Roy gasped for air, his body jolting awake.
The wind howled around him, biting cold, as his body plummeted. The ground below seemed miles away, a blur of brown and green. No matter how he twisted and turned, no matter how he screamed, the fall was inevitable. He hit the earth, bones shattering like brittle wood under the force of the impact.
Darkness.
Roy's eyes snapped open again, but this time he was lying in the street. The steady hum of traffic passed by, oblivious. He barely had time to register his surroundings before a motorcycle tore through the air. Its rider never saw him, and the wheel of the bike crushed his skull, the sickening pop echoing in the air as his brain matter splattered onto the pavement.
Darkness.
He found himself back on his feet, standing in a crowded subway. People brushed past him, and for a moment, he thought he might be okay. Then, with a high-pitched screech of metal, the train derailed. It tore through the station, twisting and tearing everything in its path. A steel beam impaled him through the chest, pushing through his ribs with a force that splintered his bones like dry twigs. His blood sprayed across the station, and the world went black.
Darkness.
This time, Roy didn't even have the luxury of a moment of peace before it happened. The roof above him buckled and collapsed in a pile of concrete and rubble. His legs were crushed under the weight, his body pinned as a massive slab of stone came down, grinding his torso into the ground. His lungs crushed, his blood pooling beneath him as he choked on the suffocating weight.
Darkness.
The next death was quick but agonising. He stood in the midst of a Viking battlefield, the clash of steel and screams of dying men echoing around him. The sky above was grey, the ground soaked in blood and mud. An axe came down, cleaving into his shoulder with brutal force. He fell backwards, gasping, just as a second blade pierced his gut. His vision blurred, pain blooming in every nerve as he collapsed into the dirt, blood pooling beneath him. His breath rattled out in shallow gasps before everything turned cold.
Darkness.
The next life was silent.
Roy stood alone beneath a blood-red sky, the first rays of dawn just beginning to crest the horizon. Then—fire.
It began at his feet, creeping up his body like a living thing, hungry and slow. The flames didn't roar. They whispered.
The sun rose behind him, casting long shadows as his skin cracked and peeled. His muscles
boiled beneath it. He tried to scream, but the heat had already stolen his voice. His eyes melted. His bones blackened.
And still, he didn't die.
The fire devoured him piece by piece, dragging the moment out like it wanted him to feel every second.
He collapsed, burning and twitching—until only ashes remained.
Darkness.
Roy blinked, and this time he was standing in the middle of a crowded plaza. People strolled past, chatting, laughing, and carrying bags of food and trinkets. The sun was warm; children were playing nearby.
It should have been normal. Safe.
But his chest tightened. His breathing came in short, ragged bursts. His eyes darted around, searching for the train, the axe, the flames—anything. His skin crawled as he waited for the world to cave in.
Nothing happened.
The silence of safety was worse.
His legs buckled, and he crouched in the middle of the square, clutching his head with trembling hands. The dam broke. A raw, animal scream ripped from his throat, tearing through the chatter of the crowd.
People stopped. Stared. Whispered.
But Roy couldn't stop. His sobs shook him, loud and ugly, until he was choking on them. The weight of a hundred deaths pressed down on his shoulders, crushing him. He clawed at his chest like he could tear the curse out with his bare hands.
"Make it stop!" He shrieked, his voice breaking, "Please—make it stop!"
"I beg of you. End this already!"
Children cried. Adults turned away. To them he was a madman, convulsing in terror over nothing. But to Roy, it was everything.
And then, mercifully, the shadow came. His next death.
Darkness.
He couldn't remember how many lives had passed. How many deaths? The numbers blurred together. It wasn't just the pain that weighed him down—it was the constant, unbearable dread. He couldn't escape it. It was like being chased by a shadow that, no matter how fast he ran, would always catch him.
Another death. A plane crash.
Darkness.
Roy blinked, and suddenly he was standing in a supermarket aisle. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Muzak played from hidden speakers.
He froze, waiting for the catastrophe.
And then it came.
A single jar of pickles wobbled from the top shelf.
He stared at it, dumbfounded, as it tipped, fell, and shattered against his skull with a wet pop. The glass sliced his face, brine spilling into his eyes. He staggered back, slipped on the mess, and cracked his neck against the linoleum.
That was it. That was the death.
For a heartbeat, Roy just lay there, staring at the ceiling tiles, before a sound crawled up his throat.
A laugh.
First a chuckle. Then a ragged, broken howl. He laughed until tears stung his eyes, until the pain of shattered bones made his sides ache. He laughed because the absurdity had finally split him open.
"Pickles," he wheezed. "Fucking—pickles—"
Darkness swallowed the laughter, dragging it with him.
Darkness.
Another death. Struck by lightning.
Darkness.
The pattern was endless. Over and over. A relentless spiral of torment.
Roy's body jerked back to life for the 10,000th time, his hand instinctively reaching for his throat. His vision swam, blurry with blood, as he stood in a dark alley. A figure appeared, masked and looming. He had no time to react before the knife plunged into his stomach, the blade twisting with agonising precision as his insides were torn apart. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, choking on his own blood.
Darkness. Again. Darkness. Again. Darkness. Again. Darkness. Again.
He didn't know how much longer he could take this. The endless cycle, the horror. His sanity felt like it was hanging by a thread, unravelling with every new death.
As his body hit the ground yet again, Roy's eyes closed, but this time—this time he didn't flinch.
He stopped fighting. Stopped resisting.
The endless stream of deaths—their grotesque brutality—no longer fazed him. He had been reborn a hundred times, each death more brutal than the last, each more horrific, until his soul had been stripped raw.
And yet, he kept returning.
Roy let the darkness take him, but this time it was different.