Strawman's Gambit

The Strawman gained five meters of distance in what seemed like an instant. Atlas struggled to keep his composure as the possibility of victory slipped further out of reach. Determined, he dashed forward again, angling his body to protect his vital organs, only to watch the Strawman retreat once more.

Atlas knew the hallway wasn't infinite. The doors he'd entered were now sealed shut, leaving him confined. His only real chance of winning was to force the Strawman into a corner and hope that his inaccuracy would persist.

With a plan forming, Atlas felt a surge of frustration. Despite having nine hours to prepare, he had been allowed to bring nothing into the trial except the clothes on his back. Desperately, he wished for a gun or some kind of tool to make this fight easier.

Dash, dodge, retreat. Dash, dodge, retreat. This pattern continued for what felt like an eternity. Each time the Strawman was close to being cornered, he dashed away in the opposite direction, moving with an eerie intelligence, as if he were a sentient creature. The shots became harder to dodge, each one coming closer to hitting Atlas than the last, as if the Strawman was learning and adapting to his abilities.

Atlas was stuck in a stalemate, He muttered to himself, "To hell with this Strawman." Filled with grit and determination, he dashed toward the Strawman once more, his legs pumping with adrenaline, making this dash stronger than ever before.

He threw a punch, grazing the Strawman's face, then another, yet again only grazing him. A flurry of punches and kicks followed, thrown with the force of a grown man but the wild desperation of a novice. The Strawman seemed to struggle, unable to find a way to dash out of the onslaught. Atlas threw a feint, hoping to outsmart what he suspected was a sentient opponent—and it worked. The Strawman moved left, just as Atlas had anticipated, and he grabbed hold of him.

His hand touched the Strawman, grasping at him as if trying to reel him in like a fish. But just as the sensation of victory began to take hold, a sudden thought flashed through his mind: "How did the Strawman let me get this close? He isn't even in a corner." The fleeting sense of triumph quickly evaporated, replaced by the gut-wrenching realization that he might be walking into a trap. A thousand thoughts flooded his mind, and only one solution came to him.

Rather than retreating into a potential attack, he spun to the side, but not before a sharp pain shot through his torso. He knew he had been hit, but there was no time to tend to the wound. Gritting his teeth, he dashed at the Strawman again.

"You managed to actually not die," the Strawman's voice echoed, but it didn't seem to come from him directly. The surprise in the voice was apparent. Sensing that the Strawman was caught off guard, Atlas seized the opportunity, fully grasping the prickly figure. He knew he finally had him.

In that moment, an unimaginable force threw him backward. It felt like the world itself had thrown Atlas. His breath was knocked out of him, and he slammed into the stone wall with alarming speed.

As he opened his eyes, dazed, he could see the Strawman raising his leg high into the air, like a man with no regard for tearing his muscles.

"He kicked me," Atlas thought. He tried to get up and move, but he simply could not.Atlas willed every fiber of his being to move his legs, but they were unresponsive, as if his spinal cord had been severed. The figure of the Strawman moved towards him, walking slowly. He stood right above Atlas, raising his arm to shoot. The Strawman looked cocky, and as the end neared, the last thing Atlas could think of was how satisfying it would be to strip that arrogance away.

Atlas closed his eyes and waited for death. Joining his family in the afterlife couldn't be that bad, right? After all, what were the odds that he would run into a monster with intelligence, speed, and deadly projectiles? He was destined to die here, and fate couldn't be changed.

At least, that's what anyone else would have thought—but not him. Atlas knew he wasn't predetermined to die. He knew that, no matter what, he had to do something. With nothing but his arms working, he had one last desperate idea: grab the Strawman's legs.

That cocky attitude of the Strawman left him with a false sense of security. 

He gathered all the strength and mentally prepared himself for what's to come. 

Atlas shoved himself forward with all his might, aiming only to bring the Strawman down.

But this wasn't a fairy tale where a beaten man could suddenly take down the great villain with sheer willpower and determination. This was reality. And reality was cruel. 

The Strawman simply dashed back, dodging all of Atlas's attempts to reach him. That arrogant and cocky look still plastered on his face and even a sense of pity.

With no hesitation or even sound. He raised his hand again, and a piece of straw shot out, aimed directly at Atlas's heart.