CHAPTER 10
1085 Words
The first bullet zips past my ear, so close that I swear I feel the heat of its friction as it slices through the air. My breath catches. My pulse spikes. And then—everything slows.
The world stretches into unbearable clarity as my enhanced reflexes take over, a gift I never asked for and a curse I can never escape. The system inside me does what it always does: it calculates. Within the span of a blink, a dozen potential escape routes manifest before my eyes. But before I can even act on them, something fractures in my vision—two versions of the same moment unfolding in tandem.
One reality: I move too slow. The bullet finds its mark, ripping through my skull.
The other: I roll left, just in time, just barely scraping by with my life intact.
I don’t get to choose.
The system does.
I feel my body react before my mind even processes the decision. The muscles in my torso tighten, and I throw myself to the left, hitting the ground with a force that rattles my bones. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, but I push through, twisting behind a toppled metal crate. My chest heaves, burning from the sudden exertion.
Gunfire erupts.
A relentless monsoon of bullets tears into my cover, the sharp clang of ricocheting metal echoing in my ears. Sparks fly, flashing like miniature bursts of lightning in the chaos. My hands clench into fists as I shove down the rising terror clawing its way up my throat. There’s no room for fear. No room for doubt.
Fear is hesitation.
And hesitation is death.
Somewhere beyond the relentless gunfire, a voice bellows through the din—gruff, authoritative, the kind that belongs to someone who commands without question.
“Flank left! Don’t let him breathe!”
Not just any strike team. Professionals. Well-trained. Well-equipped. And, most importantly, well-informed.
I glance at my HUD, my augmented vision feeding me tactical data at an inhuman speed. Six hostiles. Three advancing fast, two covering from higher ground, one hanging back—observing, analyzing. Squad leader. No exits. I’ll have to make one.
My muscles coil in preparation, and before my enemies can react, I vault over the crate, landing in a crouch. The first man doesn’t even register my movement in time. A swift, brutal strike to his throat drops him before he can squeeze the trigger. The second swings his rifle toward me. Too slow. I twist, sidestepping the burst of fire, my body flowing in perfect harmony with the system’s calculations. My knife finds his ribs, sharp and unrelenting. He collapses with a gurgled gasp.
Then, it happens again.
The skip.
Two possible futures flash before me. One where I fail to see the sniper lining up his shot. The other where I do.
Before I can react, the system wrenches me toward the second outcome. My vision snaps to the high ground, my body moving against my will. I drop flat just as the bullet meant for my skull whizzes overhead.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel rage.
They knew.
They knew what I was.
They came prepared.
A sharp metallic clang echoes behind me. I turn just in time to see a concussion grenade rolling to a stop a few feet away. Every instinct I have screams at me to run. But the system ignores my instincts. The world slows once more, giving me just enough time to lash out with my boot, sending the grenade skidding back toward the advancing operatives.
Whump.
The air trembles. The shockwave rips through the room, sending them sprawling.
I don’t waste a second.
I sprint. My lungs burn with each desperate inhale as I push toward the emergency exit. Then—a shadow. A silhouette blocking my path.
Larger frame. Broader shoulders. The squad leader.
His weapon is already raised. But unlike the others, he doesn’t shoot.
He studies me.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he smirks.
“You’re fast.” His voice is calm, almost amused. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
A chill snakes down my spine. There’s no urgency in his stance. No fear. No panic. He expected this.
He wanted this.
My grip tightens around my blade. “Who sent you?” I demand, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins.
His smirk deepens. “You already know the answer.”
A trap.
A test.
A goddamn game.
Then—another skip.
Two outcomes unfold before me.
One: I lunge, and his gun is already raised. A bullet tears through my gut.
The other: I feint right, grab the barrel, disarm him.
I don’t get to decide.
The system does.
I move, not of my own accord, but with an eerie, unnatural precision. The rifle slips from his grasp before he can fire. I bring the butt of it down against his temple. He stumbles, dazed—but still smiling.
“They’ll never stop coming,” he mutters before collapsing into unconsciousness.
My breath is ragged. My hands tremble.
The system hums in my head, cold and unfeeling. It doesn’t care about exhaustion. It doesn’t care about fear. It doesn’t care that the horror curling in my stomach is becoming unbearable.
I used to be in control.
I used to have a choice.
Now?
Now the system decides who lives and who dies.
I yank a smoke grenade from my belt, pull the pin, and throw it. Thick gray fog billows outward, swallowing the room in chaos. In the cover of darkness, I sprint toward the maintenance shaft, forcing my aching limbs to move.
Gunfire erupts below as I haul myself up into the ventilation system, muscles screaming in protest. My pulse pounds like war drums in my ears.
Another step ahead.
Another forced escape.
Another reminder that I am not truly free.
And then—
As if to mock me, the system whispers in the back of my mind:
They will find you again.
I exhale sharply, jaw tightening. “Let them try.”
I crawl through the narrow shaft, my breathing ragged, my mind racing. Then, suddenly—
My HUD flickers. A sharp red warning blares across my vision.
SYSTEM OVERRIDE DETECTED.
Panic surges through me. Before I can react, my limbs seize. My body locks up mid-crawl, frozen in place.
A crackle of static.
Then, a voice.
Smooth. Taunting. Familiar.
“You didn’t think you were the only one, did you?”
- Writer
