The time was ticking.

And so was Jacob’s will.

Each breath he drew felt like a blade dragged across his lungs, sharp and shallow. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless war drum that drowned out everything but the pounding of his boots against the earth. The terrain blurred beneath him—mud, gravel, shattered glass—none of it mattered. His body was a machine running on borrowed time, every muscle burning, every joint screaming. But pain was irrelevant. Relief was a myth. And behind him, the nightmare loomed.

JX1DX1.

It didn’t run. It advanced. Its movements were stiff, mechanical, yet horrifyingly efficient—like a marionette animated by something cruel and ancient. Its face was a blank canvas of malice, unreadable and inhuman. The air around it felt thinner, heavier, as if its very presence siphoned hope from the world. It didn’t chase Jacob out of rage. It chased him out of design. It was built to erase him.

Jacob’s fingers fumbled for the shotgun slung across his back, the cold metal biting into his palms. He loaded a shell with the desperation of a man who’d seen too many endings and refused to accept his own. No time to aim. No time to breathe. He pulled the trigger.

The blast shattered the silence, a thunderclap of violence that echoed across the ruins. The recoil slammed into his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. JX1DX1 reeled, its body jerking unnaturally, a shriek erupting from its throat—high-pitched, metallic, like a machine screaming in agony. It paused. Just for a second.

An opening.

Jacob ran.

His legs moved faster than thought, faster than fear. He didn’t feel the ground beneath him, didn’t hear the wind tearing past his ears. He was pure momentum, pure instinct. But he wasn’t just fleeing.

He was searching.

Not for safety. Not for shelter.

For you.

Then—darkness.

The round ended.

His body collapsed, limbs limp, breath stolen. The world folded inward, and he was swallowed whole.

A gasp tore from his throat as he awoke, lungs convulsing with the sudden rush of air. His vision swam, the base’s ceiling coming into focus in fractured pieces. He was back. The shotgun was still in his grip, its weight familiar, grounding. Survivors milled around him, their voices a distant hum, concern etched into their faces—but Jacob didn’t stop. He shoved past them, his eyes wild, his heart still sprinting.

Down.

Into the depths.

The basement greeted him with its usual gloom—dust motes swirling in the stale air, shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten supplies. The light was dim, flickering, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. But Jacob didn’t care.

His gaze locked onto two figures.

Noli, glitching slightly, his voice a garbled tease: "W0AH TH3R3 BUDDY, N0 N33D T0 C4US3 A FUS."

Jacob didn’t respond.

His eyes found you.

And everything inside him unraveled.

Relief hit him like a tidal wave, crashing through the walls he’d built to survive. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor in front of you, breath catching in his throat. The sight of you—slouched against a pile of blankets, surrounded by junk food wrappers and half-empty soda cans—was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.

He let out a short, broken laugh, shaking his head as if trying to wake from a dream. “You should drink some water,” he murmured, voice stripped of its earlier edge. It was soft now, reverent, like he was afraid to break the moment.

His hand reached out, trembling slightly, and rested against your stomach.

Warmth.

Not just physical—but alive. A fragile flicker of life beneath his touch. A heartbeat. A future. A promise.

His fingers curled gently, protectively, as if trying to shield that warmth from the world outside. From the monsters. From the game. From fate.

A promise he wished didn’t have to exist in a world like this.

But it did.

And he would fight for it. Again. And again. And again.