Wang crashed through another patch of thick underbrush, lungs heaving, throat raw from panting like a dying dog. Sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the dirt and blood already smeared across his cheek. His legs felt like bricks, barely responding, muscles screaming at him with every step.
Then—
CRACK.
A single gunshot echoed in the distance, sharp and clean.
He didn't stop.
Didn't think.
Just ran.
Branches tore at his jumpsuit. His boots slammed against roots and rocks as he scrambled through uneven terrain. Every breath came out like fire. His chest was going to explode.
But the shots kept coming.
CRACK.
Closer.
CRACK.
Too close.
Then—
CRACK—
A blinding, skull-punching impact ripped through his body.
Wang didn't even register the pain at first. He just flew. His whole body twisted mid-run and he slammed into the dirt shoulder-first, rolling like a ragdoll down a small incline.
When he finally stopped, something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
He looked to his right—and nearly puked.
His arm—his fucking right arm—was gone from just above the elbow down. A shredded, pulsing stump oozed blood, chunks of torn flesh flapping loose. Bone jutted out like shattered porcelain.
"F-FUCK! FUCK!" Wang screamed, voice raw, writhing on the dirt. "AAAAAGH FUCK ME!!"
He tried to crawl, but it was like moving through fire. His blood sprayed out with every jolt. He clenched his teeth so hard it felt like they'd crack.
The buzzing of a buggy engine cut through the air behind him.
Closer now.
The hunter was coming.
Through the haze of agony, Wang rolled onto his back, blinking through the sting of sweat and blood.
A hunter stepped down from the buggy.
Black leathers. Shiny helmet. Rifle slung back over his shoulder.
And in his hand—a dagger.
A long, curved hunting knife with a jagged edge that looked more at home gutting pigs than people.
The bastard didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His body language screamed smug satisfaction.
Wang was down. Broken. Bleeding out.
The fker wanted to savor it.
"C'mon then," Wang spat, blood flecking his lips. "You piece of shit..."
The hunter walked toward him, slow. Almost casual. Like a predator stretching out the kill.
He crouched next to Wang and leaned in, helmet visor reflecting Wang's own twisted, blood-slick face back at him.
Then he raised the knife—slowly, theatrically.
Wang could barely move.
Could barely breathe.
But then—
His fingers brushed something solid in the dirt.
A rock.
Not big. Not heavy. But round and jagged on one end.
Fuck it.
With a sudden, primal scream, Wang swung his left hand around and smashed the rock into the hunter's visor.
CRACK.
The plastic spiderwebbed.
The hunter flinched.
Wang didn't stop.
He swung again—CRACK—and again—CRUNCH—until the helmet shattered and the man collapsed backward with a wet grunt.
Wang rolled over, still screaming, still bleeding, and brought the rock down on the man's skull one last time.
THUD.
The body twitched.
Then stilled.
The rock slipped from Wang's fingers.
He collapsed backward, sobbing and gasping, his body shaking uncontrollably.
His right arm was still gone.
Blood pooled around him like spilled ink, soaking into the dry earth. Flies already buzzed near the open wound.
He stared up at the canopy above.
The sky was fading orange now. Sunset.
"I'm... I'm not dead..." he whispered.
He wasn't sure if that was a victory or a sentence.
His head lolled to the side.
The hunter's body was still. His knife glinted in the dirt.
Wang gritted his teeth, reached with his one good hand, and dragged the knife toward himself.
Not because he wanted to use it right now.
But because he knew he'd need it later.
One arm or not... he wasn't going out without fucking stabbing someone next time.
He winced, hissed, and tore a strip from his jumpsuit with his teeth, wrapping it around the stump as tight as he could.
The pain was unbearable.
But the rage was stronger.
This wasn't a game.
This was a fucking bloodsport.
And he was still alive.
Q: Do you consider yourself athletic?