There I stood in the middle of the road, my reason for crossing long forgotten.
All I could do was stare at the truck barreling toward me—like some furious beast out of myth, roaring forward with a deathly, uncaring speed. It brought with it the promise of oblivion, indifferent to whatever dared stand in its way.
In the face of that steel monster, I was powerless.
Frozen. Paralyzed by fear, time itself seemed to warp—slowing until every second stretched thin, drawn out and agonizing. The world around me crawled to a halt, as if the universe itself wanted to bear witness to my end.
I couldn't move. Not a single muscle. Only my eyes still obeyed me, wide and helpless as I watched my death come closer. It was like being locked inside my own body, a prisoner awaiting execution.
And then—just before the shadow of the truck engulfed me, like some grim reaper's cloak—I remembered them.
Jack. Kusina.
They had been with me just moments before. Guilt hit harder than the truck ever could—sinking deep into my chest like a stone tied around my neck, dragging my spirit down. Memories that once brought me nothing but joy now tasted bitter.
The Three Dark Kings. That was our team name.
Or, as Kusina liked to call it with a smirk, "Two Dark Kings and One Dark Queen."
I remembered the first time we met—Jack, Kusina, and me.
It was during a Warhammer Fantasy tabletop tournament. I had brought two armies: one was my own custom design for a modernized Skaven faction, the other a classic-style horde. I'd been crushing the competition, flooding the board with vermin like only a true rat general could.
But unlike most Skaven players, I didn't just spam units. I used real-world military strategies, adapted for the game. I'd refined my tactics into a science.
And then came the two who would challenge everything.
Jack—a massive guy, total gentle giant, golden retriever energy from head to toe. He played Orks and loved the classic hammer-and-anvil tactic. He'd trap my units, pin them, then smash them to bits with brutal joy.
Then there was Kusina—a firecracker with a temper to match. She played a noblewoman-turned-vampire, a surprisingly elegant but ruthless commander. She'd splinter my formations, then pick off isolated groups one by one. Surgical. Merciless. Brilliant.
For the final round of the tournament, we were teamed up for a 3v3.
And oh, the carnage. The battlefield drowned in blood and plastic. The slaughter was so magnificent it could've been mistaken for the second coming of the End Times.
That was the beginning of a great friendship.
We bonded over Warhammer 40K, Fantasy, Star Wars—our little nerd trinity. Those were the best days of my life.
The memories brought a faint smile to my lips.
Even as the truck loomed just inches from my face.
I smiled anyway. Grim. Defiant. I stared death in the eye, knowing I had lived well. My only hope was that Jack and Kusina could do the same.
My hand tightened around the handle of my suitcase. Inside it, my Skaven army—my pride and joy. Proof of all the battles we'd fought. Of all the moments that mattered.
And then the world went white.
The impact hit like thirty angry Orks.
I bounced once, twice, across the pavement like a grotesque rubber ball. Pain exploded through me. My eyes flew open, my back arched in agony.
Everything around me blurred—until it wasn't.
Three shapes emerged from the swirling haze.
An Ork—no, a Warboss. A Skaven Clan Chief. And a regal vampire lady.
They stood together in a pool of blood. My blood.
Even as the thought formed in my mind, my vision dimmed. My body gave out. Darkness crept in, slow and cold.
It felt like plunging into icy water