No Rest

It had been a day and a half since Uriel was cast into this hellish realm. Time hadn't stopped—but it had lost all meaning. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford. Rest was suicide. Every moment since his arrival had been one long, merciless chase through a world that wanted him dead.

The sky above was a pit of black, clouded over and empty of stars. Below, the twisted forest loomed like a cage. Trees leaned too far, their trunks bent and knotted as though twisted in agony. The air hung thick and damp, laced with rot.

Behind him, it came.

That fucking thing.

The creature had been hunting him for hours. Maybe longer. Every time he thought he'd escaped it, he would hear it again—that awful sound. The snap of dislocated bones. The low, wet rasp of breath. The drag of limbs against the earth.

His body was breaking.

His legs burned, his chest heaved, and his heartbeat roared in his ears like war drums. He was starving. Splinters riddled his shoes. His muscles were knots of fire and ice. But he couldn't stop.

Not yet.

"Those idiots could've at least injured that fucking thing before they died," he spat between shallow breaths, stumbling through the underbrush.

Exhaustion clawed at the edges of his vision, threatening to take him under. But Uriel refused. He still had his mind. Even if his body was torn apart, his thoughts stayed sharp. That was his edge.

He wasn't like the others who died screaming.

He could think.

Up ahead, his eyes locked on a vine—thick, green, and hanging from a bent tree branch. A wild, desperate plan sparked to life.

Uriel changed course, sprinting toward it. Behind him, he heard the creature closing in—its rage practically vibrating through the ground. He didn't look back.

He leapt.

Snatched the vine.

Swung hard across a ravine thick with broken branches and thorns. His body slammed against the far side, pain shooting through his ribs as he hit the dirt and rolled. He barely had time to register the landing before forcing himself up again.

The creature howled behind him, slowed by the terrain, but not for long.

Uriel limped forward, teeth gritted. Every breath burned. His head spun. But he didn't stop. Not even when his knees buckled.

"Fucking change already," he growled to the sky. "I don't care where you send me—just shift. I can't take this shit anymore."

No answer came.

He ran another hour. Maybe more. His body was a battlefield of bruises and gashes. His shoes were soaked with blood. His stomach twisted from emptiness, nausea rising like bile.

It hit him suddenly.

He dropped to one knee, gagging. His mouth filled with vomit. But he clamped a hand over his lips and swallowed it back.

"I have to keep this food down," he muttered through his fingers. "I don't know when I'll eat again…"

A crack sounded.

Not from a branch.

A bone.

His eyes shot up.

It was too late.

The Stalker stood over him, towering in the dark. A warped, hulking monster—its limbs spidered out, fingers twitching, body wrapped in fog. The cracked porcelain mask on its face was twisted into a smile that had never moved.

It looked… furious.

Furious that its prey had dared to run. Dared to trick it.

Uriel turned to flee, but claws slammed into him, pinning him down.

Pain flared through his chest as the creature straddled him, one long, horrible finger lifting like a needle. Slowly—deliberately—it drove that finger into his flesh. Not deep. Not fatal.

Just enough to hurt.

Uriel clenched his jaw, refusing to scream.

It was toying with him. Drawing it out. Torturing him before the kill.

Anyone else would've cried or begged. But Uriel?

He smirked through the blood.

He understood now.

The more he pissed it off, the longer it stalled. The longer it stalled, the more time he had. All he needed was a little more.

He coughed, blood leaking from his mouth, and looked the monster dead in its hollow eyes.

"What's wrong?" he rasped. "Did I offend you? Poor little thing… got outsmarted by some half-starved human. Oh, it's okay. Maybe one day you'll be as smart as me."

Then—he spit.

Right in its face.

The loogie smacked the cracked mask and slid down.

The creature froze.

Then it screamed.

A silent, bone-rattling wail. The air turned cold. Trees shivered. The world seemed to recoil.

It stabbed into him again. And again.

Small cuts.

Paper-thin. Shallow. Precise.

It wasn't trying to kill him anymore.

It was punishing him.

Uriel writhed but bit down on his tongue to stop himself from screaming. Pain lanced through every nerve as it carved slow, cruel lines into his arms, his sides, his legs.

He wanted to scream.

To sob.

But he didn't.

He endured.

One hour passed.

Maybe two.

The monster didn't eat him.

It wanted to hear him break first.

But Uriel refused.

Finally, the Stalker grew bored. It leaned down slowly, teeth bared, breath hot with rot. It was done playing.

It was going to end him.

Then—light.

Sudden. Brilliant. Blinding.

A pulse of static tore through the forest like lightning ripping through stone.

[New realm selected.][Survive and run.]

Uriel's body vanished—pulled upward, sideways, nowhere.

And just like that—

He was gone.

Thrown into a new hell.

But still alive.

Still breathing.

Still him.