CHAPTER 6: THE BREAKING POINT
"Th-This is a molotov?! W-Where did you find this?"
Brea's voice trembled as she stared at the bottle in her hands. Her fingers shook visibly, the makeshift weapon feeling alien and dangerous in her grasp. She gazed up at Anon, her wide, pleading eyes silently begging him to take it back.
Anon shook his head, unfazed. "I didn't find it. I made this just now."
"W-Wait, you made this? How do you even know how to make a molotov, Anon?"
"Well… I don't, really. I just thought mixing some oil into the alcohol would work. Guess we'll have to test it out."
"No, no, no, Anon! I-I don't think I should take this! You should use it instead. You're better at handling this kind of stuff."
He sighed, brushing off her protests with a wave of his hand. "I get that you're scared, but it's not as complicated as you think. All you've gotta do is light this piece of cloth here with a lighter and then—'Boom!'—you set your enemies ablaze. Simple, right? You won't even have to get close; just toss it from a safe distance."
"Bu-But…!"
"Don't worry about it. You'll be fine."
Anon smiled, a faint curve of his lips that was meant to reassure her, but something about it felt off—too casual, too distant. He reached out and patted her head lightly, as if trying to calm a skittish animal.
Brea wasn't convinced. She glanced back down at the molotov, the weight of it pressing heavily in her hands. Her mind raced with what-ifs, each one more terrifying than the last.
'You remind me of your older brother, huh…?'
Meanwhile, Anon's mind drifted as he looked at her struggling to accept the weapon. The mention of her doting older brother earlier had sparked memories of his own sibling—memories he had buried under the weight of everything else.
'Ana… When will you wake up?'
The thought hit him like a sharp pang in his chest. He pictured his little sister Sebiana's fragile form lying motionless on the pristine white hospital bed, the steady beeping of machines the only sign of life. It had been almost two years since the fatal car crash involving their now deceased father. Two years of sadness, of longing, of wondering if there was anything he could've done to prevent the accident from occurring on that fateful day.
The teasing smile on his face drooped down, fading as quickly as it had come.
"A-Anon? Is everything okay? You've been stroking my head for a while now…"
"Huh…? O-Oh, r-right!" Anon quickly pulled his hand back, his expression shifting to one of mild embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding her gaze. "Sorry about that, Brea. I hope I didn't make you feel… weirded out or anything."
"N-No, it's fine…" Brea replied softly, lowering her head as a faint blush crept onto her cheeks.
The air between them grew heavier with an awkward silence. Wanting to escape the moment, Anon abruptly turned away. "A-Anyway, let's test out these molotovs and see if they really do the job. F-Follow me outside."
He moved toward the crate where he'd placed all the makeshift molotovs, grabbed it with hurried movements, and walked briskly to the exit. Brea followed quietly, clutching her own bottle like it was a fragile artifact she wasn't quite sure she wanted.
Once they were outside and at a safe distance from the convenience store—and any buildings that might accidentally catch fire—Anon set the crate down on the pavement. The street was eerily silent except for the faint whistle of the wind.
"Okay, time to get serious." His voice held a firmer edge now as he retrieved the lighter from his pocket. He turned to Brea, his brows knit together in focus.
"Here," he said, holding out the lighter. "You'll use this to light the cloth at the tip of the molotov. Once it's lit, throw it as hard as you can toward that spot over there." He pointed to an empty area a few meters away where the coast was clear.
Brea hesitated, her fingers tightening around the bottle she held. "Umm… Okay. But, can you do it first, Anon? I-I'd like to watch how you do it before I try."
Anon's expression hardened, and he shook his head. "No, Brea." His tone was steady but firm, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her flinch slightly. "You need to be brave for this. Just do what I told you. You'll be fine—trust me."
He held out the lighter again, waiting patiently for her to take it. Brea stared at the small object, her heart thudding in her chest. She swallowed hard, pausing for a moment as her nerves battled her will.
Finally, she drew in a deep breath and stepped forward. Her trembling hand reached out to accept the lighter, the cool metal pressing against her palm.
"Be ready and careful."
Anon's steady voice carried a weight of calm authority as he moved a few steps back, giving Brea space. Crossing his arms, he stood at a safe distance, his watchful gaze fixed on her every move.
In a final hopeful effort, Brea turned to him, her eyes wide and pleading with uncertainty. She sought reassurance in his expression, but all she received was a firm, resolute nod. It was clear her silent appeal wouldn't change his mind.
Letting out a resigned sigh, she faced forward. "Okay, I can do this. Huuuu…"
With a deep inhale, she rolled the lighter's metal wheel with her thumb, pressing down the ignition button. A small flame flickered to life. Carefully, she brought the dry cloth of the molotov closer, and almost instantly, the fabric caught fire, a tiny blaze dancing at its tip.
"Now, throw it!"
Anon's sudden shout startled her, making her jolt and stiffen. For a moment, her grip on the flaming bottle wavered. But she clenched her jaw, steadying herself, and followed his command without hesitation.
"Ha!"
With a quick cry, Brea hurled the molotov forward. The bottle arced through the air in a perfect curve before crashing onto the empty road. The glass shattered, releasing a surge of fiery liquid that spread out in an instant, igniting the ground in a furious blaze.
Brea stood frozen, her eyes wide as saucers, staring at the roaring fire that now consumed the pavement. The sheer intensity of what she had just done left her in stunned silence. As the flames danced, her thoughts betrayed her, conjuring an image she wished she could unsee.
Her mind painted a gruesome picture of the molotov landing on a person instead of the road. She imagined them engulfed in flames, their body writhing in agony as screams of unbearable pain tore through the air. The horrifying vision sent a cold shiver down her spine, and she instinctively hugged herself.
'How cruel…'
Lost in her thoughts, she flinched slightly when she felt a hand rest gently on her shoulder.
"Nice job."
Anon's voice brought her back to reality. She turned her head to find him standing beside her, his gaze fixed on the inferno with a calm, assessing expression.
"Anon, I… I don't think I can do this…"
Her trembling voice pierced through the crackling of the fire, catching Anon off guard. He turned his head sharply, raising an eyebrow at her unexpected confession.
"What do you mean?"
Brea's hands fidgeted at her sides, her eyes locked onto the ground as though the very weight of her words was too much to bear. "I… I just don't know if I can throw molotovs at people and watch them burn and die, knowing I caused that… knowing I inflicted so much pain and suffering before they…" Her voice trailed off into a whisper.
Anon opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he paused, his gaze narrowing slightly as he studied her.
She stood there, head bowed, avoiding his eyes entirely. Her shoulders slumped, and though she tried to mask it, Anon noticed the faint tremble in her posture. It wasn't fear of him, not exactly—it was more like fear of his disappointment, or worse, his anger.
Anon let out a quiet sigh. He crossed his arms and softened his tone, choosing his next words carefully.
"...Brea, you do realize that you could end up suffering the same fate, right? It's kill or be killed out here. Do you understand that?"
"I-I know. I do, really… But it's just that… I-I'm not a killer."
Her voice cracked as she spoke, and Anon's jaw tensed slightly.
"And are you saying that I am?"
"Wh-What?! No, of course not!" Brea's head shot up, her eyes wide as she frantically waved her hands. "That's not what I meant! Please don't take it the wrong way, Anon!"
Anon's black irises locked onto her, unflinching and unreadable, a silent wall of scrutiny that pierced through Brea's fragile composure. His silence, his complete lack of expression, gnawed at her, unraveling the tether she clung to so desperately.
Her lips quivered, and her body trembled. The uncertainty, the pressure—it all became too much.
"Why…? Why did this have to happen to me?" Her voice broke, rising with the weight of her emotions. "I-I'm just an ordinary girl! I don't want to kill anyone, so why?! This is so unfair! Life is so unfair!"
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as her voice escalated into a pleading cry.
"God…! Why did you bring me here?! To kill people and die?! I don't want to do it! Please, I don't want to die…! Someone, help me… please…"
Her knees buckled as she sank to the cold, unforgiving pavement. Bitter sobs escaped her lips, her hands clutching at her chest as though to hold her heart together. Her thoughts spiraled into despair: What could a powerless, ordinary girl like me possibly do in this nightmare?
Why was I chosen for this stupid, hellish death game?
Does God want me to die that badly? Is that it?
Each question stabbed deeper into her core, feeding the hopelessness that engulfed her.
But then, the heavy silence was broken by an unfamiliar voice, cutting through the tension like a sharp blade.
"Hey, is everything all right here?"
Both Anon and Brea turned toward the source of the voice.
A man stepped into view, his face obscured by a mask. His presence, sudden and uninvited, injected a jolt of unease into the already charged atmosphere.