Nightmare

Kevin’s vision, flickering violently between blinding white light and suffocating blackness, registered the nightmare unfolding. The gleam of polished steel—a katana—was kissing his neck, the edge already slicing cleanly and relentlessly through his skin. The blade was impossibly sharp, a flawless piece of metal that moved with such speed that his reflexes, honed by years of combat, were rendered useless. He was too slow.

As the cut deepened, the world around him seemed to warp, the palace hallway stretching and distorting as he fell from his knees. He instinctively brought his hands up, trying to staunch the flow, but it was useless. The blood erupted—not just a trickle, but a violent, pressurized spray that felt like a mixture of hot, viscous paints being flung in every direction—splattering the ornate marble walls and the rich tapestry hanging nearby. It was the color of his life, draining out in a chaotic, vibrant mess.

"Kevin?!"

A woman’s voice—a shriek of pure, agonizing anguish—tore through the chaos. His vision was blurring, the edges of reality dissolving into shimmering heat waves, but he thought he recognized the sound. Was it Sandra? He saw her through the distortion, her eyes wide and rapidly filling with liquid despair, her face contorting into a mask of shock.

He desperately tried to force his hand outward, willing his body to respond, to initiate the recovery sequence he’d practiced a thousand times. But his own system was failing. Air was no longer entering his lungs; it was being violently expelled. He choked, his Adam's apple pipe, the sensitive structure of his throat, feeling like it had been sliced cleanly in half, like a ripe, soft fruit yielding without the satisfying crunch. He was truly dying. Dying in a game that wasn't even his own ruleset.

He thought of the countless timelines he and Aroan had navigated, the battles won, only to lose here, now. The assassin, clad in the flowing silks reminiscent of a shinobi, tilted her head. Her expression was one of cruel, exquisite satisfaction as she watched him expire. With a slow, deliberate motion, she drew the katana upward, wiping the crimson residue—Kevin’s blood, mixed with that of his fallen allies—along the front of her dark garments, an act that felt like the ultimate, deliberate salting of an already agonizing wound.

All Kevin could register as his vision began to strobe—blinking on and off like a dying lightbulb—was the slow, systemic shutdown of his body. So... this is what dying feels like? It hurts... The thought was a raspy, internal gasp, not truly spoken. It felt like a profound mockery. All the enemies he had slain, the rival organizations he had crushed in his ascent to this luxurious, dangerous life—was this the final, agonizing moment they had experienced?

He tried to draw one last breath, but it came out as a gagging, rattling exhale. His eyes felt impossibly heavy, the lids drooping like lead weights. The world faded into a final, silent gray. Kevin lost consciousness.