The Shackled Gunman

Chapter One

.

The Outlaw

A man woke with a start, tangled in a bed that smelled of death, the sheets ragged as if clawed apart in some long-forgotten struggle. Sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes. The room around him was no safer than the bed, plaster peeled from the walls, wallpaper torn in strips and a window reduced to a singular jagged piece of glass. He did not know why his chest heaved with panic, only that it did. His legs carried him toward the ruined doorway. His mind had not even caught up yet . He wanted to escape, but escape from what. He could not remember no matter how hard he tried. A shine in the corner of his vision stopped him. A cracked mirror, leaning against the wall. The man within stared back with hollow eyes, unfamiliar as any stranger on the street. He froze, heart skipping a beat, the man looking back at him, can’t be him. He searched that face for recognition, for a memory, for something that might tether him to himself, but he could remember nothing, but a void within his mind and soul. He pressed trembling fingers to his brow, searching his thoughts for a name, even the smallest scrap of self-worth or some sort of connection to this world. Nothing came. Only silence. His breath quickened. Then his gaze dropped, to the badge pinned to his shirt. A single word stitched in block letters.

Hugo.

     Relief hit as if he quenched his thirst under the unrelenting sun of the desert. A name. His name. Small as it was, it meant he was not entirely lost. He stumbled outside, trying to catch his own feet, into the blinding light. The world that greeted him was barren, a town hollow and soulless. A saloon with doors swinging in the wind. A gun shop with windows dark and hollow. A stable that smelled of dust and manure. Four or five buildings, no more, standing like last bastions against a dead horizon, it is was as if the people of this town just disappeared. A town born of old Western tales, left to crumble in the heat. The thought chilled him. Western. How did he know the word? Where had he learned it? He should not know it, he was certain of that, though he could not say why. Pain tore through his skull before he could ask another question. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his head, his jaw clenched so hard blood began to pour. The world spun and blurred, then darkness. A voice, deep and amused pierced his ears.
     "Why are you dressed like that, hijo?" a tall and slender old man asked, his face just out of view. 
     "I want to be a cowboy, Abuelo. Like Clint Eastwood." A child’s voice answered, eager.
     "When we reach America, you will be, hijo. I promise." The old man replied. 

     The vision dissolved in a rush of nausea. Hugo’s eyes snapped open. He thrashed in the dirt, body wracked with dry sobs. He had learned something of himself, grandfather, child, a promise of America. However, the knowledge only knotted his confusion tighter. He knew of America dn the westerns but why could he not even recall his own Mother. Hugo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked again at the empty town. He felt more lost than ever. 

Hugo stood up on unsteady legs and forced himself deeper into the town. The saloon stood tall, its doors hanging crooked, swaying with a gust of wind. Inside, the ruin was no better than the house he’d awoken in. The floorboards creaked under his steps. The bar itself seemed to have been touched by the bright kiss of fire, the walls painted black with char. On the far wall hung three picture frames, empty all but one, their glass cracked or missing. Beneath them, there were small golden plates that gleamed and seemed untouched by ruin, as if the decay dared not touch them. Their brightness unnerved him. He leaned closer, the first plate read, “Matt Anderson.”

The name seemed to remind him of something, but when he tried to grasp what it was it disappeared. He knew it was futile. The other plates bore no names at all, only blank faces where letters should have been. Hugo turned from them with a bitter taste in his mouth. He started for the staircase, but then he could hear a jingle. The rhythm of spurs and boots against dust created a twisted melody. Hugo froze for a moment, he thought little of it, until understanding struck like a knife in his gut. Spurs meant someone was coming. The sound grew closer with a steady pace, it was as if this person was looking for something. Hugo’s heart sank, his first thought was not to introduce himself but to hide. Instinct drove him behind the bar. He crouched down, putting a hand across his mouth to quiet the rasp of his own breath. The saloon doors swung open with a groan.

The footsteps entered, each one pounding in Hugo’s ears until he could hear nothing else. Boards creaked and the dust shifted. The figure stopped just above the counter and Hugo dared not move. A chair scraped then the man sat on the stool. Then a voice broke the silence, low and rasping as if each word having meaning and experience behind it. 

“Follow me outside outlaw. You will pay for your crimes.” The man declared with a heavy rasp in his voice

Hugo’s blood went cold. Crimes? What crimes? The thought viciously thrashed in his skull. He forced himself to stand with his heart still pounding. The man was already moving viciously towards the door, never once turning back. Sunlight framed him in the entryway, hat wide-brimmed, boots dusty, a revolver strapped to his side. The attire of a sheriff, as if from the very bones of the Old West.

“I just woke up here, you got me confused with someone else.” Hugo said with a hint of fear in his voice 

The sheriff did not reply, only turned around slowly, with his hand hovering over the gun at his hip. Hugo’s eyes darted to his face. He recognized the sheriff: it was the same man from the nameplate. Matt Anderson. But older and more grizzled. Confusion consumed Hugo. Then, from nowhere, blue light sparkled beside Hugo. Particles appeared out of the thin air, a revolver materialized in his hand, its weight was solid and its grip familiar though he had no memories of using one. He started to believe he’d gone mad. Matt’s lips pulled back into a smile that was too wide. His teeth were yellow and jagged with his mouth stretching almost ear to ear. It was like a grotesque mask of cheer.

“Why are you doing this?” Matt’s voice cracked and trembled with something between rage and fear. “I am your biggest supporter, please… stop.” A tear traced down the sheriff’s disgusting face.

Hugo’s hand grasped loosely around the revolver. He dropped it, as though the metal burned him. The weapon made a crater in the sand that it dropped in.

“Listen, hermano,” Hugo stammered. “There’s been a misun-”

The word died as Matt raised his gun and fired. The shot slammed into Hugo’s chest. Pain spread like wildfire. He stumbled and collapsed onto the hard dirt outside, vision breaking apart into shards of sky and sun. Blood gathered in his mouth. He reached feebly toward the figure standing over him, choking on words that would not come. The sun’s glare blinded him until the sheriff stepped forward, blocking it out. That face leaned closer, no longer smiling, the mouth twisted into a tight, sick frown. Teeth hidden, eyes hollow. The revolver hovered above Hugo’s brow. Hugo tried to form a thought or even a plea but only one came. Is this it? He had no memory of joy, no memory of sorrow, no life to hold in his mind. Nothing. At least I’ll die with no regrets, he told himself as the hammer fell. The gun roared, and the world went black.

Chapter Two

.

Regression

Just as Hugo took his last breath, a light erupted, bright enough to shock his senses. His mind raced, his chest heaved, and then he was awake again, though he wished he weren’t. He was drowning in thick black ooze, its texture sticky and alive, as if it meant to hold him there forever. He looked around and there was nothing but a black void. No sky and no visible shapes, only the endless tar swallowing him whole. Suddenly a rectangle of light bloomed overhead and on it an image or vision began to play. A room of blinding white and silver, polished metal machines humming softly. A man and a woman stood there, both wearing pale coats. A voice pierced Hugo’s ear.

“Why hasn’t he woken yet, Doctor?” The woman spoke, she was tall and slender, curls of black hair spilling around a face so pale it looked ivory. 

“This is still new tech. we don’t fully understand it. Don’t worry, it will reboot soon.” The man beside her answered leaning closer, so close his face nearly filled the view. His eyes met Hugo’s as though he could see him through the glass.

The word reboot struck Hugo like a mallet, though he could not say why. He examined the room beyond the screen; the sterile whiteness and the gleam of silver tubing reminded him of a place like a hospital, though colder, more corrupt. The male doctor pressed a needle into the arm of whoever this viewpoint belonged to. Hugo flinched at the sight.

“I’ve put in a new IV,” the man stated, though his voice was tight with disgust. “Hugo should be fine now.” Hugo’s blood ran cold. Hugo. His name. The man had said his name. But the body on that bed, was it him? 

  “Sir, please don’t speak to him so casually, I feel as though you are taking some sort of enjoyment from this.” The woman sneered, her words edged like glass.

The image blurred, the sound grew muffled, as if fog were rising inside the screen itself. Still, Hugo caught fragments.

“Barbara, I know how you feel…but we should see this as an opportunity to study someone who is such an oddity, a rarity even, and we can do so freely thanks to Mr. Jones and his deep pockets. If you don’t enjoy your work you won’t give it your all. Even if he is the Cor-”

The picture shattered into static and died. It was dark and silent once more. Hugo’s mind turned inward, gnawed by questions. Who was he? Why were they watching him, studying him like an animal in a cage? If he had seen their faces, why could they not see him? Why could they not hear his pleas? Nothing made sense. Suddenly, the blue shimmer came again. The same particles that had conjured a revolver into his hand now swirled together, shaping themselves into a glowing rectangle. Letters appeared across it. 

“You died.” Hugo blinked. No, impossible, it must be a fever dream. But the words did not fade. Instead, they shifted and rearranged right in front of him.

“Quest: Survive. One out of three attempts used.” stated the system, cold and emotionless.

He felt uneasy, beginning to wonder if this was even real? Three lives that were like tokens in some video game? If he lost them all, would he really die without even knowing what was happening to him? The thought steeled him. He would not waste his chances. Whatever this was, he would see it through. However, the void was not finished with him. The black ooze swirled, boiling like water set in a pot. From the depth’s hands made from that black ooze emerged, they were slick but as strong as steel. They gripped his ankles and legs first and then gradually moved up his body. Dragging him down and enveloping his body bit by bit. He began to hyperventilate as his limbs struggled until the tar swallowed him whole. The last thing Hugo felt was the oppressive weight of the tar, pressing him down and crushing not only his body but also mind. Once more he was gone. 

Hugo woke with a scream stuck in his throat, his chest hammering as though it would break free of his ribs. His breath came shallow, every exhale felt as if it was scraping at his lungs. For a minute he thought himself dead again, buried in that black sludge. He knew this place, it was the house. The same tattered ruin where he had first opened his eyes. The same rotting bed, the same torn wallpaper, the same window like a jagged glass. However, in the corner of the room there was nothing, a void, no light dared touch it. It looked like the sludge from the strange dream but it cannot be that, can it? He decided not to test it yet out of fear. He lay still for a moment, sweat dripping from his forehead, unable to believe it. Had it all been a dream? The sheriff, the duel, the bullet in his chest, the light, the void? His body swore it was true, he still felt the ache, the memory of pain burning in his ribs, but his mind couldn’t help but doubt. Perhaps this was still part of the dream. Perhaps it was all a dream. Hugo stopped himself, not wanting to jump to conclusions. With effort, Hugo pushed himself to his feet. The floor moaned beneath him as if protesting his return. He stayed at the weathered doorway for a moment, beyond stretched the desolate town, lifeless and unchanged from yesterday, or what he thought was yesterday. Every building in its place, silent as tombstones. Almost everything was the same.

Hugo whispered words of courage under his breath. Whether this was a game, a test, or a nightmare, he would play it through. One foot after the other, he crossed into the street and determined himself to learn the truth. The buildings offered no comfort, but they might offer answers. He decided on the saloon again, as he had unfinished business. He moved slower this time, his eyes searching every corner, for any small detail. Yet his gaze was pulled again to the far wall, where the frames and their nameplates hung like depressing relics. The first frame, Matt Anderson, the sheriff who had shot him, but the picture had changed. No longer clear, but cracked and torn, as though the image had been left to rot for decades. Hugo’s heart beat against his ribs. He knew what this meant. He shifted his gaze right, and there it was, a new face, where yesterday there had been nothing. Wesley Gibson. The name shone bright on the plate below. His face was long, but young and full of life. In stark contrast to Matt who was old and grizzled.

viciously.

The pattern was clear. Yesterday, Matt had come. Today, Wesley would come. One by one, the frames would fill, and one by one they would step out of the wall to hunt him. Three in all, three lives, three deaths. Hugo lingered in the silence, staring at Wesley’s smiling face as the saloon groaned around him. The air was still, too still, as if the town itself were holding its breath. He knew what was coming, this time, he would be ready.

The saloon’s staircase stood before him, a charred husk of wood. Hugo stared at it for a while, dread eating at his stomach, yet something deeper stirred within him, a pull, an urge he could not name. The steps called to him. He set his foot upon the first step. His chest tightened, breath seizing in his lungs. The second step brought a wave of dizziness that blurred his vision and forced his hand to the rail. Still he climbed. He did not know why, only that to turn back would be to yield, and he could not yield.

Each step grew harder than the last, as if invisible chains held him down. His muscles ached and his vision blurred but his mind remained resolute. By the final step he was on all fours, crawling like a beaten dog, clinging to the wood as though it might smite him at any moment. If I stop here, he thought, I will never know. I will never learn the truth. With a final, desperate lunge, he dragged himself to the top. His knees broke beneath him. He gagged, blood spattering the floorboards. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Hugo began to think maybe his body is being limited by this place. He breathed deep and steadied himself. He saw two corridors that stretched out as if deciding his destiny. The left hall matched the ruin of the saloon. Walls destroyed and scorched, floorboards covered with soot. At the end stood a single door, scarred and filthy. It reeked of ash and despair, as though some great fire had swallowed all within.

The right hall was its opposite. Clean. Untouched. Not a speck of dust clung to its gleaming white walls. The floor shone, flawless and smooth. At the far end waited a door the colour of white, as if untouched by the elements. It was standing tall and proud, unmarred by time or flame. Hugo’s feet moved toward the ruined wooden door first, driven by instinct, but then it struck him. A presence. He froze, every muscle in his body locking tight. It was behind him, no, around him, an aura, cold and silent, like a viper drawing back its fangs before the strike. Slowly, against every instinct screaming at him not to, he turned his head. The white door. It gleamed at the end of its pristine hall, not merely standing but waiting. He felt it then, this was no simple door. This was what had dragged him up the broken steps, what had weighed upon his chest. The white door called to him. Hugo, trembling and bloodied, could not tell whether it promised salvation or doom.

Hugo came to the white door at last. It loomed at the end of its pristine hall, gleaming like polished bone, yet the sight of it made his stomach clench with fear. His breath quickened, and sweat traced cold lines down his brow. Etched into the door, carved as though by the point of a knife, was a single name.

Robert.

The letters sent a chill down Hugo’s spine. Hugo reached for the handle. The moment his fingers brushed the cold metal, a surge of pain ripped through him. His legs gave out and his vision split in two. He fell, clutching at his skull, gasping as though the very air were poisoned. This was not like before. He was not living it, he was watching it, submerged in the same black sludge, like a prisoner behind the glass. The vision began. A man stood before a mirror, pale hair slicked neatly back, eyes as blue as ice, his skin white. He adjusted his tie with steady hands, every motion precise and practiced. His reflection did not smile. It did not frown. It regarded itself with a sense of perfect emptiness. The man left the bathroom. Hugo’s heart jumped as he looked upon a figure waiting in the other room, himself.

There he was, Hugo, seated on a couch, a woman grabbing his arm out of nervousness. Hugo, smiling warmly. The sight hollowed him. If these were not his eyes, if this was not his memory, whose was it? 

“Mr. Ortiz. I understand you may have… reservations. But it was the only way to secure your treatment.” Hugo’s stomach turned at the sound of his own answer, so sure, so grateful. Said the pale haired man, his voice measured and calculated. 

“Thank you, Councilman. We came to you out of desperation. We never believed anyone could cure Cerebroport Degeneration Syndrome.” Hugo smiled in the memory, squeezing the woman’s hand.

The man allowed himself the ghost of a smile. He held up a small device, a black sliver of metal, unremarkable but heavy with promise.  “Insert this into the port in your neck on the third of October. On that day, the system will activate. My top people designed it. You’ll be healed.” Both men rose to their feet. 

“Mr. Jones… I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” Hugo’s voice was earnest, filled with trust. 

“Call me Robert. ‘Mr. Jones’ is for the political debates.” Mr. Jones’ smile widened, but it never reached his eyes. They both laughed. The sound turned Hugo’s stomach. The vision flickered. 

Darkness swallowed the scene and spat out another. The same man, but now he had a sense of purpose about him, his tie undone, his pale hands slick with blood. He held a knife, red dripping from its edge and the smell of iron in the air. His laughter was no longer polite, no longer political. It was raw, guttural, joyous. At his feet laid a man grabbing at a wound that sprayed red across the floor. The dying man coughed, his gasps for air choking through blood. The knife twitched in Mr. Jones’s grip, eager. His pale smile split wider, calm but unsettling, his laugh echoing throughout the vision.

The vision cut to black. Hugo gasped in the void. He was shaking, his mind burning with the image of Robert Jones’s pale face, the knife, the laughter. Hugo was terrified but not simply of the action but of the questions that rose. Why did his own voice sound so trusting? Why had he called that monster a savoir?

Hugo woke up with his back against the white door, his breath was frantic. The handle was cold beneath his palm, but when he tried it, the door seemed locked. He dragged himself to the other end of the hall. There, waiting for him in the gloom, was its twin in wood and ash. A golden plate gleamed above the handle, polished, untouched by the ruin that scarred the rest of the saloon. The name etched upon it actually provided some relief. 

Hugo.

His name, as neat as a headstone. He reached for the handle, bracing for the pain like before, but there was nothing, no jolt and no visions. It was just a normal door. The door opened onto emptiness, It was a barren room. There was no furniture, just nothing. It was like the void. As if the world itself had forgotten him. Maybe it’s because I’ve forgotten myself, Hugo thought, the emptiness in his chest mirroring the room. The thought was broken by sound. Wood groaned below. The faint swing of the saloon’s doors.

Someone had entered. This must be Wesley, Hugo thought. Hugo’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His breath came sharp and shallow, panic clawing at his throat. How could he survive another trial? He needed to, he couldn’t let the void claim him again, not yet, not when he was starting to figure out the truth. Talking had failed before. He needed another way. He snatched a glass from the empty shelf and threw it out of the upstairs window. The shatter rang out, sharp as gunfire, the shards scattering like ice across the dust. Hugo pressed himself to the ground trying to listen. The man that was below hurried outside. Hugo raced down the stairs and caught sight of the figure through the cracked glass of the saloon window. He was tall, his frame stretched thin and his limbs like twisted branches. He was draped in black leather, an outlaws garb, dust trailing behind his boots. 

The revolver rematerialized in Hugo’s hand, heavy as ever. He didn’t think. He burst through the swinging doors, raised his arm, and fired twice, hitting Wesley in his upper and lower back. Wesley staggered, twisting like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Then he crumpled into the dirt with a dull thud. Relief broke over Hugo like rain. His knees nearly gave out. For the first time since he’d awoken in this place, he felt the sharp taste of victory. He had survived. He had beaten the game. Perhaps now he could escape this nightmare, tear free from the loop that bound him. Suddenly, Hugo felt the cold. The chill of iron pressed against the back of his skull

“The day will come when you choke on your own blood.” A raw and raspy voice warned him

Hugo tried to speak but was interrupted by the guns roar. The bullet tore through him and he felt sick. He shall once again feel the cold embrace of death. His consciousness slipped, falling fast into black. Yet this time, Hugo almost welcomed it. The void was cruel, but in its darkness, he could see. If death was the only doorway to answers, then so be it. As the light faded, Hugo thought only this, let me put the pieces together. Just one more time.

Chapter Three

.

Alive or Dead

Hugo clawed his way out of the black sludge again, struggling to breathe like a man who had drowned. The void stuck to his skin, before retreating back into nothingness. His mind began to question. How? Wesley had fallen. He had watched the man’s body collapse in the dust. Yet the barrel had still found the back of his skull and the bullet still ripped him apart. The system’s pale blue letters shimmered before him, unbiased and unchanging.

“Attacking the victims is not permitted. A trauma must be experienced.” stated the system, unwavering. 

“Trauma?” Hugo asked, his voice cracked. “What does that mean?” Hugo asked inquisitively. 

The void answered. He was seated once more in that bright room that he had met Mr. Jones in. A woman was there, her hand felt warm in his own. Her eyes were heavy with sorrow, her lips trembled as she spoke.

“Take it, Hugo. You have to live,” she whispered, though it sounded more like a plea than a command.

His chest burned with love, with fear. “Maria, if anything happens, just know I’ll always love you.”

His hand rose of its own accord, clutching the black sliver Jones had given him, the USB. His thumb steady as he pressed it to the port at his neck. A spark bit into his flesh, and then pain like nothing he had ever known swallowed him whole.

Something entered him. Cold and ominous. It slithered into the corners of his mind, wrapping itself around his thoughts and forcing him into a losing battle. He fought, screamed inside his skull, but the tide came anyway, flooding him with memories that were not his own. Then there was silence. When his eyes opened, the world was painted red. His fists were torn, meat clinging to bone, every knuckle split open, as if they were punching a concrete wall. Maria lay before him, broken, her face unrecognizable, her body still. The sound that ripped from Hugo’s throat was inhuman, screams of pure horror and grief.

“No, no, no.” His cries broke apart into screams, each one cutting deeper than any blade.

The door burst open. Uniformed men filled the room, guns raised, shouts ringing. Hugo raised his head to meet them, his face streaked with tears and blood, but before he could speak, before he could beg them to believe, darkness cut him down again. The void embraced him, and Hugo knew. He remembered Maria. Hugo remembered her smile, laughter and optimism, she was the light in a very dark and oppressive life. She had been his anchor in his illness, and yet he had killed her. 

No, Jones had. Jones had crawled into his skull, stolen his hands, and used them as tools. But to the world, to the town, to history, it was Hugo who had broken her. The screen above him flickered to life. Two figures hovered over his prone body. He knew them now, the male doctor and the female doctor, Barbara, that had been conducting whatever this was upon him. Barbara, intelligent and cruel, her arms folded tight.

“Why isn’t he remembering anything yet, Shawn? This is his second death. He was meant to remember everything after the first,” Barbara said, her tone filled with frustration.

  “I ran an MRI. There’s unusual activity in the hippocampus, amygdala, and prefrontal cortex. The hippocampus is worst affected. His memory is fragmented due to this, but to this degree? It’s unprecedented.” Shawn  said flipping through his clipboard.

“Fragmentation like this, isn’t it usually only seen in Dissociative Identity Disorder patients?” Barbara asked as her eyes narrowed. 

“Usually, yes,” Shawn admitted, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “But he has no such history. His only diagnosis was Cerebroport Degeneration Syndrome, two years ago. Unless…” His lips curled in distaste. “He used a dodgy plug-in. By God, it’s the year twenty eighty-six. You’d think people would have a firewall by now.” Shawn exclaimed angrily. 

Hugo’s heart sank. The suspicions that ate at him since his last vision hardened into truth. Whatever Jones had given him, it had split him open, carved him into pieces. It had made him a killer.

“It’s poetic, isn’t it?” she said. “A killer like him trapped in a playpen of his own making.” Barbaras words filled the void. 

Shawn remained silent but Barbara pressed on, her mouth turning into something that might have been a smile if not for the venom in it.

“The town didn’t give him that name for nothing. He deserves this.” she uttered with a hint of laughter.

Hugo’s fists clenched, useless in the blackness. His name. His curse. He understood now why the picture frames had hung so empty, why the town itself seemed built for his torment. The game was not meant to save him. It was meant to grind him down, and Robert Jones was somewhere out there, smiling. The screen faded to black and Hugo began getting pulled down by the black hands again.

  Suddenly he heard a voice pierce his mind. “Come to the white room and all will be revealed.” the voice declared in almost giddy like tone. 

Chapter Four

.

Psychosis

Hugo woke with a gasp, he instantly smelt the smell of rot from this house. He did not stay this time. The walls seemed to close in, the splintered window watching him. He bolted with his bare feet pounding against the boards. Just then he was grabbed, the black ooze had expanded and covered the whole floor of his shack. Hugo managed to break free and burst into the dusty street. The saloon stood at the far end like gallows waiting for its victim. He sprinted toward it, shouldering through the doors, ignoring the groan of their hinges, and charged up the stairs two at a time.

The white door waited at the end of the pristine hall. His hand gripped the handle, bracing for pain but none came. He opened the door and stepped inside, the world shifted. Gone were the warped beams, the cracked glass, the stink of smoke and old whiskey. This room was dark, humming with light that was not fire, filled with machines that pulsed and blinked like watchful eyes. Screens glowed cold against the gloom. It was no saloon chamber, no relic of the Old West. This was something else entirely. A voice cut through the silence, sharp as a knife.

“Welcome, Cordova Beast.” a voice announced, Hugo recognised that tone. It was the same one that told him to come to the white room. 

Hugo turned, heart pounding. A man stood in the center of the room, tall and pale-haired, wearing not a grimy and dust riddled attire fit for an outlaw, but a pristine tailored suit. Robert Jones.

Hugo lunged, rage filling his entire being. His hands grasped only air. He fell hard, palms striking the cold floor. Robert shimmered, his body breaking apart into blue particles, the telltale glow of the system. 

“Did you honestly believe that would work?” Robert questioned, a face of pure arrogance.

“Why are you here? Or how are you here?” Hugo shouted as he forced himself up, his veins burning with hate.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding. While I am Robert Jones, the man who manipulated you, who framed you… I am also you.” Robert’s smile became wider.

“That doesn’t even make sense, you maniac.” Hugo stated as he let out a sarcastic laugh. 

“It will,” Robert said softly, almost kindly. “Sit. Watch. It is better if I show you.” He pointed to the chair at the other end of the room.

A chair waited, right in front of a great monitor that dominated the wall. Its screen glowed faintly, like a beast breathing in the dark. Hugo’s mouth dried with anticipation, he stepped toward it. If he could not strike this ghost down, perhaps he could at least uncover its truth. The screen flared to life.

“I have my memories here,” Robert said, his tone playful. “But let’s skip to the entertaining parts.”

The first image formed. A younger man stood in a bright room, dressed in a policeman’s uniform. He knew that face, though younger and cleaner. Matt Anderson. The officer clasped hands with Robert Jones, the two men leaning close as if they were working together.

“You know I back your campaign,” Matt said, his voice urgent. “But if you keep up that hobby of yours, it’ll all collapse. The tabloids are calling it the Cordova Beast.”

Robert chuckled, brushing a speck from his sleeve. “Matt, I know. I have it covered. There’s an immigrant family, it will be easy to blame them. With the world as it is, who will question it?”

Matt’s jaw tightened. He tore his hand back. “I can’t keep covering for you. If you fuck this up, I won’t let you drag me down. Sort it, Robert. Or else.”

He turned sharply, leaving the room. The screen turned to black. When the image returned, Jones was outside a house, the night as dark as ever. He raised a hand and knocked, polite as was his politics. The door opened. Matt Anderson stood there, surprise flashing across his face.

“What are you doing here, at this ho-”

The word ended in a gasp. The gunshot was loud. Matt staggered, clutching his chest, the uniform darkening with blood. He fell hard, the boards rattling beneath him. He crawled, dragging himself backward, leaving a trail of blood. Robert followed, each step calm. He stood above Matt, cutting off the lightbulbs light, his pale eyes gleaming.

“This was never a hobby, Matt,” Robert whispered, before raising the gun again.

“Why are you doing this?” Matt’s voice cracked, trembling with something between rage and grief. “I am your biggest supporter. Please… stop.” A tear traced down the Policeman’s ruined face.

A loud boom can be heard as the screen went black.

Hugo sat frozen, his face pale. Rage and horror, all tangled into a knot inside him. He stared at Robert, who stood smirking, his form still wavering with blue light. In Hugo’s chest, a sickening truth began to bloom, Mr. Jones was no phantom. He was inside him, part of him, the hand that had guided his ruin. Just as he was about to confront Robert, Robert inserted another USB into the computer. 

The room smelled of medicine with rows of machines humming and lights blinked. Mr. Jones stood beneath them all, he was as perfect as ever, hair combed, suit clean and an expression of pleasant cruelty painted across his face. He seemed almost too clean for the room. The monitor flickered alive again, a tall man approached, wrapped in a long trench coat that swallowed him. He moved with the awkwardness of a scientist. When he drew close he set something small and black on the table with a reverent hand.

“Your USB is ready, sir,” the tall man said. His voice upbeat and bright, not matching the gloomy lab.

“Thank you, Wesley.” Jones did not hurry to take it. He let the device sit there as if it was a bomb, as if it would go off at any moment

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you need a copy of your consciousness for? A backup? Or maybe some sort of insurance policy?” Wesley inquired, curiosity getting the best of him,

“Something like that.” He tapped a knuckle against the metallic desk. “I met a desperate young fellow. He needed my help and I felt it, that urge again” Jones’ voice was patient, like someone explaining maths to a child

“Urge? What urge?” Wesley asked with panicking rattling in his voice and his eyes widening. . 

“To break him,” Jones said. He spoke the words so casually, as if he were talking to an old friend. “To destroy everything that makes him who he is. The traditional means have become so boring and vulgar. I have wealth, influence, men who will do whatever I require. Why not use them to unmake a man utterly? Why not craft his ruin like a work of art?”

  “Sir,” he said, trying on civility like a mask, “this is a joke right? A man of your stature” Wesley turned and began walking towards the panic button, as a safety precaution.

“It is not a joke,” Jones cut in softly. His voice was the sort that landed like a blade.  “It is entirely within my means.”

Wesley swallowed. The hand that had set the USB down drifted toward a red panic button inset in the console. He glanced at it as if it might betray him; then he turned back to Jones, the faint tremor in his voice betraying him more than any words. “You shouldn’t speak like that, say it to the wrong person and you’ll die choking on your own blood.” Wesley exclaimed.

Jones’ smile widened, as though Wesley had handed him a joke. “The reason I tell you,” he murmured, “is simple. You will not be alive to tell anyone else.”

The tall man’s fingers hovered above the panic button and then withdrew, as though he too understood that some machines could not be unmade. Jones reached for the USB with a practiced, gentle motion, as if caressing a promise and the lab seemed to inhale as one. Outside the glass, the city went on. The chill of iron pressed hard against the back of his skull. His breath hitched, the world narrowing to the ring of steel on flesh.

The screen guttered out, swallowing its last flicker of light. Hugo sat stiff before the digital phantom of Robert Jones, hatred burning like a coal inside his chest.

“What did he do to me?” Hugo asked as tears welled up in his eyes. 

Robert’s eyes gleamed, pale and merciless, the kind of eyes that made a man feel already judged. “He put me inside you. So you would wear the face of the Cordova Beast and carry the blame for his sins. Every murder, every whisper in the dark, every drop of blood, yours to bear, and then he cast you into this little dream of his, this prison made of sand and dust. The doctors study you like a psychopath, when the real psychopath is funding their research.”

“Why?” Hugo rasped, though the answer coiled in his gut like a viper.

Robert’s smile was cruel and amused. “Because he wanted to break you. To make you into a new him. Not just accused of the Cordova Beast, but to become it. His reflection, perfected.” The words struck Hugo harder than any bullet.

“Why are you telling me this? What do you stand to gain?” Hugo’s breath came ragged

Robert flexed his hand and the air around it rippled, blue particles swirling into the shape of a revolver, ghostly and bright. He weighed it casually, like a farmer hefting a stone. “Because it will be more amusing this way. And because if you die, I die. Our fates are chained now, like hanged men swinging from the same rope. This will give you a chance.”

“Kill the next one, and you live. Whether you can do it or not… that is the true game. Now run along, the outlaw waits.” He extended the weapon, eyes glittering.

Hugo took the revolver, his hand trembling. For the first time, he no longer cared who placed it there. Rage and grief had become one thing inside him, a fire that burned too hot for questions. He stormed from the room, down the stairs, the boards groaning beneath his boots. At the saloon wall, he expected the familiar frame and nameplate. But the space was blank, the wood bare. No name and no face. It did not matter. Whoever was outside, he would kill. He had to.

He pushed into the dusty street. The sun blazed in a blood-red sky. Across from him, a figure stood in the outlaw’s garb, black hat, crimson scarf, boots sharp on the dirt. The revolver was already heavy in Hugo’s hand, his finger trembling on the trigger. The figure reached up, tugged down the scarf. Hugo couldn’t believe his own eyes. It was Maria. Her eyes were as he remembered, warm brown once, now burning with sorrow and rage. Hugo staggered, fell to his knees. The revolver slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. “Maria…” His voice broke. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. You would still be here if it weren’t for me. If you want to end me, do it. Please. I deserve it.” His forehead pressed into the dust. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Maria said nothing. She only stared, hatred cutting deeper than any blade. At last, she pulled the scarf back up, turned, and walked into the burning horizon. The blue particles shimmered before his eyes. Text carved itself in the void:

“Quest cleared. You survived.” The system stated. Tears burned his face. Hugo reached toward the fading silhouette of Maria, his hand outstretched, then the world spun away into darkness.

He woke, strapped to the bed. The restraints cut into his wrists. Cold light pressed against his face. The room was the one from his visions, sterile white with silver instruments humming faintly. The smell of copper filled the room. He turned his head and saw it, the pool of blood spreading across the floor, two bodies crumpled within it. The doctors, their eyes stared at nothing. Hugo’s chest tightened. Slowly, he turned to the left. Mr. Jones was there, seated like he had won a game of cards. His suit was immaculate. His smile, as always, infuriating.

“Welcome back,” he said lightly. Hugo’s rage burst. He tried to lunge at him, but the straps held.

  “ Easy, tiger. No need for that. I’m already a dead man.” Jones remarked as he wagged a finger.

  “What do you mean?” Hugo’s voice cracked and was rife with rage.

Jones leaned back, utterly at ease. “What’s the sport in failing to break even a pest like you? I’ve confessed to everything. The police are on their way. I only wanted to see the man who beat me one last time.”

Something inside Hugo snapped. He tore at the straps until leather ripped, until his hands were free. He sprang, his fingers locking around Jones’ throat. He squeezed tighter with every ragged breath. Jones’ face purpled, veins swelling. And still he laughed.

With his last air, he whispered, “I win.”

The smirk did not leave his face even as his neck broke with a sickening crack. He slumped like a broken doll. Hugo stumbled back, gasping, his eyes hollow, his hands sticky with the life he had taken. He had killed, not being manipulated, not in dreams, not in games, in flesh. The truth sat in his chest like a stone, he was the beast now, whatever name they gave him.

The door burst open. Police flooded the room, weapons raised, faces grim. But when they saw the scene, they did not chain him. They questioned. They took notes. They nodded. And in the end, they let him walk free. Self-defense, they called it. Hugo knew better. The words “I win” echoed still, clinging like a curse. It gnawed at him as if it was trying to break free. When he thought about it, he felt it. The urge.