The air in the courtroom hung thick, as though someone had poured black ink into the atmosphere.
Everything waited—waited for that absurd "choice."
The first to speak was the young boy. He drew in a deep breath, as if finally finding "relief" within the nightmare. His voice was hoarse but firm:"I… I choose absolution."
Crack!
A sharp, brittle sound.
His body splintered from the toes upward, his skin etched with countless black characters, as though someone was scribbling notes directly into his flesh. The words crawled along his veins, hollowing him out piece by piece.
"No!" The scarred comrade lunged forward, trying to seize him—but grasped only a shred of paper.
The boy's eyes flickered with a cocktail of regret, release, and bitter self-mockery.
"At least… I don't have to keep running anymore."
The moment he spoke, his voice thinned and faded, as though carried across the dusty pages of some abandoned library.
Seconds later, he vanished entirely. Only half a sheet remained, inscribed with the words:"File No. Lost Boy. Crime: Being Alive."
The audience erupted in perfect unison applause, as if applauding a flawless performance.
"Excellent, excellent!" the judge beamed, its stitched mouths grinning wide. "See? He has found eternal peace! The Void has welcomed him, archived him! That is the proper path!"
Another comrade sneered:"Peace? More like selling your soul at clearance prices, gift-wrapped as 'archiving.' Tell me, does the Void just need more file clerks? That why you're hoarding paperwork?"
The audience burst out laughing. The hollow eyes blinked like strobe lights, applauding this grotesque comedy.
Yet amidst the laughter, two others lowered their heads, eyes trembling with hesitation.
"To live is a crime… then why keep struggling?" murmured a middle-aged woman. "I've lost my family. Lost everything. Staying here only means carrying more guilt."
Even as she spoke, her body began to fracture. Flesh thinned into paper; blood bled into ink. In moments, she collapsed into a heavy archive volume, thudding onto the floor. The cover read:"File No. Lost Mother. Crime: Being Alive."
The courtroom swelled with eerie jubilation. The hollow eyes chanted together, humming a hymn that reeked of funeral incense.
But on the other side, the scarred comrade slammed his fist against the desk, roaring:"Enough! You're really going to let yourselves become scrap paper? I'd rather die than be catalogued by the Void!"
His words struck like a spark. A few waverers suddenly clenched their fists, anger burning in their eyes.
"Yes! If living is a crime, then let's be guilty to the end!"
"Better torn apart than filed away!"
Some rose to their feet, defiance blazing in their expressions—an absurd kind of clarity blooming out of despair.
Thus, the group split.
Half transformed into paper, gently "archived" by the Void.The other half gritted their teeth, choosing to stand on the side of resistance—even if it meant inevitable sentencing and execution.
In the gallery, countless hollow eyes trembled with excitement, like an audience feasting on a live reality show: surrender and rebellion, betrayal and rage, cries and laughter—all in one episode.
The judge raised its hand, sighing theatrically:"Ah… humanity, always the same. Some yearn for release, others cling to struggle. But in the end, you all become nothing but footnotes in the Void."
The protagonist smirked, his words biting:"Spoken like you really understand humanity. Too bad your archive will never grasp one truth—pages can preserve words, but they can never preserve rebellion."
At that, the resisting comrades burst out laughing. Their laughter was mad, but carried a tragic, black humor.
Because they knew the truth: whichever choice they made, the ending was absurd.
Some became paper—stock for the Void's library.Others clung to life—only to await sentencing and shredding.
At last, they understood: this so-called "choice" was nothing more than a farce mocking human will.
The joke was that they actually split apart.