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You planned this, the dead man’s switch of his greatest machinations.
(There’s comfort, you suppose, in knowing you alone will be more destructive in your final act than everyone who terrifies you combined. Yeah, there’s comfort in that.)
Because you know better than possibly anyone that violence is cyclical. Someone hurts someone who hurts someone who hurts someone else and then a country is blown up for good measure. Someone’s home. Everyone’s home.
You know that you’re next in the cycle. Your best friend would probably call you pessimistic, think who’s the next Wilbur now? But he knows you better than anyone else, he will know that there was only going to be this outcome. Things don’t stay good for long on the Dream SMP.
You made a lapse in judgement, chose to marry, take care of a child, logic clouded by grief and now your husband is dead and your child is missing, still making crayon drawings of the two of you with pink splotches on your faces. He’s never known anything else, who can blame him?
(your best friend has only been known by your son with a white streak in his hair and shaking hands, death marked. Your son likely knows death better than anyone else, apart from her husband, maybe. Another thing to resent about him, that his wife dream took away his son’s fathers’ hope, their joy, everything. )
Dream escapes the prison, the warden fails, the gambler panics. You enter the nuclear bunker. This is your end.
Your best friend is chased into a corner, retrieving from a chest he never wanted to open again. It’ll be nice to have him and his husband again. Perhaps his son will know them.
The baker and the hell-crawler go about their days, they don’t know any better. Perhaps you should have told them.
You are going to die. you will be the next Wilbur, except that your legacy will not exist, because nobody will live to write it down.
You press the button. There is nobody to argue with, no father. (You weren't a good father, probably)
(dying hurts, as you burn from the inside like every document he ever prepared. Nobody feels it, their bodies boil in milliseconds. Frozen, eternally, mid-chase. A shame. The musician wanted to go pick flowers today. You were supposed to have a picnic with your family. Dream ruins everything, you set it ablaze.)