"Well, that's it," I said, standing up from my seat. I let the bartender cry at the counter, his frame slumped over as if he could disappear into it.
Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last, but I didn't stop.
"That's it?" His voice, raw and incredulous, cut through the silence.
I turned slowly to face him. He was on his feet, trembling, with tears streaking his face.
"I KIDNAPPED AND KILLED!" he shouted. "You're really not going to punish me? You're going to let all my sins go unpunished? TELL ME!"
His desperation filled the room, and for a moment, I felt its weight. He wasn't asking for justice—he was begging for meaning, for some way to make sense of his suffering.
"You confessed and repented," I said firmly. "My god says that's how sins are forgiven."
"Forgiveness?" he spat, his voice dripping with bitterness. "I don't want, I don't deserve your forgiveness! I want death!"
