His turn came, just like they all have their turn.

The list beside me is full of familiar and unfamiliar names. Some I remember well - their smiles, their glances, the things they shouldn’t have said but did. Others are just names, a recorded crime, a taped voice, or a blurry image from a surveillance camera.

For all of them, there’s only one ending - and I am the one who writes it.

The blood-inked fountain pen bled onto the paper.

At first, my hand would tremble. But now I’m used to it. All I need is focus - to write calmly and beautifully so the list remains clean and orderly.

I wrote his name right beneath that teenage girl who had tried to send a message out. Poor girl, her recorded voice still echoes in my ears:

“If I die, know that…”

I don’t know what happened - why she didn’t finish, maybe the power went out, maybe she got scared, or maybe she couldn’t breathe anymore. It doesn’t matter. Now both of them are on the list. And the list goes on, relentlessly.

There’s a heavy silence in my room. Only the hum of the air vent and sometimes, the sound of footsteps in the corridor. This place is safe, a place where we hide the truth, so order can survive.

Sometimes I wonder - what if one of the names is a mistake? What if someone is innocent?

But I quickly gather my thoughts. These doubts are dangerous - especially in the position I hold. In the cabinet beside me, there are small vials filled with blood. Each labeled with a specific code. Those who caused more trouble - their blood is darker. Maybe from hatred or maybe from the intensity of their resistance.

They brought his blood from the control unit. Said he didn’t go down easily. The dangerous ones always die hard.

I picked up the fountain pen again. Opened the next page of the list. My eyes fell on another name. It was familiar, very familiar…

I kept staring at her name.

It was just a name—simple, ordinary—but to me, it felt like a wake-up call. A name that stirred something deep inside, yet at the same time, left me feeling completely numb. It was my mother’s name. Why? Why had I never felt this way before? Didn’t the life of the previous names matter? Why did I never dare to ask the hard questions? Why didn’t I ever try to understand why I do the things I do?

Instead, I cloaked my actions in the comfort of excuses, blaming the dead for what they did—because they couldn’t speak back. I wore that blame like armor to shield me from the truth. But deep down, I know it was cowardice. I never wanted to face what was real, because I was afraid of what I might find.

Now I wonder—maybe it’s too late to be sorry.

But if I die… what should people know?

What truth deserves to be uncovered, even if it hurts? What stories have been buried in silence, covered in blood, erased by those who will do anything—anything—to keep control? They kill anyone who dares to question, anyone who rebels, anyone who doesn’t fall in line. I think… I might be next.

And yet, if the truth dies with me, then what was the point of it all?

I looked at her name again. My hand trembled—not from fear, but from memory. She used to hum softly while brushing my hair, always pausing when I asked too many questions. She knew the danger of curiosity. Maybe she even foresaw this moment, my hand hovering above her name, the ink-blood ready to seal her fate.

But this time, I couldn’t write.

I put the pen down.

My heart thudded against my chest like a warning bell. What if this was the moment everything changed? What if refusing to write a name—her name—was the beginning of something greater than the list, greater than fear?

Outside, the corridor was quiet, but the silence now felt different, Heavy. Watching. Waiting.

I opened the drawer and picked up the small vial labeled with her code. Her blood was lighter, almost translucent—like it didn’t belong in this room of shadows and secrets. I held it to the light. It shimmered.

Was she really guilty? Or had someone decided she needed to disappear, like all the others? I whispered to myself, “Maybe I don’t want to be the one who writes endings anymore.” I tore the page. Not the whole list—just that one page. The sound of tearing paper felt louder than a scream.

Something shifted inside me...