Fight or Die

Waylon's body shook violently, adrenaline pumping through his veins, yet his feet remained frozen to the ground. The creature's multifaceted eyes glinted ominously in the dim tunnel, reflecting what little bioluminescent glow existed. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to move, yet fear held him firmly in place.

His heartbeat thundered wildly in his ears, drowning out every other sound. The insectoid tilted its grotesque head slightly, mandibles clicking softly in curiosity or anticipation—Waylon couldn't be sure which. His breath came short and ragged, panic tightening his chest with suffocating intensity.

[Move…move now!] His mind shrieked, breaking through the paralysis just as the creature shifted its weight forward. In a sudden, desperate burst of motion, Waylon threw himself backward, stumbling as he tried to turn and flee. The wet tunnel floor caused him to slip, nearly losing balance as he struggled to run.

Behind him, a piercing screech echoed through the narrow corridor, followed by the rapid clicking of clawed feet on stone. Waylon sprinted blindly, gasping as terror threatened to overwhelm his reason. He could hear the insectoid rapidly closing the gap, each step a death sentence drawing nearer.

His vision blurred with panic, legs pumping desperately despite his muscles screaming with exhaustion. A clawed appendage lashed out, grazing his shoulder with searing pain. He stumbled forward, nearly crashing face-first into the cavern wall.

Instinctively, Waylon turned sharply, dodging another furious swipe by mere inches. His breathing grew frantic, each gasp tearing painfully at his lungs. The creature hissed angrily, mandibles opening wide, exposing its grotesque, slime-covered jaws.

Waylon darted sideways, scrambling through the dark tunnel, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The corridor ahead narrowed sharply, offering a brief, desperate chance. He lunged toward the tight gap, hoping it might slow the creature down enough for him to escape.

The insectoid slammed into the narrowing space, its body briefly wedged. Waylon seized the opportunity, spinning on his heel and striking blindly at the creature's outstretched limb. His fist collided uselessly against hard chitin, pain shooting through his knuckles.

[Too weak…!] Panic surged anew as the creature wrenched itself free, lunging violently forward with a shrill cry. Clawed limbs swung wildly, forcing Waylon into another desperate dodge, his back scraping painfully against jagged stone.

His hand brushed something solid—a loose rock embedded in the wall. Without thought, he grabbed it and swung it wildly at the advancing monster. The stone struck hard against its carapace, sending vibrations painfully up his arm, yet barely staggering the creature.

The insectoid shrieked furiously, snapping mandibles dripping with viscous saliva as it pressed forward. Waylon retreated further, heart pounding so fast he feared it might burst. He raised the stone defensively, sweat and blood mixing on his trembling hand.

The creature lunged, and in his panic, Waylon hurled the rock directly at its face. By sheer luck, the stone struck one of its eyes, eliciting a deafening screech. The creature recoiled briefly, shaking its head violently.

In that precious second, Waylon scrambled backward, eyes frantically scanning for another weapon—anything at all. His foot struck something hard and metal—a discarded, broken femur sharpened by decay. With no other choice, he snatched it up, gripping it tightly in trembling fingers.

The insectoid recovered quickly, charging forward with murderous intent. Waylon, filled with primal desperation, swung the makeshift weapon in a wide arc. Its jagged tip connected, slicing a shallow gash across the creature's chest, spraying hot fluid over his face and arms.

It screeched again, louder this time, enraged and pain-fueled. Waylon swung once more, driven by instinctive survival, narrowly missing as the creature dodged back. Each breath burned like fire in his chest, muscles screaming in agony as he strained against exhaustion.

The insectoid's limbs lashed out viciously, forcing Waylon into constant retreat, each step backwards threatening to send him stumbling. One clawed appendage caught his side, tearing open flesh with searing pain. He cried out, stumbling but forcing himself upright through sheer determination.

Blood flowed freely down his side, warm and sticky against his battered skin. Yet despite the agony, Waylon gritted his teeth and refused to surrender. [I won't die here…I can't!]

The insectoid lunged forward again, mandibles snapping inches from Waylon's throat. He twisted aside, barely evading death, and swung his crude weapon upward in desperate retaliation. It sliced deeply into a softer patch beneath the creature's armor, embedding itself in flesh.

The creature convulsed violently, screaming in agony as Waylon pushed the weapon deeper with every ounce of remaining strength. Hot blood gushed from the wound, covering his hands and chest, burning slightly against his already battered skin.

Waylon refused to relent, pressing his advantage as the creature weakened, driving the femur deeper still. His vision blurred with tears and exhaustion, yet sheer desperation lent him the strength he needed. The insectoid stumbled backwards, collapsing heavily to the ground with a sickening crash.

Panting heavily, Waylon fell to his knees beside the creature, hands still clutching the bloodied weapon. His entire body shook violently, adrenaline ebbing rapidly, replaced by overwhelming fatigue and pain. The tunnel echoed with the dying creature's final, ragged breaths.

For several long moments, Waylon knelt motionless, chest heaving with exertion. Blood—his own mixed with the creature's—slicked his body, a grim testament to the brutal struggle. Finally, he raised his head slowly, staring numbly at the defeated monster lying broken and still before him.

He felt no triumph, only weary disbelief that he had somehow survived. His mind, still hazy from the fight, struggled to comprehend the reality of what he'd done. He'd killed another living being—not from anger, but pure survival instinct.

The scent of blood and decay hung thickly in the air, nauseating and oppressive. Waylon staggered to his feet, body trembling from the effort. Every muscle screamed in protest, yet adrenaline still surged faintly beneath exhaustion, urging him onward.

He forced himself to look at the insectoid's lifeless form once more, burning the gruesome image into memory. [Never again…] He vowed silently, though he knew deep inside that violence would likely follow him every step of this nightmare journey.

With a shaking breath, Waylon turned from the corpse, staggering toward the dim tunnel beyond. His wounds throbbed with pain, blood trailing behind him with every labored step. Yet he continued forward, driven by sheer stubbornness to survive.

The darkness ahead was absolute, but Waylon knew he had no choice but to confront whatever waited there. Each encounter hardened him, stripping away naïveté, replacing it with grim resolve. This world offered no mercy, no second chances—only endless struggle.

He moved slowly now, one hand pressed against the bleeding wound at his side, teeth clenched against waves of pain. Every movement felt like torture, yet stopping meant certain death. [I have to keep moving…no matter how bad it hurts.]

His eyes narrowed in determination, searching the oppressive darkness ahead. His heart still thundered, haunted by the knowledge that danger lurked everywhere. Yet he refused to yield to despair; he'd survived once again, proving he could fight—even kill—to protect himself.