[ WP ] During the annual 'Purge ' , you arrive at the residence of the person who wronged you . Due to all the anticipation , you forgot that the 'Purge ' timings have been shifted by an hour . Now , you both wait for the 'Purge ' to begin .

I'm the first to break the long silence. 
 
 `` Well, this is awkward.'' 
 
 He grins at me, a perfect smile that speaks of charisma and pride and money. 
 
 Gesturing at the blade in my hand, he says, `` Why do n't you put that away and come in for something to drink?'' 
 
 As though the blade in my hand was made of rubber. As though we were old friends, and he'd never wronged me. As though I was not here to kill him in less than an hour. 
 
 Wordlessly, I follow him inside his mansion. I do n't bother to take off my shoes. Dead men do n't have to worry about dirt. 
 
 We go into his lounge. A U-shaped couch sits around a coffee table. A TV larger than any window in my house is mounted up on the wall in front of the couch. The west wall is made entirely of glass, facing a gorgeous lake landscape. The setting sun sinks into the lake, bleeding cherry red and clementine orange into the still waters. 
 
 On the opposite wall is a small bar. He holds up a glass. 
 
 `` Can I get you anything?'' he offers me. `` A scotch, maybe a gin and tonic?'' 
 
 `` Coffee.'' I say flatly. `` Black.'' 
 
 Minutes later, he brings me my drink. He and I take seats on opposite ends of the horseshoe couch. 
 
 Sipping his Scotch, he remarks lightly, `` I always knew you would come for me.'' 
 
 I grit my teeth. `` Is that so? How *insightful* of you.'' 
 
 `` I do n't think murdering me is a solution to your troubles, but clearly, you've already made up your mind.'' His pretty blue eyes are earnest and sympathetic. 
 
 What a beautiful face for such a filthy rat. 
 
 `` I sent you countless emails with *solutions*'', I growl at him. `` You did n't bother to reply to any of them.'' 
 
 He looks contrite. `` A blunder on my part, then, I must confess.'' 
 
 `` A *blunder*? Tell me, then, was it a *blunder* when you ran out on me after two years of being in a committed relationship? A *blunder* when you stole my manuscript, which I'd worked tirelessly on for years? A *blunder* when you published the whole thing under your name? With no credit or attribution to me, not even in the dedication or author's note?'' 
 
 He sits, his expression of sympathy getting more and more pronounced. I have the urge to fling my coffee cup at him, but the time is not yet right. I glance at the clock. Thirty-four minutes left. 
 
 `` Perhaps we can talk this out,'' he suggests. `` I'll admit it. I was an asshole back then. Your book was brilliant. I saw a lot of potential in it, and I knew I could never write anything that engaging. So I stole it. I'm not proud of it. I should have credited you, sent you half of the money I've made.'' 
 
 `` You want to talk this out *now*? You had your chance!'' I spit at him. 
 
 `` Here's what I'm willing to offer,'' he says diplomatically. `` The tenth-edition copies are being planned right now. I'll rewrite my author's note crediting you as my inspiration. I'll send you 50 % of all the money ever made, and we can collaborate on my next book.'' 
 
 `` No.'' My voice cracks like a whip. 
 
 `` No?'' 
 
 `` Your life is on the line. I know you can do better than that.'' 
 
 `` What do you want?'' 
 
 `` You *know* what I want.'' 
 
 `` You'll have to be more clear.'' 
 
 `` You have exactly twenty-nine more minutes to play games with me. Then I'm going to carve you like a Thanksgiving turkey. Use your powers of inference, genius.'' 
 
 He inhales. He's silent for a few minutes, thinking deeply. His face hardens. 
 
 `` I've burnt the original manuscript. There's no evidence left that you had any hand in this. I do n't have to give you anything.'' 
 
 `` You do n't,'' I agree cheerfully. I slide out my blade again, the silver catching the dying light of the sun. `` I do n't have to spare your miserable life either.'' 
 
 His breath catches. There's another pause. 
 
 `` What do you want me to do?'' He shouts at me. `` I've already given you a great deal considering I do n't owe you shit.'' 
 
 `` You're going to admit that you plagiarized my book,'' I say slowly. `` I want every single penny you've made off my work. And you are going to forfeit your rights to any movie deals you might have signed.'' 
 
 He laughs. `` Do n't be ridiculous! Seventy percent of profits, and a fifty percent royalty from the movie. I'll put your name in the author's note. Refer you to an agent. Done.'' 
 
 `` Admit you plagiarized my book to the public.'' 
 
 `` That'll be the end of my career!'' 
 
 `` The end of *your life* is about to come in around twenty minutes!'' I snap back. 
 
 A vein pulses in his forehead. `` Fine!'' 
 
 I nod towards the door. `` Go. Get two sheets of paper. We're going to draw up a deal and sign it.'' 
 
 Fifteen minutes later, a rough business deal has been drawn up. He will admit to stealing my book. He will give me 90 % of the profits he's made. And I get rights to any sequels or movies. 
 
 The pen scratches as he signs. As soon as his hand clears the paper, the clock begins to chime. 
 
 `` Are we good now?'' he asks. 
 
 I drive my knife into his stomach. His eyes widen in shock and his mouth gapes like a fish. 
 
 `` Oh, honey, we're perfect,'' I croon. 

