The Problem with Being Unstoppable

Dying was easy.

The first time had been terrifying. The second? Nerve-wracking. By the tenth, I barely hesitated. And now?

Now it was just a means to an end.

I had spent the last week testing every method I could think of. Falling, drowning, burning, suffocating—each death made me stronger, faster, sharper.

And the changes were becoming impossible to ignore.

My reflection barely looked like me anymore. My once-average frame had been sculpted into something stronger, leaner. My jawline had sharpened, my muscles had thickened, and my movements were… different. More controlled. More efficient.

And the power—God, the power.

The world felt slower. Every step I took felt lighter, every action smoother. My senses had sharpened too. I could hear the faintest sounds, see things in greater detail.

And that was after just a week.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my hands, flexing my fingers. I could feel the raw strength coursing through me, but a thought gnawed at the back of my mind.

How far could this go?

I had no idea what my limit was if there even was one. And the idea of pushing past whatever barrier existed?

It excited me.

I had already outgrown my old life. My job? Meaningless. My apartment? A cage. My past self? Weak.

I needed more.

I needed to test myself against something real.

So that night, I walked into the worst part of the city.

The streets stank of sweat, cheap liquor, and desperation. Dim streetlights flickered overhead, barely keeping the darkness at bay. Gang tags covered the walls, and shadows lingered in the alleys, watching, waiting.

I welcomed it.

I had spent a week killing myself—tonight, I wanted to see what I could do to someone else.

I didn't have to wait long.

"Yo."

A low, rough voice cut through the silence. I turned.

Three men stepped out of the alley. Their leader a thick-set guy with a scar running down his cheek grinned as he flipped open a switchblade. His two buddies chuckled behind him.

"Lost, pretty boy?" he sneered.

I smiled. "Not at all."

He blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Got some balls on you, huh?" He gestured with his knife. "Hand over your wallet and maybe we won't mess up that nice face of yours."

I tilted my head. I wasn't scared. I couldn't be scared. The worst thing they could do to me was kill me.

And I was counting on it.

I took a step forward. "How about this?" I said, my voice steady. "You try."

The scarred man frowned. "What?"

I took another step.

"Try and kill me."

The air grew tense. His goons exchanged glances.

"You got a death wish, asshole?"

I chuckled. "Something like that."

Scarface snarled. "You asked for it."

He lunged.

The knife flashed in the dim light straight for my stomach.

I didn't move.

SHNK.

The blade buried itself deep.

A familiar pain. A sharp, burning agony spreading through my gut. My breath hitched for a second. My body swayed.

But I didn't fall.

I grabbed his wrist before he could pull the knife out. His eyes widened. "Wha—"

I drove my fist into his face.

His nose snapped. Blood sprayed. He crumpled with a strangled scream, his body going limp as he hit the pavement.

His two friends froze.

I yanked the knife out of my stomach, barely feeling the pain anymore. The wound was already closing.

"You should run," I said calmly.

They bolted.

Scarface groaned, clutching his shattered nose, rolling onto his side. He looked up at me with terror.

"W-what the fuck are you…?"

I crouched beside him, twirling his knife in my fingers. "I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I'm starting to find out."

His breathing hitched. "P-please, man "

I drove the knife into my own throat.

His scream was the last thing I heard before 

Darkness.

I woke up.

My breath came out in short gasps. My hand flew to my neck. No wound. No blood. Just a lingering, phantom pain.

And then 

[You have died. Strength +1.]

I let out a slow exhale.

I was definitely stronger.

But more than that 

I felt alive.

I grinned.

This was only the beginning.

And the world?

It had no idea what was coming.

---

Dying was supposed to be terrifying.

For normal people, it was the end. The last page in the book. The one thing no one could escape.

But for me?

It was just another stat boost.

Another step towards something greater.

I had stopped feeling fear a long time ago. But what I didn't realize—what I hadn't considered—was that there might be side effects.

And I was about to find out in the worst way possible.

It started with the sounds.

At first, I thought I was imagining it.

I would be sitting in my apartment, staring at my reflection, testing my strength—when suddenly, I'd hear something. A whisper. A breath. A heartbeat.

Only, it wasn't mine.

It was too fast. Too erratic.

And it was coming from inside me.

I told myself it was nothing. Just my mind adjusting to the changes. After all, I had spent the past two weeks dying repeatedly. It made sense that my body—my brain—would need time to catch up.

Right?

Then the visions started.

The first time it happened, I had just stepped out of my apartment. It was a normal night. The city hummed with life, the streets buzzing with neon lights and distant conversations.

Then I blinked.

And suddenly, I wasn't on the street anymore.

I was somewhere else.

The world around me had shifted. The buildings were still there, but they were crumbling. The neon lights? Flickering, dying. The people? Gone.

The air smelled like smoke and blood.

And in the distance, something moved.

A shadow. Tall. Watching me.

I blinked again.

And just like that I was back.

The street was normal. The people were there. The lights were glowing just as they always had.

But my hands were shaking.

Something was wrong with me.