You pull up into your house's driveway, muttering darkly about the grocery store's lack of good maple syrup. Honestly, you could spend hours looking over your favorite store's vast selections of maple syrup—but today, they were out of most of their brands, and you had to settle for a lesser-quality syrup. You gather your groceries from your car; and you drop them upon glancing up at your front door.
From your current angle, it appears to barely be attached to its hinges. Slowly, you glance around at the yard and street around your house—a kicked-in door usually means that your obnoxiously loud sibling had forgotten his key, but he leaves his flashy red pickup truck parked in your driveway so that you have to park in the street and it isn't there. You see nothing abnormal with the street around your home, so you approach the door with caution; you slide towards it along the wall of your house, keeping your head out of view of your windows in case whoever broke in was still in your home. Cautiously, carefully, you peer into the doorway, scanning the hallway for any signs of an imposter—nothing, not even a sign of a fight… Which means that whomever broke in was someone you know, because Kuma would have absolutely attacked an intruder without hesitation. You relax a little, and slip into your home.
You ease yourself down the hallway, grabbing a hockey stick that you forgot to put away after playing the night before. You peer into the first couple of rooms, finding nothing amiss—You start thinking that it's more and more likely that Alfred broke into your home and left after finding you not in it. Until a faint, metallic scent finds its way to your nose.
You freeze, feeling your heart skip a beat. You are very, very familiar with this smell—blood. You hope that Kuma is okay; you'd never live with yourself if he'd gotten hurt while you were away. You ease down the hallway with renewed caution, towards the last room on your first floor. Slowly, you peer into your living room, and you nearly drop your hockey stick out of shock.
Your living room is an absolute mess—chairs strewn about and broken to bits, your couch flipped on its side, your favorite reading lamp shattered on the wall, and several round holes in the walls that you know are bullet holes. The smell comes from the bodies scattered around the room—Alfred, Francis, Arthur, Kuma: all dead. Each of them is riddled with bullet holes, and have bled out far too much for a single one of them to be alive. Blood blossoms out from under each of them, in a puddle of their own shattered existence. You feel something wet trickle down your cheek—are you… crying? You wipe your face with your hand, trying and failing to hold your tears within. You drop your hockey stick and fall to your knees, face in your hands. If the killer is still in your home, you aren't sure you would try to stop them from shooting you… At least Gil isn't here, dead—you aren't sure you could handle that. The faint click of a gun being loaded snaps your out of your thoughts, and you turn to face the killer of your loved ones.
"Sorry, Mattie." Gilbert says, voice devoid of emotion as if he were simply a puppet on a string.
"G-Gil…" Your voice cracks. You don't care. Why… Why would he do this?
" I had hoped that you would be gone longer…" He lifts his weapon, pointing it at your head. "The best I can do for you now is give you a quick, painless death."
"But… why?"
"… I'm sorry." He pulls the trigger, and your world fades to black.
Plotbunny: You thought someone broke into your house-the door was open, and you had locked it before you left. You creep into your home, grabbing a hockey stick in case whomever broke in was still there. You enter your living room and freeze—Alfred, Francis, Arthur, Kuma… All dead and on your floor. You choke back a sob, only to hear the soft click of a gun being loaded. "Sorry, Mattie." Gilbert says from behind you, voice ice-cold. "I had hoped that I wouldn't have to do this to you, too."