The boy jolted awake, his eyes snapping open as if hit by a surge of electricity.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, sunlight spilling through the window and casting the room in a warm, golden glow.
Morning had come.
His breath hitched, and with a sharp inhale, he shot up into a sitting position.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat dampening his skin—yesterday's fatigue still clung to his bones like a lead weight.
He glanced around, his gaze darting from corner to corner, each unfamiliar detail of the room sharpening in his mind.
It resembled a school infirmary, yet its size rivaled that of a ship’s sickbay—dozens of stretchers lined up in rows. Oddly enough, only his was occupied.
“What the hell were those monitors…”
Memories of yesterday rushed back like a cold wave, and his hand instinctively flew to his head.
His fingers prodded the skin, searching for the wound that should have been there.
Nothing.
No cut, no bandage.
He looked down at the bed and spotted a long sheet on the pillow.
Gingerly lifting it, he watched as the blood-soaked gauze crumbled in his hands. A sudden gush of red flowed from the bandage, pooling across the white sheets and spreading like a crimson tide.
“Shit!”
He cursed, flinging the bandage away as he leaped off the stretcher.
He wiped his hands on a tissue, trying to shake off the unease as he fumbled for his shoes, shoving his feet in without bothering to fix the heels.
The boy’s blazer hung on a chair nearby, and he yanked it on with hurried fingers, the fabric still crumpled. His hands fumbled with the buttons as he strode toward the door.
Before his hand could close around the handle, the door burst open, slamming into the wall so hard the drywall fractured in jagged, splintering lines.
He stumbled back, reflexively raising an arm to shield himself from the sudden chaos.
Standing in the doorway was a figure so imposing the air seemed to shift around him.
The man had tanned skin and an angular face that carried the cold, sharp edge. His blue eyes locked onto the boy with a gaze like a hawk zeroing in on wounded prey.
Resting casually on his broad shoulder was a shotgun, the barrel angled toward the ceiling but radiating menace nonetheless.
The boy, however, didn’t flinch. His dark eyes flicked to the weapon, he looked unimpressed.
The man stepped inside, his boots thudding against the floor as he moved closer. His voice was a low growl, carrying the weight of barely contained rage.
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“You’re the one who almost got my crush killed, aren’t you?”
The boy cocked his head, his brow furrowing.
“Your crush?”
“None of your damn business.”
The man spat, his grip tightening on the shotgun as he leveled a glare that could have turned steel to ash.
“You’re going to apologize to her. Right now.”
The boy barked out a sharp laugh, shaking his head as he took a deliberate step back, hands raised in mock surrender.
“Oh, I get it now. You’re one of those guys—big gun, tiny brain, zero self-awareness. Classic.”
The man’s face darkened, his sneer twisting into something more dangerous. He lifted the shotgun, its barrel now trained directly on the boy’s face.
“Keep talking.”
The man snarled.
“I’ll make sure you never get the chance to run your mouth again.”
Instead of showing fear, the boy’s smirk widened. He leaned slightly closer to the weapon, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper.
“Nice prop, by the way. Did you get it at the same place you bought your fragile ego?”
The man’s knuckles turned white as his grip on the shotgun tightened.
“Last chance.”
The man said through gritted teeth.
“You’re apologizing to her, or I’m passing on the message myself.”
The boy rolled his eyes dramatically, his cocky grin never wavering.
“You know what? Go ahead. Shoot me. Not like it’ll be the first time I’ve died this week.”
The words barely left his mouth before the man pulled the trigger. His body spun in the air immediately.
Then more rounds followed quickly—two, three, four, five—each tearing through the boy’s frame.
His body convulsed, the force sending him skidding across the floor, blood spraying like mist in the air.
Glass shattered behind him, raining down in jagged pieces.
The man’s cold, steady hands ejected the casings, each one clattering to the floor. He fired again—six, seven, eight rounds—each blast hammering the boy until he was little more than a bloodied heap, riddled with holes.
Only one shot remained.
The boy’s limp form fell, and as his chin collided with the barrel, the man aimed upward.
The final shot erupted, a spray of pellets tearing through the boy’s skull, his body flung once more like a ragdoll before crashing to the floor.
Above the man’s head, the word "HEADSHOT" flickered on a glowing interface.
He smirked, shaking the forend of the shotgun to eject the last spent casing, then slung the weapon over his shoulder.
“Come see me if you want to fly again.”
He muttered, turning on his heel with an arrogant swagger.
Behind him, blood pooled from the boy’s body, oozing from the countless holes that riddled his flesh, bubbling and seeping into the cracks of the floor.
…
A few hours later, the boy woke up again in the same bed he just left earlier. He snapped his eyes open and jumped out of it.
He quickly scanned his entire body. The shotgun holes were gone and he was in full health again, though now his clothes were full of holes.
He paid attention to the stretcher, the bed had returned to its original form, without blood stain or messed up sheets.
As he stared at the bed for a moment, he quickly pulled the sheet out and covered his body underneath the torn clothes.
“What the fuck is this place?”
He mumbled as he folded the sheets up to his body, replacing his clothes.
With the sky growing brighter and bluer, and the temperature rising, the boy quietly exited the room and sprinted out of the building.
After stealthily checking both left and right, he swiftly veered to the left, finding himself on nothing but a bridge of stairs connecting to several other buildings.
Dashing down the stairs, he passed a cluster of students engrossed in a game of basketball on the outdoor court.
Hastening his pace upon spotting them, he bolted through the unattended lobby gate.
Along the deserted roadway, devoid of any passing cars, he sprinted for hours, yet encountered only an unbroken expanse of road seeming to lead nowhere.
As the sun reached its zenith, he eventually halted, gasping for breath and attempting to steady his pounding heart.
No alternative in sight. It's like the road was never gonna end.
He reversed course and sprinted back to the school, spending hours retracing his steps, while remembering what that sniper girl said last night.
“It's their honor to die here.”
Then, they just escaped the place then the mountain exploded. Obviously, those soldiers had been killed.
Why did that girl sound like he didn't appreciate those soldiers’ lives? They could've at least been allowed to evacuate with us.
His mind raced with critical thoughts.
And why did I wake up at this school? What the hell is going on?
As he returned to the school, his sweat-soaked bed sheet clung to him, his breath heaving like a steam engine. He sprinted through the main building, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he scanned the empty corridors for a safe haven.
He bounded up another flight of stairs two at a time, each step echoing like thunder in the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears as he reached the top floor, where a single door stood at the end of the hallway.
The sign on it read Principal's Office.
“This’ll do.”
He muttered between gasps.
Without a moment’s thought, he lunged for the handle. The cool metal barely brushed his palm before a chorus of digital beeps erupted from the door.
“Uh… what?”
Before he could even process what was happening, the door handle retracted into the wood with a mechanical whirr, replaced instantly by a long, red cylinder.
It was unmistakable.
A stick of dynamite, with a fuse that had already sparked to life.
The fuse sizzled down at an alarmingly fast pace, spitting out sparks like a miniature firework show.
“You gotta be shitting me!!!”
He spun on his heel, his legs moving, launching away from the door.
But the fuse was faster.
BOOM!
The explosion rocked the building, the shockwave tearing the door into a spray of deadly shrapnel. Splinters, metal, and pieces of the dynamite blasted out in all directions.
The boy didn’t even have time to scream as a piece of the door handle smacked into his ass, launching him forward like an artillery shell.
His trajectory? Directly out of the windowsills in front of the door.
His body sailed through the air.
Gravity, as always, was unforgiving.
He plummeted headfirst toward the ground below, the manicured lawn rushing up to meet him.
His head slammed directly into a hardened dirt pathway, burying itself up to the neck. His legs, still flailing, wobbled in the air like a flagpole.