A man crouches with a smoking pistol in a dark kitchen, aiming at a shadowy figure through a rainy window. Blood is on the counter.

The Third Man Duncan was buried on the same night. My friend, my steady companion, stolen away days before the prosecution. Fleance took his death hard, a mental shock that seemed to root deep within his soul. He was convinced I could have done something to save him, that I should have invited him over that night, that I could have protected him. His shoes were still resting by the door, the memory of him rushing towards the headlights down the driveway without a backward glance still fresh in my memory. Macbeth said he’d take care of him for a night, let him settle, but I knew it would be longer. Fleance didn’t trust me anymore, Macbeth had no son and treated him as if he were his own. Soon enough, Fleance stopped calling at night, Macbeth assuring me that he could take care of him for a little longer. Seven nights had gone past since the murder, the dark, empty household seeming to hold its breath. I felt it too, the feeling that I was next, like the coffin lid had already started to fall without my notice. When the sound of breaking glass pierced the air at midnight, I wasn’t surprised. I tucked myself beneath the kitchen counter, wrapping my hands around the pistol in my hand, the cool steel feeling like the only honest thing that remained in my possession. A figure crossed the window in the living room, believing that they were safe, but the movement revealed him. Moonlight caught fire to the blood squirting out of the man's chest, the illumination of my smoking muzzle Mehr sehen