The moment the gunshot exploded, Marcus's body jolted violently.
He didn't hear it with his ears — his bones knew first.
The bullet struck his abdomen like a red-hot iron rod driven through flesh. He didn't scream; his throat felt as if he'd bitten it off himself. His knees buckled, and he crashed to the floor. The tiles were icy cold; blood gushed from the wound, tracing his waistline downward, soaking the hem of his hoodie.
He lay face-down, one cheek pressed to the floor. His vision wavered, but the crack in the ceiling was still there. He locked his gaze on it.
Can't close my eyes.
If I do, I won't wake up.
His breathing turned ragged, chest rising and falling beyond control. Each inhale felt like his belly was tearing open again. A metallic tang filled his mouth — he'd bitten his tongue. He remembered his father on a construction site, pausing to take deep breaths before igniting the welding torch: one, two, three. Only then would he steady his hand to work.
He tried it.
Inhale. Slowly.
Hold. Count to three.
Exhale.
Second round. Inhale again.
This time, something new stirred inside him — not pain, but a warmth. Faint, buried deep in the wound, like a thread slowly pulling upward.
He didn't know what it was, but it didn't feel bad.
The countdown began.
"120…"
The voice wasn't in his ears or his mind. It simply appeared, like words carved into the air, readable and undeniable.
"119…"
He drew another breath.
Now the warmth surged more clearly, traveling from his abdomen up his back, along his spine, reaching the nape of his neck. His neck tensed; his fingers twitched.
His left hand still rested on the floor; fingertips brushed warm liquid — his own blood, already pooling in a small patch.
He lifted his left hand slightly, then pressed it down again, palm covering the wound. Hard.
Blood squeezed out between his fingers.
"118…"
He rotated his right stump — the missing pinky.
He'd done this for over ten years: whenever nervous, afraid, or in pain. Same now. But this time, the base of the stump tingled differently.
A numb pulse.
Then, a wisp of blue light seeped through the skin. Dim, like the glow of a watch screen in darkness. It flickered once, then vanished.
He froze.
Not an illusion. It had really shone.
He rotated the stump again.
The blue light flashed again — this time lasting longer, as if responding to his motion.
He stared at the glow. Didn't understand, but his body remembered.
Focusing all attention there, the light brightened slightly.
Simultaneously, the countdown ticked to "117."
He understood.
These two things were linked.
He kept his focus on the stump; his consciousness pressed into that patch of skin. The blue light pulsed, like a heartbeat.
The warmth rose from his abdomen, spreading through his veins to his limbs. Though still chilled, his hands and feet stopped locking up.
"116…"
Gritting his teeth, he knew he couldn't stay prone waiting for death.
He tested moving his legs. Pain blackened his vision; muscles felt torn, tendons stretched to their limit. But he didn't stop. Bit by bit, he dragged his right leg under him, bending the knee, planting the foot flat.
If he could just rise —
Even for a second —
He could see the store again.
Not as prey.
But as someone who survived.
"115…"
The overhead light still flickered. Red light sliced across the shelves, reflecting off the freezer surface, where his half-bloodied face stared back — pale, wide-eyed.
He met his own gaze in that reflection.
Then spoke, voice hoarse beyond recognition:
"I'm not finished."
The moment the words left him, the blue light flashed again.
This time, not only at the stump —
Deep in his right pupil, a faint layer of blue appeared.
He didn't notice.
He only knew his breathing steadied.
Pain remained, but it was bearable.
"114…"
He pressed his left hand back to his abdomen, deeper this time. Knuckles whitened, arm trembling, but he didn't let go.
The bleeding slowed.
Not stopped — his body was buying time.
He recalled his mother's last embrace. Winter, age seven. She shoved him into a wardrobe, whispering: "Don't make a sound. Don't cry. Survive."
Later, he heard three gunshots.
Later still, police said she was dead.
Now he understood.
She wanted him to live —
Not merely to escape,
But to stand one day, and strike down those who took everything.
"113…"
He lifted his chin.
Eyes back to the ceiling. The crack slanted from upper left to lower right, as if cut by a blade.
He stared.
Unmoving.
"112…"
His breathing rhythm changed.
No longer mimicking his father's — it was his own.
Inhale — hold — exhale.
With each cycle, the warmth inside thickened.
Now it reached his shoulder.
Right shoulder.
His right arm twitched involuntarily.
Not pain — preparation.
Like the moment just before a bowstring is fully drawn.
"111…"
He rotated the stump.
Blue light flashed.
This time, it lingered under the skin, pulsing faintly in sync with his heartbeat.
He felt the connection.
Not told by the system —
He knew.
As long as he stayed awake, as long as he willed movement, it wouldn't break.
"110…"
Car sounds faded outside.
The robbers were gone.
They thought he was dead.
Or dying.
No one would return to check.
This store was forgotten.
Camera broken.
Phone dead.
He was on his own.
"109…"
He began counting his own heartbeat.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each beat matched the rhythm of the blue light.
Stump pulses — warmth surges.
All his focus poured in.
Not a plea.
A command.
Move.
Move, damn it.
"108…"
His right leg jerked suddenly.
Not by his control — muscle reflex.
As if something had pushed it.
He didn't stop.
Letting momentum draw his left leg in, he bent both knees, both feet flat.
Now side-lying. One step from rising.
But progress nonetheless.
"107…"
He clenched his jaw.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, mingling with blood.
He blinked.
Didn't wipe it.
Let it blur his sight.
The other eye never left the ceiling crack.
"106…"
Another inhale.
This time, warmth surged to his chest.
Heartbeat grew heavier.
Like a war drum.
"105…"
He raised his left hand.
Not to touch his face.
Held in midair.
Five fingers spread.
Then clenched.
A punch.
Even if he couldn't stand now, he would remember the motion.
The first punch.
From today — he would train it.
"104…"
Blue light in the stump steadied, flashing with each count.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he knew: as long as the light remained, he hadn't lost.
"103…"
He raised his right hand slightly.
Stump facing his eye.
Blue light reflected into his pupil.
For an instant, vision sharpened.
Darkness retreated a step.
"102…"
He murmured low:
"I can still move."
Voice tiny.
But he said it.
Not to anyone.
To his body.
To the wound.
To the slipping seconds.
"101…"
He lowered his right hand, pressed it to the floor.
Limbs engaged bit by bit.
Not to rise yet.
To adjust posture —
Better pressure on the wound.
Hold on for the next second.
"100…"
A sudden surge of heat flooded his right arm.
Muscles tensed.
Like electrified.
He didn't cry out.
Just bit down harder.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
He knew this was good.
His body was answering him.
Even with one breath left —
It was listening.
"99…"
He closed his eyes briefly.
Opened them.
Blue light still there.
Countdown continued.
He fixed on the ceiling crack.
Motionless.
Left hand on abdomen.
Right stump turning slightly.
Blue flash.
Another flash.
A drop of blood fell to the floor, striking a tiny crater.