Have you ever bullshitted to save your life?
I don't mean lying to your mom about grades.
I mean real bullshit—high-stakes, heart-pounding, sweat-dripping-from-your-spine kind of bullshit.
The kind you pull out when the guy across from you could kill you just for breathing wrong.
It's... intense.
Like defusing a bomb.
A blind-ninja-shaped bomb.
So, naturally, the broken faucet that is my mouth turns on full blast before I can stop myself from saying too much.
Just dumping everything I can remember off the top of my head from the Daredevil series.
Matthew Murdock's childhood; The accident. His dad's death. Heightened senses. Stick's training. The suit.
The whole ninja-lawyer with catholic guilt.
Yadda yadda yadda.
And I'm praying—praying—that sounding insane is better than sounding like a liar.
Because at this point?
I don't even know which one'll get me killed faster.
He didn't move. Just knelt there, the blade still brushing my neck, and those clouded eyes piercing into me; like he was reading my soul
Then a low, gravelly hmm gruffed out of him.
"Yer an interestin' Brat, eh?"
I tried a hopeful chuckle. "So... you gonna let me go?"
"No."
The smile dropped off my face. "But I told you everything—"
"No, ya didn't."
I blinked. "How—"
"Yer heartbeat."
Fuck.
My throat went dry.
"I… It's not like I know everything." I said quickly. "Just—some parts. Fragments."
Stick didn't say anything. Just kept crouching there, blade steady.
I kept going—because apparently, my survival is entirely pending on my skills to improv.
"It's not some master plan or grand conspiracy, okay? I didn't wake up one day and decided to screw Matt Murdock's life. Or yours. Ok?!"
Still nothing. Just that steady, unreadable breathing.
I swallowed hard.
"I'm not a threat." I added. "I mean—look at me. I'm not Hand material."
A pause. Then—
"Yet you know what the Hand is."
The blade pressed just a hair deeper.
Shit.
"I'm not part of the Hand, okay?" I said, voice tight. "They probably don't even know I exist. I'm a zero. Probably less than that to them."
Nothing. Just another calm, controlled breath from this old bastard.
I clenched my teeth.
Fine.
If he was gonna kill me either way, then I sure as hell wasn't going out whimpering.
"...The fuck do you want from me then, huh?" I snapped, voice rising before I could reel it back. Not that I wanted to anyway. "You wanna kill me? Go ahead. You want more answers? Break another finger, see what that gets ya', you blind fuck!"
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Then—
"You think you're brave?" he asked, not angry. Not even curious. Just… assessing.
"No. I think I'm terrified. But I'm beyond giving a fuck now."
For a moment, the silence stretched so long I thought maybe he really had stopped breathing.
Then the pressure of the blade eased… just a little.
"Hmph."
That grunt again. Like something between amusement and contempt.
"You got balls, I'll give you that," he said. "But still…"
He stood up—letting the blade left my throat like a cold breeze.
I exhaled. Didn't even realize I'd been holding my breath.
A bootstep. Then another. He started pacing behind me, like he was still deciding if I lived or died.
"Yer a loud, stupid brat. And yer mouth runs faster than your brain ever could" he muttered, somewhere behind me. "But you didn't crack."
I didn't know if that was praise or a warning.
"You're not Hand. Not even trained to kill. And you're definitely not smart enough to fake what you said."
He stopped pacing.
"So you're some kind of cosmic joke…" A pause.
I heard something drop behind me—my bindings.
"I'm leaving."
My heartbeat spiked. "Wait—just like that?"
"No." Stick said flatly. "Not just like that."
He crouched beside me again, voice low, sharp.
"You breathe a word of this to Murdock—or anyone—and I swear, I'll make sure next time you don't even get the chance to die scared. Got it, Brat?"
I nodded. Quickly.
He stood.
Turned.
"And one more thing..."
I didn't even have time to ask.
The blade flashed.
I dodged instinctively—stumbling with the chair. A white-hot line of pain tore across my face.
"Shit! What the fuck!?"
Blood poured from my nose and cheek, hot and sudden. I hit the floor hard, scrambled up like a kicked dog, hand clamped to my face, tasting iron.
My heart thrashed like a trapped animal. My fingers came away slick and red.
I stared at him like he'd snapped—like a bomb that went off just to prove it could.
Who the hell just does that?!
"Are you letting me go or not!? Fuck!"
Stick didn't flinch. Didn't apologize. Didn't even acknowledge the slash.
He just tilted his head like a wolf studying a wounded prey.
"Yer reaction time is mediocre at best. But you may have potential..."
"...Fuck off. Potential for what, you blind son of a bitch?"
My voice cracked—by the blood, the adrenaline, and something I didn't want to admit was fear.
This wasn't like any other fight I've ever been in.
The mugger?
Flash?
That drunk beater?
Just brutes. Idiots swinging with rage and no aim.
Stick was different.
He was surgical.
Fast, quiet, controlled—every movement designed to end someone. No wasted effort. No warning. Just violence with purpose.
How. The. Fuck! Am I supposed to go against that?
"Fightin' me and surviving means one of two things." he said. "You got instincts… or you're too stubborn to die."
He took another step. Blade still loose in his hand—casual, like it was part of him.
"So let's find out which."
My blood turned cold. "Find out wh—"
Stick lunged.
Not a warning. Not a threat. A test.
I barely ducked—the blade screamed past my ear like a live wire. Too close. I stumbled back, off-balance, hands instinctively raised like that would do anything against him.
"Are you insane!?"
"Shut up and move, Brat!"
Another slash—low this time.
I jumped, dodged it. He knew I would. The sheath cracked against my shin like a steel pipe, and holy shit—it hurt. Pain sharp and bright.
I grunted, teeth grit, holding my shin and—
kicked.
Clumsy. Blind. Fueled by nothing but a fuck you.
He sidestepped with ease. Like I was fighting in slow motion.
Then a blow to the ribs. Not enough to break anything—but enough to hurt. I gasped, stumbling sideways, trying to get distance.
He didn't let me.
"You think dying a bunch of times makes you special?" he snarled, closing the distance with terrifying calm.
I tried lashing out again—out of pure adrenaline. He caught my wrist mid-swing and twisted.
"Ah—shit!"
I dropped to one knee, pain burning through my face, arm, leg and gut.
Stick leaned in close.
"But you have the potential to be... useful." He stepped back. "Get up, show you can be more. Or stay down and prove me wrong."
Everything in me screamed to just lie there. To give in. Let it end.
If I died now, I'd just come back.
So why fight?
What was the point?
But something else burned underneath that.
Something pissed off. Raw. Stubborn.
I spat blood onto the ground. And stood up.
I rasped. "Fine..."
I stood up, fists shaking. But they were up.
Stick's grin was small. Cold.
"Now yer speakin' my language."
---
I'm bleeding out.
Face stinging. Ribs throbbing. Legs shaking.
And I still haven't landed a single good hit on him.
I think I'm just boring him at this point.
He's not sweating. Not breathing hard.
Hell, I'm not even sure he's trying.
I charge anyway. Desperate.
He steps to the side like I'm swatting at ghosts.
Crack—
His staff slams into my back. I stumble forward, nearly eat the floor.
"Faster." he says, almost casual.
I spin around, throw a punch that might as well be underwater.
He catches it, Again. Like it's routine, He twists.
Pain explodes up my arm.
I scream and lash out with my knee—but he's already gone.
Another blow—this time to the back of my thigh.
My leg gives out.
I hit the ground hard, coughing. My vision blurs.
"Yer not fighting. Yer flailing." he says. Distant.
Like a teacher correcting a student.
I try to stand—
He knocks me back down with a sweep of his staff. Swift. Effortless.
Blood runs down my cheek, mixing with sweat.
I can barely breathe, let alone think.
But I push up again. Elbows trembling. Knees weak.
He waits. Silent.
I lunge again—this time with everything. No plan.
He doesn't dodge.
He moves through me.
My breath vanishes in a gasp as the end of his staff slams into my gut, folding me like paper.
Then he throws me—not hard, not with anger. Just enough to send me crumpling to the floor like a toddler too stubborn to stay down.
I can't get up this time.
Everythinghurts.
My limbs are lead. My lungs burn.
The edges of my vision pulse with white static.
I groan. I grit my teeth.
And I try. Try to push myself upright with my trembling arms.
Stick just watches. Unreadable.
"Still breathin'." he mutters.
I glare up at him through blood and sweat.
"You finished?" I rasp, voice barely a whisper.
Stick leans in. His tone like gravel.
"No. You are."
He unsheathes his sword with that same calm grace.
Kicks me onto my back. Casual. Like flipping over some trash.
"Yer sure you'll come back?"
He doesn't sound cruel.
Just curious. Like he's wondering if I'll have the balls to face death.
"…Go. Fuck. Yourself."
He nods. Almost impressed.
"Well said."
The blade slides in clean.
Straight through the ribs. Into the heart.
White-hot pain explodes across every nerve.
I gasp. Twitch.
The world starts to tear itself away from me—second by second.
Then, finally—
Everything goes DARK.
---
[System Rebooting…]
> Analyzing Fatal Event...
Cause of Death: SHEEEEEER HEART ATTACK!~
> Analyzing Legacy...
Total Fear Endured: Mild
Physical Trauma: Severe
Emotional Stress: Minor
Karma Accumulated: +10
People Saved: 0
Villains Defeated: 0
> Evaluating User Intent...
Protocol: "POWER"
> Loading Pack…
[Power Pack Granted]
– ??? ??? ??? (0.01%)
> Analyzing Epics...
– Pain Tolerance (Minor) -> (Moderate)
> Rewinding Local Timeframe…
> Status: Reinserted into Timeline – Friday Night
> Welcome back, Warren Wade.
> Your fighting spirit is commendable.
> Try again. Keep being brave.
---
"And one more thing..."
The words echoed—again.
Same voice. Same tone.
My back, still sore from the chair.
My face, still wet with sweat.
The bindings just fell behind me.
I was back.
I didn't breathe. Couldn't. My chest still remembered the sword.
My fingers twitched. My mind raced.
He turned.
The blade gleamed.
My body stumbled back before my mind caught up.
I didn't think—I moved. Instinct. Memory.
The sword missed my face by an inch.
I felt the wind kiss my cheek.
Too close.
Stick—still calm, still composed—but something shifted. A flicker in his stance. Surprise.
I hit the ground again—same fall.
But I wasn't scarface. Progress.
Second time's the charm…
My lungs heaved. My fingers twitched.
Every nerve screamed, you've done this before.
And under the panic, something small sparked to life.
Hope? Maybe.
Stick hadn't moved yet.
His blade was still at the ready, loose in his grip—but now, his head tilted just slightly. Less like a predator. More like someone who just noticed something out of place.
"Yer awfully quiet..." he muttered, circling slowly, "for someone who was an inch from losin' his head..."
I didn't answer. Followed him with my eyes.
He kept talking—voice low, curious.
"You already lived this... Didn't you?"
My breath hitched.
He stopped circling. Eyed me like I was a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
"So it's true, huh?" he said. "Which number of deaths are we at?"
My lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. "...One."
A long pause. Analyzing.
Then He laughed. Quiet. Mean. Disbelieving.
"Yer serious... You really did come back." He was almost thoughtful.
I muttered, rolling my sore shoulder. "I still feel every hit. Every fracture. Every slice. You sadistic fuck."
His grin faded.
He lunged again. Faster than before.
And this time—I moved. Just in time.
His blade carved through the air where my arm had been, but I twisted, staggered, and—
Dodged. Barely.
I managed to push his wrist off balance for half a second.
Half a damn second.
It cost me a blow to the ribs again, but I didn't fall.
"Good." Stick muttered, stepping back. "But still sloppy."
"I'mma make you pay for my pinkies."
"Keep talkin'." he said, raising the blade. "I'm wondering how many deaths it'll take ya'..."
I grit my teeth.
So am I.
---
"You finished?"
He stole my line. But the kick to the ribs, and flipping me onto my back was the same.
My limbs refused to move. My mouth barely opened. But I managed to say—
"…Fuck you."
The blade slid in clean.
Straight through the ribs. Into the heart. Again.
White-hot pain bloomed, agonizing.
Like drowning in it. Darkness.
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"And one more thing..."
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"Which number of deaths are we at?"
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"Does it matter?"
"Of course. I wanna know how much it takes you."
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"...This is the first time."
Stick didn't even pause.
"...Yer bad liar."
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"Just... fuck you."
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"So?"
"...Seventh time."
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"Eight."
Stick crouched beside me this time, elbow on his knee, eyes gleaming with something cruel and curious.
"You remember every one of 'em?"
"...Wouldn't you remember getting maimed and killed?"
My teeth were chattering from the pain. My vision kept going white around the edges. My whole body remembered the blade.
Stick gave a quiet laugh. Not amused—just intrigued.
"Interesting. Real interesting."
He stood again, like he had all the time in the world.
"I wonder when will yer brain breaks."
I hate you. So. Fucking. Much...
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
"And one more thing..."
This time, I moved first.
Before he could even turn, I grabbed the chair behind me and hurled it.
He cut it in half mid-air—expected it. Of course he did.
But that was the distraction.
I slammed into him, shoulder-first.
For the first time in all these loops—
He stumbled.
He dropped the sword.
I didn't even have time to feel hope. Because—
CRACK.
His staff smashed into my side like a goddamn sledgehammer.
I didn't let go.
Pain shrieked through my ribs. I grit my teeth hard enough to crack. My fingers clawed at his vest, animal and desperate.
He twisted. Fluid. Merciless.
Another blow—my knee gave way.
But I held on.
Why?
Because it was my turn to hurt.
I lunged forward and bit his arm—like a starving dog.
He grunted, surprised.
And just like with that drunk bastard from before, I swung.
Wild. Weak. Strong. Didn't matter.
Fists flew—sloppy, shaking, savage.
I didn't care if I hit hard.
I just wanted him to feel it. Pain.
Of course, he didn't just sit there and take it. He snapped his staff across my back. I screamed—but didn't stop.
He elbowed me in the face. My nose shattered. Blood exploded down my lips.
His arm tore free from my bite.
I staggered back, barely standing.
My mouth was red. My blood and.. His.
I was panting. Swaying. Laughing, maybe. I couldn't tell.
Stick straightened slowly, wiping his arm. He looked at the bite.
"…Huh."
His face unreadable. But I thought I saw it—
The first flicker of respect.
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
Parry. Block. Dodge.
Still messy. But for the first time…
He was on the defensive.
He spun, expecting me to be off-balance.
Iwasn't. My fist connected with his jaw.
"Now that's more like it." He said, satisfied.
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
Each time I came back, I kept more of it.
I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I was fighting back.
Little by little… I was catching up.
"...How many times?" he asked, rolling his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching—not a smile.
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Faster reflexes. Smarter counters. Sharper instincts.
And he knew it.
Stick adjusted his stance—not relaxed anymore. Guard tighter. Steps more careful.
He wasn't toying with me now.
He was training me.
Or testing me.
Or breaking me.
Maybe all three.
And I was still here.
This time, I let him come to me.
I baited the high swing, ducked low, slammed my fist into his gut.
He grunted.
Real pain.
Not surprise. Not amusement.
Pain.
That was new.
He answered with a savage elbow—I caught it. Sloppy, but solid.
We broke apart, breathing heavy.
Me—ragged, sweating.
Him—focused. Alert.
His eyes locked on mine.
"...Yer learning."
I wiped the blood from my mouth.
"You're slowing down..."
"Yer just not dying fast enough. I'm gonna fix that."
I grinned, teeth red. "Nah. Fuck that… This time, I win."
I lunged.
He was ready—but so was I.
I wasn't just throwing punches anymore—I was seeing it. The ghost of his next move.
I slipped under his staff, slammed a knee into his thigh. He faltered—half a step.
I followed up. Elbow. Jab. Low kick.
He blocked most of it—but not all.
I was getting through.
Every death, a lesson burned into my psyche.
And he felt it.
He spun, went for the sweep again.
I dodged it. His eyes widened—not in fear.
In Recognition.
I cracked him across the chin with a right hook.
He staggered back, lips split.
Stick spat blood on the floor and finally smiled.
"…Well, shit."
I panted. "What?"
"You might just be worth a damn after all."
I raised my fists. So did he.
---
[System Rebooting…]
---
We stood there, dead silent, surrounded by what used to be a living room. Now it looked more like a war zone.
The couch was split in two. Chairs reduced to splinters. The table—just wreckage. Every piece of furniture I could reach had become a projectile, a weapon, or a makeshift shield.
When I managed to knock the sword from his hands, I didn't hold back. I went at him like a starving dog—rabid, desperate, relentless.
And it paid off.
For the first time, Stick looked winded. Sweating. Breathing hard. The same exhaustion weighing down both our bodies.
He rolled his shoulder, eyes sharp but no longer smug.
"Not bad." he muttered, voice hoarse. "Not bad at all… for a brat."
I wiped the blood from my lip and gave him a crooked chuckle—dry, cracked, half-choked on blood.
"Coming from a fossil? I'll take the compliment."
Stick snorted. "Mouth still works, huh?."
We circled each other. Slow. Careful. Measured.
No more flailing. No more lucky hits.
This was different now.
Earned.
"I hate you." I said.
"Good." He nodded.
Then—without warning—he dropped his stance.
Lowered the staff.
I flinched. Instinct. Ready for the cheap shot.
But it never came.
He just looked at me. Not smug. Not cruel.
Serious.
"You're still green. But... yer adapting."
He pointed the broken end of the staff at me like a finger.
"I don't know what the hell's bringing you back... but whatever it is—it wants you alive."
"Yeah?..." I rasped. "Maybe it just wants me to suffer."
Stick shrugged. "Samething."
Silence so tense it felt like it might snap.
Then, without another word, he turned.
"Get some rest, brat. You'll need it."
"Wait. That's it?"
He paused at the doorway.
"You passed the first test. That's all it ever was."
"…There's more?"
"...Hell's Kitchen. Two days."
He didn't say anything else and just vanished down the hall.
I stood there, shaking. Every inch of me burning.
But I was alive.
No blade through the heart.
Still here.
Bruised. Cut. Splintered. Bloody.
STILL ALIVE.
_______________________________________
Word count: 3.289
Hey there, Dear Readers.
I just wanna apologize for the inactivity.
I been having a rough and busy week.
Too much exams and homework.
But I'll try to have a chapter every Monday or so.
Sincerely, Author.