"Fuck you, I don't want to die!"
At three in the morning, Alexander shot bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon. A cold sweat soaked his t-shirt, clinging to his back with a clammy stickiness. He gasped for air, the room growing thick with the scent of his own fear.
This was the fifth time.
It had all started yesterday afternoon, after he'd killed a minor boss known as the Lord of Frostfell in the fully immersive virtual reality game, Continent of Destiny. Since that moment, some kind of curse seemed to have latched onto him.
Back then, as the boss dissipated into motes of light, a line of crimson text—one that didn't belong to the game's UI—had seared itself onto his retinas:
[WARNING: YOUR DESTINY HAS BEEN ALTERED. DEATH COUNTDOWN INITIATED: 23:59:59]
At first, Alexander paid it no mind. He assumed it was some novel easter egg planted by the developers, perhaps the start of a hidden quest. After all, Continent of Destiny was renowned for its hyper-realism and unpredictability.
But when he logged out and returned to the real world, the blood-red countdown remained, hovering before his eyes like a ghost etched onto his very cornea. It didn't move with his gaze, just hung there, cold and indifferent in the center of his vision. An hour later, the numbers and letters flickered like a dying projection and finally faded away.
Just a hallucination from playing for three days straight… he'd thought at the time, rubbing his dry eyes before collapsing into bed.
Sleep, however, brought no peace. It dragged him into a hell from which he couldn't wake.
Nightmares. Each one more real than the last.
In the first dream, he was heading to the corner store for a late-night snack. A runaway delivery truck mounted the sidewalk. He vividly felt the jarring crunch of steel shattering bone, the momentary void in his mind as he was thrown airborne.
In the second, he was showering. As he reached for the shampoo, a powerful current from faulty wiring surged through the water, engulfing his body. He watched his consciousness sink into darkness amidst violent convulsions and the smell of burning muscle.
In the third, he was at his desk. A loose screw on the bookshelf above him finally gave way. A heavy, hardbound copy of A Game of Thrones landed precisely on his cervical spine, delivering a fatal snap.
In the fourth, he choked on a sip of water. A single drop went down the wrong pipe, triggering a violent coughing fit. As he tried to stand, he tripped on a power cord, struck his head on the corner of the desk, and died instantly.
The fifth dream, the one he had just woken from, was a plane crash after an engine failed shortly after takeoff.
Each time, at the very instant of "death," the crimson timer would reappear, its numbers plummeting.
A bone-deep chill seized Alexander. This was no coincidence.
He scrambled out of bed and stumbled to his desk, his hand trembling as he switched on the lamp. The dim yellow light chased away some of the darkness but did nothing to warm the ice in his heart. He grabbed a ballpoint pen and, on a sheet of paper, documented each of the five deaths in meticulous detail.
A truck, electrocution, a falling object, an accidental fall, a plane crash…
The methods were wildly varied, seemingly random, yet they all pointed to the same outcome. He glanced at his phone. 3:15 AM. Nearly ten hours had passed since the curse began. He had fourteen hours left.
He had to do something. He refused to just sit here and die.
To gain more intel on his impending "death," he made a frantic decision: to go back to sleep. To intentionally trigger the nightmares and gather more data, more samples of his own demise.
It was a dance with the devil. The terror of dying was immense, but the will to live overwhelmed it. He forced himself back into bed, lying stiffly like a prisoner awaiting his sentence.
Sheer exhaustion claimed him in an instant.
Soon, the sixth nightmare arrived. This time, he died in a gas leak, the entire room erupting in a violent explosion the moment he lit a cigarette.
BOOM!
Alexander jolted awake again, adding the new cause of death to his list.
He went back to sleep.
Seventh death: tripped by a rogue robotic vacuum, cracking the back of his skull on a doorframe. He noted it down.
Eighth: sitting on his old sofa when a broken spring suddenly burst from within, impaling him through the lower back. Noted.
Ninth…
Tenth…
When dawn broke, the first rays of morning light slicing through the gap in his curtains, Alexander found he could no longer sleep. His mind was stretched to its absolute limit, his will eroded by each simulated demise.
He sat at his desk with bloodshot eyes, staring at the paper now filled with ten bizarre ways to die.
"Car crash, electrocution, asphyxiation, poisoning, explosion…" he whispered, his mind racing. The causes of death spanned every category imaginable: physical trauma, chemical reactions, biological failures. Some were avoidable; others were sheer forces of nature.
He had to devise a foolproof plan.
He crossed out everything on the note and picked up his phone.
Step one: sever all external connections. He canceled his afternoon flight, backed out of a get-together with friends, and sent an urgent email to his company requesting emergency leave.
Step two: eliminate all potential hazards. He walked to his apartment's breaker box and threw the main switch. He then shut off the gas valve and sealed his faucets with duct tape.
Step three: create an absolutely safe environment. He moved every piece of furniture that could possibly pose a threat—bookshelf, chair, desk—out of his bedroom and into the living room. Finally, he dragged the bare mattress to the exact center of the room, ensuring it was equidistant from the walls, the window, and the light fixture on the ceiling.
After all that, he turned off his phone and tossed it into the living room. He wore only a soft pair of cotton pajamas, his pockets empty, carrying nothing.
He lay on the mattress in the center of the room, an island in an ocean of emptiness.
Time crawled by.
No electricity, no internet, no sound. In the absolute silence, every second felt like a century. The only thing he could hear was the suppressed thumping of his own heart.
He stared into the void, the invisible timer in his mind ticking relentlessly onward.
3:00 PM… 5:00 PM… 7:00 PM…
Night fell once more.
Only a few minutes remained until the 24-hour deadline.
Alexander's heart hammered against his ribs; adrenaline flooded his veins. He reviewed his situation again and again: no power, no fire, no water, no sharp objects, no heavy weights, not even a single loose screw. This was an absolute safe zone.
Thirty seconds…
He held his breath, every muscle tensed.
Twenty seconds…
The space around him was vast and terrifyingly quiet.
Ten seconds…
Nine… eight… seven…
An uncontrollable smile began to tug at the corners of Alexander's taut lips. He had done it. He had actually beaten the curse.
Three…
Two…
One!
"Ha… haha…" A long, shuddering sigh of relief escaped his lips. His tense body went completely slack as a wave of post-traumatic euphoria washed over him. He couldn't help but let out a low chuckle, the sound unnervingly sharp in the empty room.
I did it! So much for inescapable Destiny.That piece of shit curse…
And in that precise instant, the smallest accident occurred.
The ballpoint pen he had used to take notes had been forgotten at the edge of the mattress. As he collapsed in relief, the mattress tilted ever so slightly.
The pen began to roll.
It traveled over the cotton sheet and silently fell from the edge.
By a chance of one in a billion, it landed point-down, standing perfectly upright on the hardwood floor like a miniature javelin.
Still smiling, Alexander turned his head, relaxing into the sweet bliss of survival, preparing to enjoy his first peaceful night's sleep.
And brought his neck down, precisely upon it.
A soft, almost inaudible pop.
A sharp, searing pain shot through his carotid artery. The smile on his face froze, replaced by a look of ultimate shock and disbelief. He felt a warm liquid gush from the wound, his life force draining away from the tiny puncture at an impossible speed.
He strained to keep his eyes open. At the edge of his vision, the blood-red timer, absent all day, flared back into existence.
Its numbers were frozen, stark and clear:
[DEATH COUNTDOWN: 00:00:00]
In the final moment before his consciousness plunged into eternal darkness, he used the last of his strength to squeeze a single syllable from his throat.
"FUCK!"