[23 OCTOBER 1945 CY, 3:29 PM]
A poor prisoner looked around as two guards led them to the execution platform. He was convicted of being a state enemy, spy, traitor, or something else. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, he was dead anyways.
As the guards force him to kneel as your name and the crimes he’d committed are read aloud, the prisoner only spared a glance at his executioner. He only knew her as Cynthia, at least that’s what the other guards probably said. A lot of hearsay got passed around in a complex like this. When everything is done, Cynthia stepped forward, cocking her revolver and aiming it at him.
“Any last words, prisoner?”
“Why me…?”
Bang. The prisoner was shot in the head, dying instantly. Cynthia only stared at the corpse, ignoring the bloodstains on her otherwise perfectly maintained uniform. Nobody could see the tears starting to well up, and Cynthia made sure nobody could, walking away before anyone looked back.
[26 FEBRUARY 1956 CY, 7:14 AM]
Cynthia shuddered as she remembered her time as executioner, taking deep breaths. The children weren’t here yet. She glanced at the clock. Only sixteen more minutes until they arrived, actually. Enough time to tidy up the room and make it look neater.
After several minutes of keeping herself occupied, Cynthia tried to look for something else to do. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing else, and now she had ten minutes to herself.
Ten minutes of despair.
