Allan Muerrdo Cruz lay on a stiff hospital bed, the beeping of the heart monitor his only companion. Sterile white walls closed in on him, the scent of antiseptic clinging to every breath he struggled to take. Nine months. That's how long it had been since the doctor's words echoed through his mind like a death knell.
"I'm sorry Mr. Cruz, but you have stage 3A lung cancer."
Allan had laughed then — a dry, rasping sound that scraped against the back of his throat. Of course, it was cancer. His old man had died the same way, coughing blood into a tin can, a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. Allan always thought he'd beat the odds. But now, at twenty-four, death was closing in fast.
He blinked up at the ceiling, the world blurring. Nurses burst into the room, their voices panicked, urgent. The beeping accelerated, screaming in his ears.
"Allan! Stay with us! Stay with—"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Pain. Searing, raw, and real. It ripped through his back like a jagged knife, burning through his spine.
Allan's eyes snapped open. The world spun around him, a whirl of green, gray, and orange. The scent of burning wood and acrid smoke filled his lungs, making him choke. Grass prickled against his cheek. Dirt clung to his palms.
What the hell...?
He pushed himself up, gasping as the pain screamed up his back. His shirt was torn, sticky with something warm and wet. Blood.
Voices. Shouting. Screaming.
Allan forced himself to focus. Beyond the line of trees, a village was burning — huts engulfed in roaring flames, smoke spiraling into the sky like the world was ending.
People ran. Women screamed, clutching children to their chests. Men fell to the ground as blood sprayed through the air. Soldiers — or what looked like soldiers — in leather armor and chainmail swung swords, their faces smeared with soot and fury.
One of them grabbed a woman by her hair, yanking her to her knees. She screamed, her voice ragged and raw. Allan's fists clenched.
What the hell is going on? Where am I?
Allan looked down at himself, at his shaking hands — calloused, tanned, and smeared with blood that wasn't his. He swallowed, his throat parched. The hospital room. The cancer. The beeping monitors. Where had they gone?
A memory flickered — the beeping accelerating, the nurses shouting. Darkness.
Now this.
He staggered to his feet, nearly collapsing as pain shot up his back again. The wound. Someone had slashed him — he could feel the torn skin, the way blood soaked through his tattered shirt. But he was standing. He was breathing. His lungs didn't ache with every gasp.
What the hell did they do to me?
A scream echoed through the forest — a child's scream. Allan's head snapped up. A boy no older than ten bolted from the village, eyes wide with terror as a soldier pursued him, sword glinting in the firelight.
The boy tripped, fell, and the soldier loomed over him, sword raised.
Allan's muscles tensed. Instinct took over.
He grabbed a branch off the ground, fingers curling around the rough bark. Before he could think, he was running. Charging. His legs moved like they belonged to someone else, the pain in his back forgotten.
The soldier turned just as Allan swung. The branch connected with the man's jaw, a sickening crunch echoing through the air. The soldier crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath his head.
The boy scrambled to his feet, eyes wild, tears streaking through the ash on his cheeks.
"Run!" Allan shouted, his voice raw. "Go!"
The boy hesitated, staring at Allan like he was some kind of ghost. Then he turned and fled into the forest.
Allan dropped the branch, his hands trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming.
A world on fire. Soldiers. Swords. Blood. Pain.
What the hell kind of nightmare have I woken up in?
Allan's breath hitched as the soldier rose to his feet, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. The man's eyes were wild, feral, a predator's glare fixed on its prey. He ran his tongue over his bleeding lip, smearing crimson across his teeth.
"You..." The soldier's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "You're going to wish you died the first time."
Allan swallowed, his throat dry as sand. The village crackled and roared behind the soldier, flames painting the man's shadow across the ground like a looming specter.
"Hey... I-I didn't mean to—" Allan stammered, his feet shuffling backward, stumbling over roots and rocks. "I don't even know what's happening. Please. Don't—"
"Too late," the soldier sneered.
He lunged.
Allan's instincts flared. He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the downward swing of the sword. The blade sliced through the air, close enough that Allan felt the wind against his cheek.
The momentum sent him sprawling, knees slamming against the ground. The impact jarred his bones, his vision swimming. Before he could push himself up, a heavy boot crashed into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs.
"Not so tough now, are you?" the soldier taunted, standing over him. "Pathetic little rabbit."
Allan's breaths came in quick, panicked bursts. The pain from his back flared, a searing, relentless ache. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes. He scrambled backward, palms pressing against the dirt as he tried to get away.
The soldier took his time, his grin widening, eyes gleaming with a cruel delight. "Run. Go ahead. Makes it more fun."
Allan's heart thundered. He pushed himself up and bolted. The world became a blur of green and gray as he tore through the forest, branches slashing at his skin like claws.
Behind him, the soldier's laughter echoed, a chilling sound that gnawed at Allan's spine. "That's right, run! Run, little rabbit!"
Allan's legs burned, his lungs screamed. He risked a glance over his shoulder — and that's when the sharp pain struck.
A knife.
It embedded itself in his back shoulder, just beneath the blade. The impact sent him stumbling forward, his knees buckling. The world wavered as fresh agony surged through him.
"Ghh..." Allan grit his teeth, reaching back to touch the knife's hilt. The slightest pressure sent blinding pain shooting through his nerves. He panted, sweat pouring down his face.
Gotta get it out.
He grasped the knife with trembling fingers, the rough leather of the handle digging into his skin. He sucked in a breath and pulled.
The pain was instant, electrifying, as if molten iron had been poured through his veins. The knife slid free with a wet, sickening sound, and Allan's vision dimmed. He staggered backward, his feet tangling over a fallen branch.
The ground hit him hard, dirt and leaves grinding against his torn back. He gasped, clutching the bloody knife, his knuckles white.
A shadow loomed over him.
The soldier grinned, towering above, sword glinting in the firelight. Blood dripped down his chin, his tongue darting out to taste it like a rabid animal. "End of the line, rabbit."
Allan's heart pounded. His eyes flicked to the knife in his hand, his only weapon. But the soldier was too close. Too strong.
The soldier raised his sword high, the blade catching the firelight. "Let's hear you scream."
A scream echoed through the forest. Not Allan's.
The soldier hesitated, his gaze snapping to the right. In the distance, another soldier writhed on the ground, a wooden spear jutting from his chest. A villager stood over him, eyes wild, hands shaking with the intensity of his attack.
Allan's breath caught. Now or never.
He lunged. The knife plunged into the soldier's neck, sinking deep. The man's eyes went wide, bloodshot and disbelieving. He gurgled, blood pouring over Allan's hand, warm and slick.
The soldier's sword fell to the ground with a heavy thunk, his knees buckling. Allan yanked the knife free, and the soldier collapsed forward, dead weight pressing against him.
Allan shoved the body away, gasping. The villager who had stabbed the other soldier screamed as an arrow pierced his throat, the sound cutting off with a sickening choke.
More soldiers. More death. More chaos.
Allan stumbled to his feet, legs wobbling beneath him. The scent of burning wood and blood filled the air, thick enough to choke. Without another thought, he turned and ran, deeper into the forest, away from the screams and flames.
Branches whipped at his face, his legs moving on instinct, driven by pure, unfiltered fear.
Behind him, the forest echoed with the cries of the dying.
Allan's feet pounded against the forest floor, the sound of his frantic breaths drowning out the chaos behind him. Trees blurred past, shadows twisting like grasping hands. Every muscle screamed in protest, but fear pushed him forward, further, faster.
The scent of smoke lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of the burning village. Faces flashed through his mind — the woman dragged by her hair, the boy he'd tried to save.
Did they escape? Did anyone?
His chest tightened, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He swallowed them back, refusing to let them fall. Keep running. Keep moving. Don't look back.
A shout echoed through the forest.
"Spread out! Find him! Don't let the little rat escape!"
Torchlight flared behind him, flickering between the trees like fiery eyes. Allan's heart lurched.
They're getting closer.
His legs pumped harder, but each step felt heavier than the last. Blood dripped from the wound in his back, each drop leaving a dark stain against the dirt. His breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, each one slicing through his throat like a knife.
He stumbled, caught himself against a tree, then kept running. The forest thinned ahead, the ground sloping down. His feet slid over loose stones and slick leaves.
And then he saw it.
The ground abruptly dropped away, a sheer ravine yawning open before him. Allan skidded to a stop, dirt and gravel skittering over the edge and disappearing into darkness. He leaned forward, peering down. Nothing but swirling mist and jagged rocks far below.
"Shit," he whispered, breathless.
A crack of branches behind him.
Allan spun around, eyes wide. The soldiers emerged from the trees, torches bobbing like will-o'-wisps in the dark. Swords glinted in the firelight. The one at the front sneered, his scarred face twisted with smug satisfaction.
Behind him, a young man stepped forward. He was cleaner than the others, his dark hair tied back, a fine cloak draped over his shoulders. A noble. His eyes glittered with disdain as he took in Allan, bleeding, panting, standing at the edge of the ravine like a trapped animal.
"What are you staring at?" the noble drawled, his voice dripping with venom. "Just fucking kill him."
Allan's blood ran cold.
Before he could react, the soldiers raised their crossbows. The twang of strings echoed through the night.
Allan barely registered the pain before he felt the impact. One bolt slammed into his right chest, burying deep. The force knocked him back a step. Another struck his left hip, hot and sharp.
His body convulsed, nerves screaming. His vision swam, darkness seeping in from the edges. He gasped, blood bubbling in his throat.
The ground slipped beneath his feet.
Weightless. Falling.
The last thing he saw was the noble's smirk, the torches blurring into a halo of firelight, before the world swallowed him whole.