Goat's Song

The doors creaked open.
Beyond the threshold lay an operation room—a grotesque fusion of sterile machinery and clinical brutality.
The scent of antiseptic hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.
At its center, standing several meters away from a girl in a surgical gown, was William.
A smug smile curled on his lips, his fingers delicately taking off the medical gloves, as if he had been expecting this.
William: So, you’ve come. Right on schedule.
The Commander stepped forward, boots heavy against the cold tile, his expression devoid of amusement.
Shadows flickered against the gleaming walls, cast by the artificial glow of surgical lamps.
Beneath his feet, a faded insignia was still etched into the floor, a silent witness to the atrocities performed here.
William: Tell me… How does it feel, standing here, knowing you’ve already lost? Knowing that everything has led to this moment—one where you hold a gun, and I hold the world?
Commander: …
William chuckled, turning around.
His arms spread wide like a conductor about to orchestrate a grand finale.
The leather of his gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, reveling in the moment.
William: I can already hear it—the weight of history shifting.
William: The deaths of millions, the suffering of countless fools, all culminating into my dearest’s ascension.
William: Do you understand, Commander? I am not a villain. I am necessity.
William: A thousand years from now, no one will remember the lives lost in the process. They will only remember the result. They will remember me and my sister.
Commander: …No.
William paused. His eye twitched.
Commander: They won’t remember you at all.
William: You insolent—
His composure cracked, his face twisting with rage.
William: You think you can stop me? You, a dog of a world that should have perished long ago?
His voice climbed, sharp as a blade.
William: I was meant to surpass Laplace, Rudolf, and even Hume! I will carve my name into the bones of history! I will bring back my sister! And you—
Bang–
A gunshot.
Not a single one.
Not a controlled burst.
Not a warning.
The entire magazine.
The first rounds tore into William’s chest, driving him backward.
His breath hitched—a sharp, choking gasp—before more rounds followed.
Shoulder.
Stomach.
Another through his ribs.
Metal clattered against the tile, a chaotic symphony of finality.
Blood splattered across the pristine white floor, pooling beneath him like a surgeon’s nightmare.
The hammering of bullets drowned out everything—the beeping monitors, the distant alarms, the gurgled cries of the man who had spent his life thinking himself untouchable.
His limbs twitched violently with each shot, his body convulsing against the onslaught.
And eventually, his head was pierced through.
His open eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, as if in shock that his grand vision had amounted to nothing.
Smoke curled from the Commander’s Makarov as he exhaled slowly.
No words.
No final exchange.
No lingering doubts.
The Commander stepped over the crimson-streaked tiles towards the unconscious girl.
As he passed, he spared one final glance at the ruined corpse slumped on the ground.
The world would not remember William.
It would remember the silence he left behind.