Chapter Nine: The Watcher in His Sleep

"It doesn't take a blade to kill a man.Sometimes, all it takes… is showing him the end over and overuntil he forgets where life begins."

The first time Blaze died, it felt like a dream.

The second time, it felt like memory.

The third?It felt normal.

The dreams began a week after the mark appeared.

He didn't tell me at first. I noticed it in his eyes — how he flinched at loud sounds, how he stared at his hands like they'd failed him somehow.

At first, I thought he was just tired. Pushed too far in training. But then came the blood on his pillow. The blank stares. The murmuring in his sleep.

And one night, I walked into the gym office and found him curled on the bench, muttering under his breath.

Over and over:

"Don't blink. Don't blink. It's always closer when I blink."

He finally confessed at dawn.

We sat in silence on the mats. Blaze was still in his tank top, wraps loosened and stained with sweat.

"I think I'm dying," he whispered.

"You're not."

"Then how come I've watched myself bleed out seven times this week?"

My stomach turned to stone.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't look at me. Just stared at the spot on the wall where the shadow used to hang.

"I dream… but it's not a dream. I remember it. I feel it. I die. Every time. Some nights it's a bullet. Sometimes a knife. Last night, I got my head slammed into the canvas until everything went black."

"Who did it?"

Blaze finally looked at me.

"You did."

I wanted to deny it.

To tell him it was just his brain playing tricks, trauma bubbling up from the pressure, the fights, the weight of becoming someone.

But we both knew that wasn't the truth.

"He's there every time," Blaze said.

"The Witness."

He nodded.

"He never moves. Just watches. But he's always closer than before. At first, he stood outside the ring. Now… he's in the cage. Sitting in the corner."

"Does he talk?"

"No," Blaze said. "But sometimes, he raises his hand. Like he's giving a signal. Like… he's instructing."

"Instructing what?"

"I don't know," Blaze whispered. "But when he does, the dream changes. I die faster."

The next night, I stayed awake in the gym office while Blaze slept on the bench again.

3:17 a.m.

He screamed.

Not loud. Just one choked gasp, like someone yanked the breath out of his lungs.

He sat up, gasping.

Eyes wide. Pupils dilated.

His lip was split.

But it hadn't been before.

"It happened again," he rasped. "But this time… I fought back."

I checked his face — a new bruise forming under his cheekbone. Impossible. He hadn't moved all night.

"He was closer. I could feel him. Watching me. I think… he wants me to learn."

"Learn what?"

"To lose. To die. Right. Over and over until I know how to survive."

"Blaze—"

"He's training me," he snapped. "Every night. Every death. He's cutting away the parts that hesitate."

He looked at me with a strange, haunted pride.

"And I think… I'm getting better at it."

The next few days blurred.

Blaze barely slept. When he did, he woke up sweating, bleeding, trembling.

But he never stopped training. If anything, he pushed harder. Like he was trying to match whatever his dream-self was becoming.

He talked less.

Smiled never.

And sometimes, I caught him standing still in front of the mirror, eyes darting like he was watching something just behind his reflection.

On the fifth night, I tried something.

I stayed by his side after he fell asleep. Watched the tension rise in his shoulders. His jaw clenched. His breath shallow.

He whispered something.

Over and over.

"Tell me which one's real."

At 4:01 a.m., his body jerked.

His hands shot out like he was defending against a strike.

His eyes flew open.

And then—

He punched me.

Full force.

Instinct. Not intention.

I reeled back, blood from my nose smearing across my arm.

He blinked rapidly, coming back.

"Coach?! Shit—I thought—""Who did you see?"

His lip trembled.

"You."

He started crying. First time in years.

Not sobbing. Just tears falling silently, like his body was mourning something his mind couldn't understand.

"I don't know which version of you is real anymore."

I called Dutch the next morning.

"Blaze is unraveling."

"Then the loop's taken root," he said grimly. "The dreams are part of it."

"Why the deaths?"

"It's pressure. The Witness forces you to evolve or shatter. That's why you kept getting faster. Stronger. Better. It uses death as a teacher."

"He's not ready."

"No one ever is."

"Can we stop it?"

Dutch paused.

Then said something I wasn't ready for.

"It's not just about him anymore. If Blaze dies in a loop… the Witness might move on again. Choose someone else. It wants survivors. Not saints."

That night, I tried to keep Blaze awake.

Didn't work.

By midnight, he was out. Curled in the ring like it was his only safe place.

I watched him twitch. Whisper. Strain.

Then go still.

His breathing changed.

And the lights in the gym dimmed.

Not turned off.

Dimmed.

Like something was drawing power.

I turned slowly.

And saw Him.

The Witness.

Not in the corner.

Not by the wall.

Standing inside the ring.

Looking down at Blaze.

I stepped forward.

The air grew heavy. My legs didn't want to move. Like the world itself was saying stay out of this.

But I entered the ring.

Walked toward the black shape.

It didn't turn to me.

Didn't react.

Just watched Blaze sleep.

"What are you doing to him?" I asked.

No reply.

"He's not ready."

Still nothing.

"Take it back. Give it to me again. Let me—"

And then it moved.

A single finger.

Pressed to where Blaze's forehead met the mat.

Like a priest giving last rites.

Blaze gasped.

Eyes opened.

And he screamed.

The sound cut through the air like it could slice bone.

I caught him before he fell.

He clutched his chest.

"I saw it," he choked.

"Saw what?"

"The end."

"Of what?"

He looked up.

At me.

Then past me.

To the space where the Witness had vanished.

"Everything."