Looking at the trembling mess in front of him, Ace sighed. Despite sitting down, he felt like he was looming over him. That’s how small the boy’s presence was. It was obvious to Ace why he was being bullied. He saw once a small and sickly chick being pecked at by every other chick in the pen back at his grandma’s estate.

When he alerted his grandma, she said it was natural since the chick was too weak to survive and would be a waste of food. He assumed it was the same instinct the short boy in front of him awakened in the other children.

“H-Hey man. What can I help you with?” Despite stuttering every other syllable, his wispy voice managed to finish the question. His posture was hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller.

“You have the countdown? What’s your name?”

The boy’s ears perked up at the mention of the mysterious numbers. Intrigued as to why the biggest bully in the class would even care, he answered and pulled up his sleeve showing the blue numbers. “My name’s Norman. You probably forgot. It’s ok; sometimes I forget too. I—”

“You just woke up with it, right?”

“Yeah. It’s crazy, isn’t it? I went to sleep just after finishing a chapter of my favorite story, like any other night. I didn’t do anything special that day. I’ve thought about it many times. In fact, that day was more normal than most for me. Perhaps even too normal. I—”

“Why do they call you Foot Nothing?”

Ace looked past Norman toward the group at the front of the class, who were all whispering. He’d made his disgust for noise apparent once, and ever since then, everybody was quiet during recess. Ace was glad they were so reasonable with him, and he believed they had also begun to appreciate the quiet.

Norman’s brows drooped, and he fidgeted, as if it was painful for him to speak. “I’m five foot one. Decan said that one inch over five feet is nothing. Which is totally false. A one-inch difference is huge and extremely noticeable, but Decan wouldn’t listen to reason. He’s called me Foot Nothing ever since.”

Ace tilted his head to get a better look at the group, nodding toward the redhead, the biggest guy in the posse. “That’s Decan?”

“Y-Yeah man. That’s him. He can get really scary. You should stay away from him.”

Ace’s lips upturned in a smile when he heard this.

“Ugh! I forgot, Ace. Yeah, you probably don’t need to. But Decan isn’t a nice guy. Ever since he got expelled from the team, he’s been really mad. Always in a foul mood.”

“A failed jock?” Ace shook his head. “That’s probably the least of his problems.”

Looking at Norman’s fidgeting form and the blue numbers rapidly elapsing on his forearm, an idea appeared in Ace’s head. He believed Norman's submissiveness to the bullies stemmed from a deeply ingrained instinct to survive, a coping mechanism that rendered him meek and compliant in the face of aggression. This instinct, so primal and unyielding, seemed to govern Norman's every action, and Ace wanted to see how far that instinct went. He needed to know if he could break it.

“Norman, aren’t you tired of Decan bullying you?” When he saw a curious light flash in Norman’s eyes, Ace knew he was onto something.

“You know how he bullied me back when I was a freshman. Well, let’s just say I’m still hung up on that. How about you and I catch Decan after school and... kill him?”

Norman’s trembling body froze. Surprisingly, Norman answered without a single stutter, and even the high-pitched tone seemed to disappear, as if it was an illusion to begin with. “You’re lying.”

Ace smiled. He could tell that Norman was testing him and that he touched on something deep and tender inside the boy, so he kept going. “I can kill him. In fact, I can kill ten Decans and still kill more. But you have to keep watch.”

Norman’s normally trembling eyes were now steadfast and lost in thought. Ace felt as if he was looking into the eyes of a wild man simulating a hunt. Eventually, Norman shook his head.

“It’s too risky. Too many things could go wrong.”

Ace nodded. “You are correct. The reason you said no is your self-preservation instinct kicked in. For example, Decan could have a gun on him, and then Decan could kill ten of me.” Ace then subtly pulled on his sleeve, revealing a slight blue light beneath the cloth.

Norman’s pupils constricted, and he gasped. “You have it too.” Ace didn’t respond, but his silence was proof enough for Norman. Ace continued.

“So, Foot Nothing, since we are both about to die anyway, why not take Decan with us?”

But Norman still shook his head in the end, making Ace scowl. Was the instinct to survive so strong that it couldn’t be broken even at the end of one’s life? There had to be a way to break its hold on the mind.

“Why not?” he growled at Norman.

“Because we don’t know what comes at the end of the countdown. It could be something positive.”

“Cheh! Do you really believe that?”

“I don’t have to believe it. But by the same logic, I don’t have to believe it’s our death either. Do you base your assumption of death on any proof, or do you just blindly believe it?”

Stolen story; please report.

Ace’s scowl only deepened, and he had the urge to grab Norman by the throat and shove him out the window. “You’re a coward! Go back to being bullied then.”

Norman’s serious demeanor vanished and his face turned white when he saw how angry Ace had gotten. H e swiftly went back to his group. Ace watched them all whisper while glancing back at him, but he didn’t bother with them any longer.

He turned to the window, trying to calm his mind by watching the passing clouds.

In all fairness, Ace didn’t blame Norman for not wanting to kill his own bully. It was a stupid idea, and they would probably get caught. Ace himself thought he might not do it. The instinct to survive wasn’t something that could be discarded on a whim, and he knew that what he asked for was nothing but a whim.

But still, for some reason, it pissed him off that Norman said no.

Eventually, the teacher entered the room, announcing the beginning of the class. This repeated five times, and at noon, a loud alarm rang throughout the school grounds announcing the end of the school day.

As he left school, Ace could hear everybody talking, some with excitement, some with fear, but everything was about the countdown. Some were even setting up parties to wait for the end of the countdown. They even had a name online: Countdown Parties. Some party organizers had taken advantage of this and set up entire venues for people to come to, just like for New Year's Eve.

Millions of men, and only a few women, all across the world, had woken up three days ago with a mysterious countdown inscribed in their flesh.

Some had tried to cut the flesh out in a panic, and some had tried to burn it black, but nothing worked. The countdown wouldn’t disappear no matter what they poured on top of the blue numbers. All they could do was wait and pray that nothing bad would happen when the numbers all reached zero.

Ace didn’t care for any of it, however. He jogged away from school to a diner close to his motel and went inside through the back door. Inside, the workers there gave Ace a look, but as if they had experience, they immediately could tell that underneath that black hoodie was a man with a body that they shouldn’t mess with, so they summarily resumed their work.

Ace sidestepped all the kitchen staff and entered an office. He came out ten seconds later carrying an inconspicuous paper bag, which he swiftly placed inside his backpack, after which he left for home.

Home, to Ace, didn’t mean much anymore. It used to mean something when he was younger. Back then, he had hoped that someday he would have a home. Home to him was somewhere to return to where other people waited for you to return.

But with time, he realized that was not something that was meant for him. This time he didn’t run towards the motel, it was as if he was trying to delay something. The frigid wind of early spring bit into his face, but Ace’s mind was elsewhere, focused on the rhythmic pounding of his feet against the pavement and the countdown ticking away on his forearm. When he finally reached the motel, he entered without greeting the bored-looking receptionist and headed straight for his room on the second floor.

The motel room was a perfect reflection of Ace’s reality—bleak, cold, and devoid of any warmth. The room was small and cramped, white walls peeling as if even the paint was trying to escape. In one corner, a narrow bed with a thin, worn-out mattress stood, its metal frame creaking with the slightest movement. The bedspread was a dull, faded gray, its original color long forgotten.

Opposite the bed, a small wooden desk sat, cluttered with a few essential items: a notepad, a pen, and an old, beat-up laptop that Ace had found in a pawn shop.

Next to the desk, a tiny closet with a broken door housed Ace’s limited wardrobe. A dozen black t-shirts and hoodies hung limply from wire hangers, alongside a single pair of jeans and some workout clothes. The closet floor was cluttered with old sneakers and a half-open duffel bag containing his few personal belongings. That was it. The room had nothing else.

A cold light reflected from within the duffel bag, and Ace shoved his hand inside and fished out two items: a pair of leather boots, and a hunting knife. The knife was half sticking out from the frayed cloth it was wrapped in. Over the years, the cloth had begun to disintegrate, moths having feasted on it for years by now.

As he unfolded the brittle fabric, the cold blade came into view. Seven inches of steel sharpened to a deadly edge, and the slightly curved tip gleamed ominously in the dim light of the room. The spine of the blade was serrated near the handle, designed for sawing through tough materials.

Ace traced his fingers over the engravings along the flat of the blade. Though faint and worn-out, he could still make out the markings and assumed them to be possibly a serial number and the emblem of the military unit it once belonged to.

This knife and the leather boots were the only things left from his father. He’d asked that woman many times about him, but she always said he’d gone missing, presumed dead.

He put the knife down by the window and then equipped the black boots. They were a perfect fit, squeezing the flesh on his legs just enough that they felt secure, but not enough to cause sores.

He sat down in front of the window and while gazing at the sky, he took out of his backpack the paper bag he’d bought at the diner and opened it. Inside was a black pistol, scratches all over signifying that it’s seen its fair share of action but still functional. He took the pistol in one hand while holding the hunting knife in the other, and just stared at the sky for the next two hours, at some point falling asleep.

Eventually, his eyes slowly opened, and he caught a blue light illuminating the ceiling with an eerie glow. His eyes immediately shot open, and he quickly checked the countdown, giving a sigh of relief seeing the number had not reached zero. In fact, he still had five hours left.

Plenty of time, he thought to himself.

In the pitch-black darkness of the motel room, Ace used the light from his countdown to find the pistol now fallen on the floor. He took the gun, brought it to his temple, and closed his eyes. His calm heartbeat began to pound as soon as he did this, and his breathing became ragged. After holding the gun there for a couple of seconds, he roared and threw it across the room.

The knife was next. He brought its cold edge to his wrist, but nothing changed. His heart pounded, and his breathing remained just as laborious.

“I’ll just do some pushups to calm down first.”

He did one pushup, two, ten, a hundred, yet he didn’t want to stop. He eventually reached his limit of how many he could do without pause, yet when his eyes caught glimpses of the knife dropped on the floor, he immediately went on his knees and continued doing the pushups that way.

Again, one, two, ten, a hundred, eventually reaching his limit from that as well. His arms felt like they were about to fall off, and his chest hurt as if it wanted to split apart. Yet when he stopped to look towards the gun, his body screamed for him to keep going.

So, the pushups never stopped.

Whenever his body couldn’t move anymore, he sent his eyes towards either the gun’s silhouette gracing the dark of the room or the cold edge reflecting the stilted light from the moon. His body would immediately explode with vigor, he didn’t know he had left. So, he kept going. He thought that eventually his body had to give in and not wish to fight back anymore. There had to be a limit to this instinct, he thought. He was determined to find that limit tonight.

Eventually, his body became so worn out that the only thing he could still manage was to crawl. With his last sliver of strength, he grabbed the gun and the knife, but before he could try anything else, he passed out.

His body lay motionless in the motel room, and only the moonlight and the frigid wind were there to keep him company.