You drain your glass, grab your keys, and leave the apartment. The fading wallpaper and worn carpet of the corridor beyond exacerbate your depression; the flickering fluorescent tube near the elevators helps even less.
Eventually the elevator arrives and you step inside, joining a teenager with so many piercings it’s a wonder nobody takes him to one of those cash-for-gold kiosks and has him melted down.
You get out in the lobby and leave the building.
This is a really crappy part of town. You used to live in a nice house in the burbs. Nothing superfancy, but you had space and you had safety. This is all you can afford now.
You stand at the edge of the sidewalk. The number 67 to Chinatown is coming this way. Hopefully it will get up enough speed before it reaches you or you’re going to be spending the night in the hospital instead of the morgue. You clutch the piece of paper in your pocket that tells you it’s your choice how you want to die, or at least that’s how you interpret it.
Here comes the bus.
|If you step out in front of it, go to 4.|
|If you let the bus pass by, go to 6.|