fear. The blood in his veins seemed to slow, as though time had stopped, stretching the seconds into eternity. He could feel the warmth of the blood against his skin, the wetness of it seeping into his clothes. It was a reminder that his time was running out.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to scream, to rail against the helplessness, to force himself to stand, to tear himself away from the grip of death. But his body betrayed him at every turn. His limbs were heavy, his muscles screaming in protest, and the weight of the world crushed him, dragging him down into the abyss.

“Help me,” he croaked, the words barely a whisper, a broken plea more desperate than he ever thought he could be. His throat burned with the effort, and shame clawed at him, more painful than the wound itself. “Please…” He hated himself for saying it, for giving in to this weakness, but the fear of dying alone—of fading away unnoticed—was more than he could bear. He wasn’t ready to be forgotten. Not like this. Not after everything.