Chapter 7—Jimmy
"Only I kill him." The Nightmare's voice cracked high as he knitted his brows and screamed. He punched through the last water arrow and broke into a sprint toward the agent—he saw the attack aimed at Ryle. He wouldn't let it land.
The agent released it anyway.
Whoosh!
"Damn you." The Nightmare's flames erupted brighter, hotter—the temperature of the entire world spiked with his rage.
Crack!
The rock beneath the agent shattered. He dropped onto the burning liquid without flinching, purple aura holding steady around his feet.
Ryle felt something cut through the air behind him. 'An attack.' He veered left—the arrow turned with him. 'Too slow.' He pushed more dream energy into his legs and accelerated.
The arrow was inches from his back. He didn't look. Couldn't afford to.
He wrenched himself right, dumping everything he had into the jump.
Bang!
The arrow struck the rock where he'd been standing a moment ago. A crater opened in its place, and lava erupted.
He was panting hard now, the purple energy layer over his body already gone. The heat found him again immediately—he was back to leaping rock to rock, the burning liquid waiting on every side.
Behind him, the Nightmare buried a fist into the agent's gut. The agent flew back and hit the ground hard, coughing, the suit scorched clean off his stomach. Deep burn wounds marked the skin beneath. He winced, looked at the injury, then looked at Ryle.
His eyes widened. 'He reacted on instinct.'
"I just wanted to end this," the agent muttered, already forming arrows again—dozens, then more, until the sky was packed so tightly not a sliver of the purple moon showed through. All of them aimed at Ryle, who was slowing down. 'He's out of dream power. Exhausted. This ends it.'
The Nightmare flashed in front of the arrow formation.
He had to stop every single one. Even one of those getting through would be enough.
The agent swept his arm. The arrows surged forward.
"You don't." The Nightmare's flames shot upward, burning through arrow after arrow. He leapt into the swarm—fists and kicks, wiping them out in bursts.
Boom! Bang!
'All out.' The agent kept filling the sky, arrows replenishing faster than the Nightmare could destroy them.
"Can't protect this idiot at this rate," the Nightmare snarled, punching left, kicking low, barely keeping up.
The agent watched him work—watched the smoke fade, the Nightmare's movements sharpen. 'He's adapting... Not just the kid—even this beast is something else.'
Then the Nightmare stopped mid-swing and cursed at himself. "Wait—I'm an idiot."
He wiped out a handful of arrows, turned, and bolted straight for Ryle.
"Crap—" The agent broke into a run as well, flooding the air with even more arrows, but the Nightmare ran straight through the bulk of them—flames eating most, the rest punching through his back, arms, and legs in a spray of purple blood. He didn't flinch.
Then his expression shifted.
He stared at one arrow that had slipped past him—not fired from the agent's hand. While the water arrows had been shattering into droplets, a pool had quietly gathered in the Nightmare's blind spot and reformed into a single arrow. He hadn't sensed it at all.
'How did I miss that?'
Whoosh!
"No, you don't." The Nightmare hurled fireballs at it. The arrow bent left, then right, slipping between every shot—and the fireballs kept going, arcing toward Ryle.
The agent redirected arrows—some toward the Nightmare, others cutting down the fireballs aimed at Ryle.
Boom! Bang!
Most fireballs died. Most arrows aimed at the Nightmare died. The quiet arrow kept moving.
"What is that?" Ryle screamed, weaving around the surviving fireballs, sensing the arrow behind him—its energy signature completely different from the Nightmare's.
"Different power—keep moving," the agent said evenly, not blinking.
Ryle twisted left and right, ducking and leaping, working through the last few fireballs. Every dodge cost him. His energy reserves were gone, and the heat was eating into him, slowing his thoughts, blurring his edges. He didn't dare look back—that half-second could finish him.
'This lava,' he hissed internally, nearly grazing the liquid as he misjudged a landing. Tracking the rocks drained him.
The quiet arrow closed in behind him, right at the back of his head, as his pace dropped to a crawl.
Not a single fireball had touched it. Not a single one had touched Ryle.
'I can't dodge.' A chill ran from the base of his spine straight to the top of his skull, locking him in place. His legs were moving on sheer will alone, and his vision was already smearing at the edges. 'If I stop… I die.' His mind raced as the thought of death pressed closer.
He wanted to turn his head even slightly—the arrow was right there, a breath from his hair—but his body simply refused.
He moved like an old man. Each step felt heavier than the last. His legs weren't running anymore—they were dragging him forward.
The arrow brushed his hair.
Cold.
He felt it—right at the back of his neck.
Death, waiting.
The agent's eyes went wide.
"Jimmy," he whispered. His hand froze.
For just a moment, a blonde kid flickered over Ryle's shape.
The arrow stopped.
The agent stared at his own shaking hands. "... I can't." His voice was flat, almost quiet. "It's just a kid." He tried to push through it. The blonde kid kept appearing in Ryle's place, his mind throwing up the image every time he reached for the decision. "Can't even agree with myself," he said.
"Jimmy," he muttered. For a moment, Ryle wasn't Ryle.
A blonde kid stood there.
The agent's hand trembled.
Whoosh!
The Nightmare, blazing bright, flashed directly behind Ryle and wound back his fist—aimed straight at Ryle's spine. The arrow an inch away didn't matter to him.
"Die." He was grinning, wide and unhinged.
The agent exhaled slowly.
'This is it.'
No turning back.