A soft ballad played above on the speakers overhead. On the screen in each of our rooms, one face played. Charlotte. Subject 5-2. I sighed, covering my face and crossing my legs on my bed. Savannah looked at me, face sad. “Why?” Was all she asked. “Why would you do that to her? Charlotte did nothing to you.”

I looked up at her, not being able to hold her gaze. “It was her or all of us.” I shrugged, adjusting my position to lay on my bed. “But it didn’t have to be her. You could have just killed me.” She said, matching my position on her bed.

“But you aren’t ready to die yet. I know you aren’t. You were murdered, I killed myself to be here.” I would have continued, but she cut me off. “Look, I didn’t ask to be picked. None of us really did. But murder? You killed her. You’re the reason shes dead. That’s just.. hard to accept. I’m in a bedroom with a murderer. How do I know you won’t murder me next? Like how I was on Earth?”

Her words hit hard. A bit too hard. I’m not a murderer. I thought I was a hero. You lose some to win some. “How do I know you won’t murder me?” She repeated, before sighing and turning away in her bed. “Love ballads aren’t made for funerals. I hope they don’t play one at mine. I’m not gonna make it out of here, at all.”