A violent crash jolted Luna's entire body. The awful screech of twisting metal merged with the piercing shriek of tires skidding against asphalt
The kind of silence that made her feel like the world had stopped breathing.
A sharp pain stabbed through her chest, and the air was thick with the suffocating smell of something burning.
Slowly, with her head spinning and her vision swimming in and out of focus, Luna forced her eyes open.
She coughed, choking on air filled with smoke and the metallic scent of blood.
The driver… he wasn't moving. His blood stained the seat beneath him, vivid and horrifying. A wave of paralyzing panic swept over her.
She couldn't tell if he was breathing. She didn't want to check. She couldn't handle the answer.
What should she do? She didn't know. Her mind was completely blank, frozen in shock and fear.
Her trembling hand reached for the door handle. Her fingers felt numb, weak. After several tries, the car door finally creaked open with a painful groan.
Luna stepped out slowly. Her legs felt like jelly as they touched the shattered asphalt covered in broken glass.
Every breath felt like inhaling fire. Her ribs protested with every movement.
Just as she managed to steady herself, the sound of an engine in the distance caught her attention.
Two headlights approached rapidly. Luna squinted, confused. Who was that? An ambulance? The police?
Two dark cars skidded to a stop not far from the wreck. From each vehicle, three tall, broad men stepped out with threatening expressions.
Gangsters. Her instincts screamed at her.
They walked briskly toward the crashed car.
No hesitation. No confusion. Like they'd been waiting for this moment.
The fear Luna had tried to bury suddenly returned, sharper and more urgent than before. They saw the accident. Were they the ones who caused it?
Her heart pounded wildly. She felt vulnerable. Alone.
One of them, the largest with a tattoo on his neck, smirked in her direction. "Hey. Is this our target?"
They moved closer to the open door. Two of them reached for Luna through the window. "Come with us, sweetheart," one of them mocked, his hand reaching for her arm.
Instinct kicked in. Luna jerked away, her mind racing. Instinct screamed louder than logic. Her hand dove into her school bag on the backseat.
Her fingers wrapped tightly around a small folding knife she always kept with her—a gift from her mother. In the side pocket, she also found a small bottle of chili spray, something C had given her.
Her body was still shaking, her thoughts scattered, but her survival instinct kicked in.
The two gangsters had already grabbed her arm, their grip cold and rough.
Her brain screamed in panic, but her body moved on its own. She twisted, pulling her arm free and spinning away from them.
Her hand dove into her bag and gripped the knife—not to use yet, just to hold something solid.
"Don't touch me!" Luna shouted. Her voice sounded braver than she felt.
She held her bag against her chest, staggering but managing to keep her distance.
Her sharp blue eyes darted between the gangsters. They looked a bit surprised by her reaction.
"Well, well," one of them chuckled. "She's got claws."
Another stepped forward. "Don't play around, little girl."
Luna didn't answer. She circled the wrecked car, keeping it between her and them.
Her steps were unsteady. Her right leg throbbed. She was still hurt from the crash, but she couldn't stop now.
There was no way she could fight off six grown men, especially like this. But she had to buy time.
For what, she wasn't sure. Maybe someone would come. Maybe she'd find a way to escape.
"What do you want from me?!" she yelled, trying to keep her voice steady.
Her left hand reached into her bag, grabbing the pepper spray without letting them see.
The gangsters laughed—short, mocking laughs that made her blood boil. "That's none of your business. Just come quietly."
"Don't come closer!" Luna warned. Her hand shook as she raised the spray in front of her.
Luna's legs nearly buckled beneath her, but the image of someone from her dream flashed in her mind—calm, faceless, fearless. I can't fall here.
She pressed the trigger.
A blast of bright orange liquid sprayed straight into the face of the nearest gangster.
He shrieked in pain, clutching his eyes. "Damn it!" he howled, stumbling backward.
The others froze, stunned by the sudden counterattack.
"You little—!"
Another gangster charged at her.
Luna didn't stop. She sprayed again, aiming at anyone who tried to get close.
They were more cautious now, ducking or shielding their faces. The burning mist filled the air, stinging her own throat and eyes too—but she kept spraying.
"Grab her!" the tattooed man barked, his face red with fury. They rushed forward more aggressively now.
Luna dodged, slipping past their hands, keeping the wrecked car between her and them.
She finally pulled out the folding knife, the blade glinting under the dim evening light.
Her hand trembled, but her eyes were sharp. She wasn't going down without a fight.
Her courage was thinning. The fear was clawing its way back up her throat.
Then—through the chaos, a familiar voice rang out loud and clear.
"LUNA!"
That voice… Even without a face, she knew it.
A figure was sprinting toward her from the direction of the school gates. Tall, with messy brown hair fluttering in the wind—but his face…
Blank. No features.
"C!" she cried out.
The gangsters froze, confused by the sudden appearance of the faceless boy.
"Who the hell is that?"
----
The air grew even heavier. The gangsters, shocked at first, now turned back to their goal—Luna, and now the strange boy blocking their path.
C stood between her and them. His body was slim but steady, radiating a strange kind of calm.
He didn't speak. His fists hung loose at his sides, but he looked ready.
His face revealed nothing—but somehow, his presence said everything.
Six.
Calm down, C. The world will no longer destine you to lose
A cold jolt struck C's chest. He didn't show it, but he felt it.
In the previous loop, there were only three gangsters. Now, there were six.
This wasn't just a replay. This was a variation. An anomaly in the script.
"Who are you, kid?" one gangster shouted. "Get outta our way!"
They sneered. To them, C was just a dumb teenager.
He looked like a teenager. But his movements… were too calm. Too calculated. Like a soldier from a thousand battles
They couldn't see the centuries of experience buried behind that blank face.
C didn't answer. He stepped slightly to the side, raising one hand in a loose, taunting motion—inviting them to attack.
He needed data. A new formation meant a new plan. He needed them to move first.
Three of the gangsters charged.
One threw a punch straight at C's head, another tried to sweep his legs, and the last swung wide from the side.
C responded with perfect precision.
He leaned just enough to let the punch graze past his ear.
Then jumped back, raising his foot in time to block the sweep.
As the third attacker moved in, C dropped low and spun, avoiding the blow completely.
He didn't strike back—yet. He was still analyzing.
Gangster One: fast, predictable. Gangster Two: strong, but poor balance. Gangster Three: agile, but relies on surprise.
He also tracked the other three in the back, watching their movements, looking for patterns.
This was a deadly dance he'd repeated thousands of times, but now with new variables.
"He's just dodging!" one gangster mocked. "Grab him already!"
They moved faster, trying to corner him.
Blows came from every side. C stayed moving, weaving through the attacks.
But slowly, the smug looks on the gangsters' faces faded.
He wasn't just some lucky kid. He was something else.
C began shifting his strategy.
He started using their own weight and momentum against them—twisting arms, redirecting punches.
When one gangster lunged, C turned him into a human shield.
When a fist came flying, he caught the wrist, bent it back sharply, and shoved the guy into another attacker.
"You little—!" the tattooed gangster roared, finally realizing they were being played.
C flowed like water—always slipping through, always finding the weak points.
He ducked under arms, leapt past legs, and always landed in positions that gave him the upper hand.
He kicked one gangster's knee, making him collapse.
He elbowed another in the jaw, sending him stumbling into his friend.
The gangsters started to panic.
But even with his skills, C was beginning to feel pressure. Six enemies were too many.
A few hits landed—on his shoulder, his leg. Pain flared.
He needed something to turn the tide.
As he was pushed toward the wrecked car, Luna saw her chance.
Her hands trembled, but she didn't hesitate. She knew what he needed—because she felt it.
With a deep breath, she threw her knife toward him.
C, sensed it coming.
Nice one, Luna.
He reached out and caught the knife mid-air, already unfolded.
Now armed, everything shifted.
C no longer just defended—he attacked.
He moved like lightning, slicing, striking, always aiming to disable, not kill.
A quick stab to the thigh dropped one gangster screaming.
A slash across an arm disarmed another.
Blood splattered across the cracked pavement. Screams of pain echoed under the darkening sky.
The gangsters stumbled back, afraid now. The blade changed everything.
But behind the chaos, one of them—the sneakiest—slipped behind C.
A small knife gleamed in his hand.
He raised it, ready to stab C in the back.
C didn't see him.