The sky bled red above the ruined city, as if the heavens themselves had been torn open. Sam stood frozen, breath shallow, heart thundering in his chest. The ground crunched with broken glass and torn cardboard beneath his sneakers.
Then, from the bushes, the figure stepped out again
The same short jacket. Army pants. Scarred arms. Green spikes of hair jutting upward like jagged glass.
Zorro.
The same opponent from the game, only now his presence felt heavier, more real. His eyes glowed faintly in the crimson haze, cold and empty, like twin embers buried in steel.
"This… this isn't possible," Sam whispered, throat dry. "we just fought, I could swear that I just died, why is he standing yet again in front of me ."
But Zorro didn't care for explanations. His metallic fists gleamed as he surged forward, each step thundering like iron boots on stone.
Sam ducked—barely. A fist tore past his head, close enough that the wind stung his cheek. His heart slammed against his ribs.
"I don't want to fight you! You just beat me !he shouted.
Zorro's silence was worse than mockery.
Another punch. Sam stumbled sideways, breath ragged. He wasn't a fighter—he was a convenience store clerk. Yet here he was, trapped in a nightmare.
Then came an opening just like before. Zorro overextended, chest wide, ribs exposed. Sam's fist shot forward before his brain could stop him.
CLANG.
Pain exploded through his hand. He thought that maybe this time would be different . But sadly it wasn't.
The thug grinned. His metallic arm shot up, clamping down on Sam's wrist like a vice. Bones groaned. Sam screamed, panic flooding him.
"Let go!" he shouted, hammering weak punches with his free hand.
Zorro didn't let go. His other arm hardened into a spear. It flashed once under the red sky—then drove straight through Sam's skull.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
Sam gasped awake. Same broken fences. Same red sky. Same damned rat chewing on cardboard.
"No… no, no, no…" He staggered back, clutching his head. "I died. I died. How am I here again?"
The bushes rustled.
He didn't need to look. He already knew.
Zorro stepped out, silent, inexorable.
Sam's chest tightened. His body trembled as adrenaline surged. He spun and ran, feet slapping across shattered pavement. But the sound behind him—the heavy clang of Zorro's steps—grew louder, closer.
He didn't make it ten paces before something slammed into his back. He hit the ground, the air knocked from his lungs.
A shadow fell over him. He rolled instinctively, just as a metallic fist smashed into the ground where his head had been. Cracks spiderwebbed outward. Dust rose in choking clouds.
Sam kicked upward, hitting Zorro's jaw, desperate to buy space. It worked for half a second—then Zorro caught his ankle midair.
Sam screamed as he was yanked up, swung like a rag doll, and smashed into the concrete. His vision blurred. His ribs screamed in agony.
"No—stop!"
Zorro didn't stop. He slammed Sam down again. And again. The world was nothing but pain and broken glass and blood in his mouth.
Finally, the thug's fist hardened into a spear again, and with one brutal thrust—Sam's world ended a second time.
---
Again.
And again.
Sam screamed, fought, begged, and died. Each death reset the nightmare. Each time he woke back in the same ruined city, the same red sky, the same rat gnawing on garbage.
Sometimes he tried to flee. Zorro hunted him down.
Sometimes he tried to fight. His fists shattered on iron.
Sometimes he begged for mercy. Zorro gave none.
Every end was the same—metal through bone, steel smashing flesh, crimson closing in.
At first, panic ruled him. Every death left him sobbing, trembling, choking on fear. His mind frayed at the edges.
But the more it happened, the more something inside him shifted.
Panic dulled into anger.
Anger dulled into despair.
And despair slowly hardened into something else.
Determination.
---
The tenth death, Sam forced himself to watch. To notice.
Zorro always came from the same bush. He always attacked the same way—straightforward, brutal, overwhelming.
He's predictable, Sam realized, panting as he staggered back. That means I can plan.
This time, when the opening appeared, Sam didn't punch. He ducked instead, let his shadow spread at his feet—remembering the way it had rippled back in the arena.
"Sink… sink, damn it!" he thought desperately.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the shadow softened, like water, and his feet dipped in. His body wavered—half-submerged, half-solid.
Zorro's fist tore through where his head should've been. Sam's body rippled like smoke, reforming behind him.
Sam's heart leapt. "It worked—"
But before he could finish, Zorro spun, fist glowing metallic, and smashed into Sam's chest.
Darkness again.
But hope had been born.
---
– The Endless Grind
The next loop, Sam tried again. Timing it closer, sinking deeper. His shadow obeyed a little better, letting him slip further down before reforming.
Still, Zorro caught him. Another brutal end.
Then another.
And another.
Each failure brought pain, fear, and despair—but also knowledge. Each loop was a lesson carved into his body.
By the twentieth death, Sam's fear had dulled into grim focus. Sweat ran down his temples. His fists clenched tighter.
"This time," he muttered, as Zorro emerged once more. "This time I'll beat you."
---
The countdown played in his head.
Step one: dodge.
Step two: shadow sink.
Step three: strike when he's open.
He ducked. Shadows rippled. His body slipped away from the punch, reappearing behind Zorro.
His fist lashed out, smashing into the back of the thug's neck.
CRACK.
Zorro stumbled.
Sam's heart soared. It's working. I can hurt him.
But Zorro wasn't finished. He roared, metallic skin gleaming brighter, and came at Sam with double the fury.
Sam swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his chin. His whole body screamed at him to quit. But his eyes sharpened instead.
"No more running," he whispered.
Shadows coiled beneath him like serpents, ready to strike.
---
And for the first time since the nightmare began, Sam didn't feel like prey.
He felt like a predator.
*******