The first arrow whispered through the air, a sound so soft and sudden it barely registered before it buried itself deep into the trunk of a tree mere inches from Britt’s head. Midnight reared up, his hooves slicing the air as a panicked whinny tore from his throat. Britt’s instincts took over, his knees pressing against the horse’s flanks to steady him even as his own heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer.

  Another arrow came. And then another. The air was alive with the vicious hiss of incoming death.

  “Down, Midnight!” Britt roared, yanking the reins and throwing himself off the saddle with all the force he could muster.

  They hit the ground together, Britt rolling away as Midnight thudded onto his side. He could feel the heat of the horse’s breath against his neck, the thundering heartbeat that matched his own.

  The forest around him had erupted into chaos. Shadows flitted between the trees, figures moving with unnatural grace and speed. Their war cries twisted through the air, raw and furious.

  He counted a dozen attackers. No, eleven. The Sheriff was somewhere behind them, the coward’s voice echoing through the fray.

  “Kill him! The Hacker says that he must die!”

  Britt’s eyes narrowed. So this wasn’t just a random attack. They were hunting him.

  Good. Let them try.

  He rolled to his feet, his rifle already drawn and loaded. The Henry repeating rifle was a beauty, built for precision and speed. His fingers slid over the cold metal, his thumb cocking the lever in one smooth motion.

  Britt didn’t aim where they were. He aimed where they would be.

  His first shot cracked through the air like thunder. A Comanche warrior rushing forward with a spear crumpled mid-stride, his body tumbling through the underbrush.

  A second shot followed, then a third. Britt’s rifle barked out commands, each round tearing through the morning silence with a sound that shook the bones.

  But they weren’t all foolish enough to charge him head-on.

  The arrows kept coming, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Britt twisted and dodged, his feet moving in a desperate dance that kept him alive by inches.

  He dropped low, his back pressed against the trunk of a massive oak. His fingers moved with expert efficiency, sliding fresh cartridges into the rifle’s chamber. The metal clinked softly as each round found its place.

  His breathing was steady. His eyes were sharp. His rage was a coiled serpent ready to strike.

  Another warrior charged him, this one with a hatchet gleaming in the pale morning light. Britt swung his rifle around, the butt crashing into the man’s jaw with a force that snapped bone. Blood sprayed the ground as the man’s head twisted at an unnatural angle before collapsing.

  But there was no time to catch his breath. Another came at him from the left, spear jabbing with a vicious precision. Britt sidestepped, his body moving like liquid fury. The spear tip grazed his ribs, cutting through fabric and drawing blood.

  He ignored the pain. Pain was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

  The rifle came up again, his shoulder braced as he pulled the trigger. The shot tore through the attacker’s chest, the body dropping like a stone.

  More of them were coming, circling him like wolves. Their tactics were brutal but calculated. They wanted him dead, and they had the numbers to make it happen.

  But Britt had something they didn’t.

  Experience.

  His hands moved on their own, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder as he drew his Colt six-shooter. The cold iron felt like salvation in his grip, its weight perfectly balanced for rapid fire.

  The first shot took down a warrior charging with another hatchet, the bullet punching through his skull with a sickening crunch.

  The second hit an archer who had taken position behind a fallen log, his body convulsing as the lead tore through his chest.

  But there were too many.

  He ducked and weaved, his boots sliding over the loose dirt as arrows continued to rain down around him. The flashes of their movement blurred in his vision, each heartbeat pounding in his ears like a war drum.

  An arrow sliced through the air, its wickedly sharp point grazing his left arm. Blood spilled from the wound, but Britt’s focus never faltered.

  Another shot rang out from his pistol. Then another.

  Two more down.

  The warriors were starting to hesitate. Their leader, a tall man with war paint smeared across his chest like jagged lightning, shouted something in Comanche that Britt couldn’t understand. But he didn’t need to. The meaning was clear.

  Press the attack.

  Another two came charging. One with a spear, the other with a tomahawk. They moved like phantoms, their feet soundless against the earth.

  Britt aimed for the spearman first, his finger squeezing the trigger. The bullet tore through the man’s thigh, sending him crashing to the ground with a howl of pain.

  But the tomahawk wielder was too close. Britt twisted his body just as the weapon came swinging down. The blade grazed his shoulder, the pain blossoming like fire.

  He slammed his fist into the man’s throat, the sickening crack of cartilage breaking beneath his knuckles. The warrior crumpled, gasping for air that would never come.

  More of them circled him. More than he could count. His ammunition was dwindling, his lungs heaving for air.

  But he would not fall.

  Britt’s gaze locked onto the leader, the one shouting orders from behind the line of warriors. He was the one driving them forward. The one who needed to die if this madness was to end.

  His rifle came up again, the barrel steady as stone.

  The leader’s eyes widened, his hand lifting to draw another arrow. But Britt’s shot was faster.

  The bullet tore through the man’s shoulder, jerking him back with a snarl of agony. The warrior stumbled, his bow dropping to the ground as his fingers clawed at the wound.

  One of the other warriors, startled by the leader’s injury, released an arrow by accident. It flew wild, catching another of his own in the throat. The man fell with a gurgling cry, his life snuffed out by friendly fire.

  The remaining Comanches hesitated, their leader’s fall breaking their courage.

  And then they turned and fled, their war cries reduced to desperate shouts of retreat.

  Britt watched them go, his rifle still raised, his breathing raw and ragged. Blood dripped from his wounds, his limbs trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

  But the Sheriff didn’t flee. Not yet. His eyes were wide, his face drained of color.

  “You... you weren’t supposed to survive that.” His voice trembled, the swagger gone from his tone.

  “Guess you’ll have to live with the disappointment,” Britt replied coldly.

  The Sheriff’s gaze darted between Britt and the retreating Comanches. And then he turned and ran, his feet kicking up dirt as he scrambled for his life.

  Britt’s hand twitched, but he didn’t fire.

  Not yet. The darkness faded, and with it, the scent of blood and smoke.

  Rico’s body slammed against the cold metal floor of the chamber, his muscles twitching from the intensity of the simulated battle. Sweat clung to his skin like a suffocating blanket, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

  But it wasn’t just his own exhaustion he felt. Halal stirred within him, the symbiote’s presence like a coiled viper tightening around his bones.

  “You keep charging headlong into death like that, you’re gonna burn out your own soul, Rico,” Halal’s voice came through like a grating rumble, deep and filled with something both familiar and terrifying.

  Rico swallowed hard, the coppery taste of simulated blood still on his tongue. “Yeah, well, this mission isn’t exactly your average stroll through the park, now is it?”

  He pressed his palms against the floor, pushing himself upright. The sterile metal chamber glowed with faint blue light, the edges of the room humming softly with a life of their own. The simulation was over, but his mind still swam in the madness of battle.

  “You still with me, Halal?” Rico muttered, his voice thick with fatigue.

  “Always. But you’re pushing it. Your body’s breaking down faster than your mind is healing. Take a damn rest. Just because these are simulations of my previous life doesn’t mean I didn’t have to rest.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Rico’s fingers twitched involuntarily, the adrenaline refusing to leave his system. His muscles ached with the memory of combat, his nerves fried by the tension of almost dying.

  He glanced around the chamber, his eyes drawn to the glowing console on the far wall. The text flickered across the screen, lines of data scrolling too fast for most people to comprehend. But not him. Not with Halal’s awareness intertwined with his own.

  The sliding door opened with a hiss. Two guards dressed in black combat attire stepped into the chamber, their faces masked with impassive professionalism.

  “You’re needed in the debriefing room, Mr. Dawson,” one of them said, his voice tinny through the helmet’s comm system.

  “Yeah, well, I’m needed in a goddamn bed first,” Rico shot back, his eyes narrowing. “I just fought off a small army of pissed-off Comanches and a backstabbing sheriff. Give me five minutes to catch my breath.”

  “Director Shilling’s orders,” the guard replied stiffly. “And they weren’t a suggestion.”

  “Of course they weren’t.” Rico sighed and pushed himself to his feet, his legs wobbling under the strain. Midnight’s absence felt like a hole in his chest, the simulated horse’s loyalty somehow lingering even outside of the program.

  But this was real. The SIMNET program was only part of the nightmare he was living.

  He followed the guards down a maze of sterile corridors, their boots clicking against the polished steel floor. The whole place had the cold efficiency of a prison, despite its slick and sophisticated design.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Think they’re pissed I killed their sheriff?” Rico asked, his voice low.

  “They should be grateful. Bastard was about to shoot you in the back.”

  “Yeah, but something tells me the people running this show aren’t too fond of gratitude.”

  The guards led him into a room filled with monitors and consoles. The technology buzzed with life, the holographic displays casting strange shadows along the walls.

  A man in a perfectly pressed suit stood in front of the largest monitor, his expression sharp and unyielding. Director Shilling. The man who had dragged Rico into this hellhole of digital warfare and ancient bloodlines.

  “Ah, Mr. Dawson,” Shilling greeted him with the kind of smirk that suggested he enjoyed watching people suffer. “Seems you’ve had a rather eventful session.”

  “If by eventful, you mean getting ambushed by a pack of Comanches and a traitorous sheriff, then yeah, you could say that.”

  Shilling’s smile widened. “Excellent. The data we’ve collected from your encounter is invaluable. Your combat efficiency has improved by thirty-six percent since your last run.”

  “Glad to be of service,” Rico growled. “Now can I get some goddamn food? Or is that too much to ask?”

  “You’re free to take a break. But be aware, time is not on our side. You have eleven days left before this timeline collapses. I suggest you make the most of them.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t do much on an empty stomach, can I?”

  Rico turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his muscles protesting with every step.

  The cafeteria was dimly lit, its sleek metallic walls reflecting the sterile glow of overhead lights. Food trays clattered against tables as a few other operatives moved about, their eyes hollow and their faces drawn.

  Rico grabbed a tray and piled it with whatever looked halfway edible. Chicken, rice, and something that looked vaguely like potatoes. Halal was silent, but Rico could feel the symbiote’s hunger gnawing at him, a different kind of need that no earthly food could satisfy.

  He slid into an empty booth, shoveling food into his mouth like a starving man. His body craved nourishment, but his mind refused to let him enjoy it.

  “You need to rest,” Halal rumbled, his voice echoing through Rico’s thoughts. “Your wounds won’t heal if you keep pushing yourself like this.”

  “Don’t got much choice, do I?” Rico muttered through a mouthful of food. “Gotta find Wafu before this whole damn timeline goes up in flames.”

  A pause. Then, “The Architect’s trap is clever. Using the life of your ancestor to break your will. Using my previous host to weaken you through suffering.”

  “Well, it ain’t working,” Rico said, his jaw clenching. “If anything, it’s just making me angrier.”

  “Anger only gets you so far. If you want to succeed, you need control. You need patience.”

  Rico swallowed, his throat tightening. “Maybe you’re right. But patience ain’t exactly my strong suit.”

  Halal chuckled, the sound more vibration than voice. “That much, I know.”

  Rico finished his food and leaned back against the cold metal of the booth. His body sagged with exhaustion, his eyelids growing heavier by the second.

  He needed sleep. And a lot more than he was going to get. He stood up and left the booth, disposing of his tray, and went to his bunk, where he laid down tand slept. But his rest would not be peaceful. Because only four hours after his eyes closed, an alert blared through his consciousness.

  SYSTEM RESTART IMMINENT. HACKER DETECTED.

  His eyes snapped open. “What the hell?”

  Rico’s eyes snapped open, his breath tearing from his lungs as if he’d just been dragged from the depths of the sea. His pulse hammered in his ears, the lingering echoes of combat still gnashing at his mind.

  The sterile ceiling above him offered no comfort. He lay sprawled on the cot in his quarters, a cramped metal cell masquerading as living space. His body ached from fatigue, muscles twitching with restless tension. Halal’s presence simmered in his thoughts, a coiled predator waiting to strike.

  “You need to slow down, Rico,” Halal growled, his voice low and thunderous. “Charging in without thinking won’t bring her back.”

  “Every moment I waste ‘thinking’ is another second Wafu’s out there—trapped, suffering, or worse,” Rico snapped, his words more desperation than anger.

  “You’re pushing yourself past the point of survival. We both feel it. It’s not just your body taking the strain.”

  Rico rubbed his temples, the throbbing ache of battle still pounding away like the echo of a gunshot. “I can’t afford to slow down. Not when I’m being hunted by a goddamn Hacker and his pet Comanches.”

  “No, what you can’t afford is making mistakes. You already almost died because of that cowardly sheriff. The Architect’s tricks are becoming more precise. More cruel.”

  Rico’s fists clenched. The simulation had been brutal, but it was nothing compared to the gnawing frustration eating away at him from the inside out. His fingers itched to return to the game, to tear through the digital wilderness until he had Wafu back in his arms.

  But Halal was right. He needed to eat. To rest. To think.

  Rico dragged himself to his feet, his legs trembling from the strain. His fingers worked through the mess of tangled wires and discarded tools littering his quarters. The place was a disorganized hellscape of tech gear, weapons, and half-finished projects.

  But it was home.

  He reached for the small compartment embedded in the far wall, retrieving a pack of protein bars and a bottle of water. The bland, chalky taste of the bar crumbled against his teeth, but he forced it down. His body needed fuel, even if his mind was too frantic to care.

  Halal’s presence grew sharper, the symbiote’s awareness merging with his own. A primal hunger throbbed beneath his skin.

  “Food won’t be enough,” Halal rumbled. “You need blood.”

  “Always do,” Rico muttered. “But we don’t have time for that.”

  “And if you die from starvation or madness, how do you expect to save her?”

  The bitterness in Halal’s tone cut through Rico’s thoughts like broken glass. His grip tightened around the bottle, the plastic creaking beneath his fingers.

  “I get it. But we’ll have to make do. I’m not running off to hunt some poor bastard just to keep you satisfied.”

  “You think this hunger is mine alone?”

  Rico went still. The truth of Halal’s words crept into his veins like a cold poison. The symbiote’s hunger was his hunger. They were bound by blood and rage and a thousand lives stretched over millennia.

  And it was then the realization hit him.

  The Architect’s simulation wasn’t just about breaking him. It was about weakening Halal. Starving him. Driving a wedge between them until Rico was nothing more than a hollowed-out shell.

  “So, they’re trying to break us,” Rico said, his voice cold and even. “Starve you out, make me desperate and weak. Clever.”

  “And effective. They know my presence depends on your survival. They know how to exploit my weakness. Our weakness.”

  Rico’s jaw tightened. His mind raced over the fragments of memories left behind by the simulation, clues scattered like shattered glass. The pieces were starting to come together.

  But before he could dwell on the implications, the air around him changed. A cold wind brushed against his skin, carrying with it the scent of ozone and ash.

  And then the world twisted.

  A shimmering crack split the air before him, warping the very fabric of reality. Bright light flooded his quarters, washing out the dull metallic walls with blinding intensity.

  The figure who stepped through the rift was shrouded in pale mist, his form half-solid, half-shadow. The air hummed with power as if reality itself was struggling to contain him.

  “Pantu,” Rico whispered.

  The figure’s eyes gleamed like polished silver, a grin splitting his features with the reckless joy of a man who lived every moment like his last.

  “Well, well,” Pantu said, his voice smooth and deep, like the rumble of a storm gathering over a sunlit sea. “I see you’re still alive, brother.”

  “Barely,” Rico replied, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Pantu shrugged, his movements fluid and careless. “What I always do. Helping Halal’s chosen survive whatever hell he’s thrown into this time.”

  “Chosen?” Rico’s eyes flashed with anger. “I’m not anyone’s chosen. I’m just a man trying to get my Wafu back.”

  “And yet, here you are, tangled in the threads of fate spun long before you drew your first breath. Halal’s blood runs through your veins, Rico. You are the key. The anchor. The reason Halal can even exist in this reality.”

  Rico’s fists clenched. “What are you saying?”

  “That you’re the only one left who can restore him,” Pantu said, his grin softening into something more serious. “And the Architect knows it. Elijah knows it. That’s why they’re throwing everything they can at you.”

  “But why?” Rico demanded. “What the hell do they want from me?”

  Pantu’s eyes flickered with something like regret. “Control. Power. And something much worse. They want to erase Halal from existence. Completely. If they sever the bond between you and him, his line ends. Forever.”

  Rico felt his blood turn to ice. “So, they’re trying to kill me to kill him.”

  “Exactly. But here’s the kicker.” Pantu’s grin returned, his gaze sharpening. “Elijah doesn’t even know he’s being manipulated. None of them do. The Hacker is pulling strings they can’t even see.”

  Before Rico could respond, the air shifted again. The rift behind Pantu began to drag at him, like a storm’s fury pulling at a lone tree.

  “Guess that’s my cue,” Pantu said, his voice strained. “Remember what I said, brother. The Architect is playing you. But you can win. And you damn well better, because the world’s about to burn.”

  Pantu was gone before Rico could even process his words, his presence sucked back into whatever hellish dimension he’d been dragged from.

  And then the alert blared through his mind.

  SYSTEM RESTART IMMINENT. HACKER DETECTED.

  Rico’s eyes snapped open, his fists clenching as the console lights blazed to life.

  “Shit. Here we go again.”

  The alarm continued to shriek, its high-pitched wail stabbing through Rico’s skull like jagged glass. But the pain only sharpened his focus.

  His fingers flew over the console embedded in the wall, pulling up the diagnostic reports. The screens shimmered with countless lines of code, their meaning decipherable only by those who understood the nightmare technology he was trapped within.

  SYSTEM ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. INITIATING PURGE PROTOCOL.

  “Damn it,” Rico cursed, his eyes blazing with fury. His fingers clenched around the console’s edge, knuckles white with strain.

  “The Hacker’s forcing you back in,” Halal’s voice growled through his mind. “Trying to keep you off balance. Afraid you’ll piece it all together.”

  “And what about you?” Rico shot back. “You’ve been holding back this whole time. What else aren’t you telling me?”

  Halal’s voice came through like the rumble of distant thunder. “Even I don’t remember everything, Rico. Wafu holds more than just your memories. She holds ours. Mine. And without them, my power is incomplete. My understanding of this nightmare—fractured.”

  “Then we find her.” Rico’s voice was ice. “We end this.”

  But before he could dive headfirst into the madness again, the door to his quarters slid open with a soft hiss. Two guards stood on either side, their faces expressionless behind sleek, black visors.

  “Mr. Dawson, you’re needed in the Control Room.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m kinda busy,” Rico snapped. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of getting thrown back into hell?”

  The guards exchanged a glance, something tense and uncertain passing between them. The one on the left spoke, his voice tight and strained. “Director Shilling requests your immediate presence. He said it was... urgent.”

  Rico’s eyes narrowed. “Urgent how?”

  “It’s about the Hacker,” the guard replied.

  Rico’s lips twisted into something that might’ve been a grin if it weren’t for the bloodlust simmering beneath his skin. “Alright. Lead the way.”

  The journey through the steel-walled corridors felt longer than usual. Every step echoed with an unnatural finality, the hollow clanging of boots against metal like the tolling of a bell.

  The guards brought him to the Control Room’s entrance, where the hum of machinery and the low murmur of voices spilled into the hallway like a living thing.

  “Go on in,” the guard said, his gaze averted. There was fear in his voice. Not just of Rico. Of something much worse.

  Rico stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room with a predator’s precision. Shilling was there, his pristine suit even more out of place than usual. But he wasn’t alone.

  Three figures stood in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.

  One of them wore a dark crimson coat, his eyes cold and calculating. Another dressed in sharp, silvered armor, his face a mask of authority and ambition. And the last...

  “Elijah,” Rico hissed, his fists clenching at his sides.

  “Ah, so you do remember me,” Elijah Arian Nasu said, his voice smooth and rich, like the purr of a cat ready to pounce. “Or perhaps it’s just Halal’s voice in your head keeping you informed.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Rico growled. “Shouldn’t you be back with the others, playing at being king?”

  Elijah’s smile never wavered. “Perhaps. But we all know that Halal’s kingdom is fractured. Torn apart by chaos and greed. I merely stepped in to provide guidance. Leadership. In his absence, someone had to.”

  “Leadership?” Halal’s voice seethed through Rico’s thoughts. “More like betrayal. You’ve twisted the Nasu Tribe’s purpose into something grotesque.”

  “I did what was necessary,” Elijah replied calmly, as if he could hear Halal’s accusations through Rico’s eyes. “The others needed a strong hand to guide them. And without Halal’s memories, their minds were nothing but hollow shells. I gave them purpose.”

  “Your purpose.” Rico spat the words like venom.

  Elijah’s gaze turned icy. “And what do you offer them, Rico? More of Halal’s endless suffering? More bloodshed and madness?”

  “I offer them freedom. Something you’ve clearly forgotten.”

  Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The other two men shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between the two combatants.

  Shilling cleared his throat, his voice an unwelcome intrusion. “Gentlemen, as much as I enjoy these little pissing contests, there are more pressing matters to discuss. Namely, the Hacker’s interference.”

  “Elijah’s the one working with him,” Rico snapped, his voice like a blade cutting through the air.

  “An alliance of convenience,” Elijah replied smoothly. “I seek to consolidate power, not grovel at the feet of some faceless tech freak. The Hacker’s presence was... tolerated, nothing more.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Rico asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “I’m saying that the Hacker has overstepped. Manipulated me. Manipulated all of us.” Elijah’s smile returned, but it was the smile of a man on the edge of desperation. “You think you’re the only one the Hacker is hunting, Rico? You think Halal is the only threat to his control? He’s targeting all of us. And if we don’t work together, we’re all going to burn.”

  Rico’s gaze bore into Elijah’s, his fists twitching with the urge to tear the man apart. But beneath the rage, there was something else. Something colder.

  “Why the sudden change of heart?” Rico asked. “What’s the real game you’re playing, Elijah?”

  “The truth.” Elijah’s eyes flashed with something that looked suspiciously like fear. “The Hacker wants the Nasu Tribe erased. All of us. Even Halal. He’s not just trying to break you, Rico. He’s trying to wipe the entire bloodline from existence.”

  Rico’s pulse quickened, his senses burning with clarity. Halal’s presence surged within him, a flood of fury and determination.

  “Then let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  But before the plan could take root, the alarms blared through the Control Room.

  SYSTEM OVERRIDE. FORCED RE-ENTRY INITIATED.

  “No,” Rico growled. “I’m not ready.”

  But it didn’t matter. The world shattered around him, the steel walls peeling away like paper. And the simulation came crashing down over him once more.