Author's Notes: This spawned off of a songfic challenge to Creed's "Bullets", but it never really worked out. I didn't end up with a songfic, but something even better, IMO. :) Story is told from Seto's POV.

Warnings: Language & Violence (Dark theme)

Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any of it's characters.

It's not that I can't handle this. I could if I wanted to. The thing is; I don't. I'm not weak. I just don't care anymore, and I'm not the first.

You hear all about those people who work nine-to-five jobs, who don't have much of a home life, who probably don't have a significant other – those kinds of people who end up jumping off bridges or hanging themselves. They go down in history. Ironically, it's not the people behind them, keeping the companies alive; the people who suffer working their entire lives. No, those people don't get any of the credit. It's the weak bastards who take the easy way out. They're the ones who get remembered.

I don't want people to remember Seto Kaiba as the bastard who took the easy way out, but if that's what's going to happen, then so be it.

I left work early last night. I threw all the papers off my desk, screaming and cursing, and I fucking left. What's the difference? I work my ass off and what have I gained at the end of the day?

Nothing.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In the bathroom, I reach above the medicine cabinet and grab hold of the pistol. I sit on the toilet seat, turning the gun over in my hands. I look down the barrel and wondered how many people before me were in this position. I wonder what they thought, moments before ending their lives. I wonder what they looked like, who they were, and why they were doing it.

They were weak, just like you.

"I'm not weak. I don't care about them."

Then why are you doing this?

"Why not?"

You don't even have a reason?

"Fuck you!"

I stand up suddenly and steady myself on the bathroom sink. I raise the gun to my head and push the cool metal against my temple. I stare down at my feet, teeth clenched.

You can't even look at yourself.

My head snaps up as I stare at the shell of a man staring back at me.

That's not me. That man is weak. That man has nothing left. I sympathize with the man. His expressions mirror mine and I realize that he's mocking me.

I smash the mirror with the gun.

The man's distorted image stares at me through a thousand broken pieces of glass. He smiles… An empty, broken smile.

I level the gun with the man's chest and realized that he's pointing it right back at me. I hold the gun to my head and see that the man holds one to his head as well.

We're broken. We're weak. We are one and the same.

I pull the trigger.