It was a day like any other.

Fred woke up just before his alarm went off and dragged himself into his bathroom. He shaved off his stubble, and began brushing his teeth. He grimaced slightly at the wrinkles around his eyes and the presence of yet more gray strands in his black hair. At least all of it was there and accounted for, unlike so many of his peers. He hopped into his shower for what was more of a rinse than a wash, threw on his suit and went out of his apartment.

A short elevator ride later he was out of the building and onto the street. He got some coffee and a bagel to go and proceeded towards the office on foot. Living a mere ten minute walk from one’s place of business was something very few people were able to claim, especially in a big city like this.

But even though he was fortunate enough to be spared the dredges of traffic that accompanied most people’s commutes, Fred didn’t see it as such. All he saw was the garbage covering the sidewalk and the dust and grime accumulating on his old junker of a car. He wasn’t even sure if it would start if he were to turn the key. That was just how long it had been since he needed to use it.

His morning bagel and half his coffee were already gone by the time he reached the office. He shared a greeting smile with the receptionist and took the elevator to his floor. He flashed his card at the guard, went into the office and sat at his cubicle. He proceeded to do his work and barely even moved from his chair aside from the odd bathroom break or to eat lunch. E-mails were sent, numbers were crunched and spreadsheets were filled out.

When quitting time came, he promptly left the cubicle, the office, the floor, and then the building. Twenty minutes later he was back in his bachelor pad with a take-out dinner in hand. He ate it in silence while watching television. He continued staring at the images on the screen long after his chicken teriyaki had been devoured, trying his best to ignore the fact that he barely even spoke to anyone today. Or any day, for that matter.

Then, once 10:23 PM rolled around, he turned off the television, put away the dirty dishes, sat behind his desk and began the highlight of his daily routine.

*CLICK*

“One for Janice, because she’s nice to me.”

*CLICK*

“One for Mark, because his bagels are the best.”

*CLICK*

“One for July, because her smile is lovely.”

*CLICK*

“Two for Terry, because he joked about my new tie.”

*CLICK CLICK*

“One for Xao, because he always makes my chicken the way I like it.”

*CLICK*

“Two for Kevin, because his asshole dog is really driving me up the wall-”

*CLICK CLICK*

“-and three more for the dog.”

*CLICK CLICK CLICK*

“One for Mike, because he doesn’t mind helping out when I’m swamped.”

*CLICK*

“Two for other Terry, because he swapped the keys on my keyboard as a prank.”

*CLICK CLICK*

“Four for Billy, because he’s always trying to take credit for my work.”

*CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK*

“Three for Martha, because she can’t focus and keeps making messes I have to clean up after.”

*CLICK CLICK CLICK*

“Oh, wait. Didn’t her husband get in a car accident last month? Yeah, I should’ve went easy on her with just two. Damn, I guess I have to start over now.”

Having said that, Fred emptied the assault rifle magazine he had been filling with bullets, making the lethal projectiles spill out across his desk. He then once again started placing them in the magazine one by one while fantasizing how many he was planning to put in each of his acquaintances and coworkers. After counting out precisely twenty nine, he then added a final one for himself, and twirled the thirty-first one between his fingers.

“And one in the chamber, for good luck.”

Fred then placed the nail-like projectile on the desk, and let out a deep, relieved sigh. After a few minutes he unloaded the magazine, organized the bullets and put the dangerous things away in his desk drawer. Of course he wasn’t going to actually shoot up the place. Even if he was depressed, he still had the good sense to avoid doing such an atrocious thing. This entire thing was just a bizarre coping mechanism he had developed over the years to keep his stress in check. He was fully aware of how crazy it was, but he kept doing it because it worked, as evidenced by how he was able to crawl into bed and drift off to sleep with a smirk on his face.

The next day was also just like any other. He woke up, freshened himself up, went to work, came back, counted his bullets and then slept. So was the next, and the next after that. Then Saturday came, yet he still found himself in the office. His manager Derrick had made him show up with no overtime to clean up after a mess that Martha made. Fred obviously wasn’t enthusiastic about it, but somehow still ended up doing it. It was fine though. He just needed to give each of them an extra one or two bullets later that night.

Fred spent his entire Sunday doing chores. He cleaned the lonely apartment he lived in, washed his clothes, got some new socks, paid the tax on his piece of shit car he never drove and other miscellaneous tasks. He also wanted to go pay off his cable bill, but they only worked Saturday morning on the weekends. The most he could do was hope they didn’t cut his subscription until he got a chance to do so next week. He had Derrick to thank for that particular niggle. He once again gave him an extra bullet for that.

Come Monday morning, and Fred’s day went the same as it always did, aside from one little speedbump. The coffee shop he frequented every single morning was closed. Which was rather strange. Mark, the owner of the place, would usually get his wife or one of his daughters to fill in for him should he fall ill or was otherwise absent.

The mild inconvenience of not being able to enjoy the same morning bagel and coffee he was used to made Fred’s day that tiny bit more annoying. It didn’t really affect the rest of his routine, but it was not a good way to start things off. So, unsurprisingly, when he got home he gave Mark two bullets instead of one in the grudge-clip. That way he could forgive him with a clear conscience.

“And one in the chamber, for-”

The only problem was that once he reached for the thirty-first bullet, his hands grasped at nothing. Puzzled by this ammunition deficiency, Fred checked his desk drawer. Then his pockets. Then the floor. Then any combination of those several times over. He even unloaded the magazine but still couldn’t find it. This disturbed him greatly, to the point where he kept looking until the clock struck midnight. At that point he had to begrudgingly accept it had disappeared somewhere and went back to sleep.

Or at least, he tried to. Being agitated by having his ‘therapy’ cut short naturally left him unable to fall asleep the way he was used to. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours until he finally drifted off. Having been deprived of a full night’s rest, his next morning was something of a disaster. To make matters worse, Mark’s coffee shop was still closed, so his Tuesday was worse than his Monday, but he still soldiered through it.

Later that evening, as he was in the middle of his karaage chicken dinner, he suddenly remembered he forgot to buy extra ammunition. He had gone through his day in such a monotonous manner that the whole thing ended up slipping his mind. He cursed at his past self and checked the time. It was still before 7 PM, so he had plenty of time to visit the local gun store before it closed at 8.

*Ding-dong*

However, there was a sudden ring at his door as he was putting on his shoes. This caught him completely off guard. It had been so long since he had visitors that he’d completely forgotten he even had a doorbell. Still, that didn’t mean he had abandoned his basic manners.

“Yes? Who is it?” he asked through the wooden door.

“Mr White?” came a deep voice from the other side.

“Yes?”

“My name is officer Maloney, I’m here with officer Rodriguez. We’re with the Central Police Department and we’d like to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long.”

Fred’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t done anything illegal, but there was no citizen who could remain completely calm when they get a surprise visit from law enforcement.

“Uh, sure. One second.”

He unlocked his front door, revealing two police officers in full uniform. One was a man in his early thirties with black hair like his, the other was a somewhat portly gentleman with a thick moustache.

“What’s this about, officer?” asked Fred.

“Are you familiar with anyone named Mark Kitburg, Mr White?”

“The only Mark I know is the one that runs the coffee shop around the corner.”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh. Wait, did something happen to him?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Mr Kitburg was found dead yesterday morning, and we are currently investigating his murder.”

Fred was understandably quite shaken by this news. It certainly explained why his shop was closed. No matter how important his bagel was, there was no way he would admonish his bereaved family for not keeping it open under those circumstances. The police officers asked him a few more questions, but since he was basically just a regular customer, they didn’t have a lot to talk about. Being simple acquaintances was also probably why Fred was so calm.

“I see, that will be all, Mr White. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Yeah… How did he die, by the way?”

“We believe he was shot in the head.”

“Believe?”

“We’re still investigating.”

How can someone not be sure if they were shot in the head? he thought. Surely something like a bullet would’ve been-

“Are you alright, Mr White?” asked Maloney. “You seem rather… pale.”

“Uh… Yeah… I’ll be fine. Sorry, it’s just… the reality of it all just hit me…”

“… Alright. We’ll take our leave now. Please do not hesitate to call us if you remember anything that might be of help.”

“I- I will. Thank you officer.”

Fred somewhat hurriedly shut the door and locked it, then dashed over to his desk. He opened up the drawer that contained the ingredients for his grim hobby and frantically counted up the ammunition. Thirty, much like how it was Sunday night.

“I couldn’t have… right?” he mumbled to himself. “Yeah… I couldn’t have…”

He definitely wasn’t going crazy. There was no way he would kill that man. To begin with, he didn’t even know where he lived. Not to mentioned that Fred had never actually fired a gun in his life. He didn’t even own one, just the ammunition for it. He reassured himself that this was just a coincidence, and tried his best to put it out of his mind. A few days passed, during which Fred was too freaked out to do his bullet-counting.

But without the stress relief it brought him, he quickly started growing irritable and grouchy. When Monday evening came about next week, he couldn’t take it anymore and performed the act again. He slept like a baby that night, and arrived at work feeling strangely refreshed and lighthearted. That asshole Derrick was out sick or something, so he was able to spend a productive, peaceful day.

At least until he got home, at which point he realized his collection of ammunition had dwindled once again, this time to twenty seven.

He didn’t count his bullets that day.

From then on, he began to notice a pattern. Every morning, he would check his drawer. And every few days, he would be a few bullets and one acquaintance short. The number of missing munitions matching however many he had allotted them during his last sermon.

Fred grew paranoid and was wracked with guilt. He stopped going outside at all and just shut himself in his apartment. He had no idea why this was happening or how he was doing it, but he had convinced himself it was his fault. How could it not be? There had to be a link between his morose practice and the death that was happening around him.

And he tried to stop it. He tried avoiding the counting, giving people zero bullets, or going so far as to chain himself to his desk, but none of that stopped it. He even tried tossing the blasted bullets away, but they mysteriously appeared inside his desk a few days later. If anything, his efforts only seemed to increase the frequency at which the killings happened. He even thought about turning himself in, but would anyone believe him? Would anyone be willing to help him? Would it not just spark another tragedy of some kind?

In the end, the only thing he could do was check his drawer, each day and every day as the bullets dwindled. It had become a grim compulsion, one he couldn’t help. Then, inevitably, he was down to the last one. A man who was barely even a shell of his former self looked into the open drawer in his desk. A single bullet gleamed in the morning sun creeping through the windows.

Maybe it was the notion that this impossible nightmare, this surreal experience would come to an end. Maybe he had simply accepted what was about to happen. Maybe he was never as sane as he believed himself to be. Whatever the case, he was left feeling strangely at peace.

Armed police officers knocked down his flimsy door and stormed the apartment a few moments later. It had taken them a while, but the fact that all of this new serial killer’s victims revolved around this one otherwise unremarkable man had not escaped their notice. But they didn’t find the killer. What they found was the five week old corpse of a black haired adult male in his late forties with a hole in his head leaning against a wall. His dried up fingers were wrapped around a bloodstained bullet, along with a note that read-

One in the chamber. For good luck.