A boy jolted upright, gasping for air as if he had been drowning. He tried to clutch his chest as he panted heavily but then noticed something cold around his wrist.

  He glanced down—chains. Then his feet—they were bound too.

  Wait… why does this feel familiar? He thought, straining to piece together fragments of memory. A kid… Terren… a man in the middle… something about survival… the enemy's base… the shoots… Terren’s death… and then—my own!

  Argh! He clutched his head, reliving the moment the bullet tore through him.

  The other captives watched, muttering. Some whispered that he might have already lost it.

  Then the driver hit the back of the seat. “Keep it down in there!”

  The captives shot Kloric warning glances, as if trying to tell him to stop before his screaming got them all killed.

  Terren tugged at him. “Kloric… what’s wrong?”

  But Kloric kept shouting, the pain so unbearable he even pounded at his head, hoping the new pain could somehow override the bullet shot—but nothing worked.

  His vision blurred, tears dripping from his eyes.

  After a while of unbearable agony, the pain finally began to soothe. Kloric clutched his head, breathing so heavily it seemed almost visible, then allowed himself to rest a little on his side.

  Terren rushed closer. “What’s wrong, Kloric? What happened? Are you okay?” Panic bled into his voice.

  Kloric braced a hand against the truck’s floor and pushed himself upright, wincing.

  “I’m fine… just—give me a second.”

  “But what’s wrong?” Terren pressed. “Were you hurt?” He reached toward him, checking his arms, his shoulders, as if expecting to find blood.

  Kloric caught his wrist and gently pushed it away. “Don’t worry.”

  Terren stared at him. “How can you say that? You were in pain for five whole minutes.”

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  Kloric didn’t answer. He just looked at him — eyes damp, distant — and forced a thin, wet smile before giving a small nod.

  Terren hesitated, then slowly withdrew his hand. “Okay… but if something’s wrong, you tell me. Got it?”

  Kloric rested his head on his knees, letting himself catch his breath.

  What the hell just happened? It was as if I had relived the entire day—and worst of all, at the end, I was going to die… or was it all a dream? I can’t seem to remember anything else about who I am, just like before.

  Wait a minute… The speaker hasn’t said anything. Maybe it was all a dream.

  He slowly raised his head, his eyes darting around, searching for the speaker.

  Kloric’s heart thumped as a familiar voice started.

  “Everyone, gather around! We can’t become slaves of the Kingdom of Therys Fal, right?”

  Isn’t that him… Kloric thought. It was exactly like his dream—or his past. If he did nothing, the day could end the same way as before. No. He had to act.

  A phrase crossed his mind: One bad apple spoils the rest.

  "One bad apple spoils the rest," Kloric muttered, the words tasting like copper and ash in his mouth.

  He forced himself to stand. The truck groaned under his shifting weight, and the sound of his chains clashing drew every eye in the cramped space. The air, already thick with the stench of fear, grew heavier.

  "What is he doing?" someone whispered.

  "He’s going to get us killed before we even arrive," another hissed, pulling their legs back to avoid his shackles.

  Kloric ignored them. His eyes were locked on the man in the center—the Speaker. In the last life, this man’s silver tongue had paved a road straight to a mass grave. Kloric took a step toward him, his mind firing off a dozen different scenarios like a strategist playing a losing game of chess.

  Scenario one, Kloric thought. I confront him. I tell him, ‘You want us to save our futures? Fine. Then you lead the charge. You be the first one out of that tarp.’ In his mind's eye, Kloric saw the Speaker’s pale face turn even whiter.

  He saw the man stumble, his bluff called. But then Kloric shook his head. No. If I humiliate him, the others will panic. They’ll think I’m a coward trying to stop their only chance at freedom. They’ll push me aside and run anyway.

  He gripped the side of the truck to steady himself as it hit a bump. His thoughts raced to a second option.

  Scenario two. When the truck stops and that tarp is yanked open, I don’t wait. I don’t hesitate. I walk out first. I don't run; I walk with my head high and my hands visible. If I can set the tone—if I can show the guards a soldier instead of a 'spineless bastard'—maybe the others will follow my lead.

  But his stomach twisted. He remembered the screams from the first time. Humans are unpredictable, he realized, his gaze darting to the terrified faces around him. All it takes is one person to bolt, and the 'bad apple' rule triggers. The guards won't care who started it. They'll just start shooting.

  He looked at the Speaker, who was just about to reach the climax of his speech.

  Kloric knew he didn't have much time. He had to do something that wouldn't just change the plan but change the outcome.

  Scenario Three, Kloric thought, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Reverse psychology.

  The speaker opened his mouth to shout the final call to action, but Kloric beat him to it. He didn't scream; he laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound that cut through the man’s inspiration like a blade.

  "You're right," Kloric said, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. "We should definitely run. In fact, we should make sure we all run in different directions. That way, the guards don't have to worry about rounding us up—they can just practice their target shooting."

  The Speaker blinked, his momentum stalled. "What? No, I’m saying we have a chance—"

  "A chance for what?" Kloric stepped into the sliver of light, leaning close to the man. "To be the fastest corpse in the desert? Think about it. If we run, we prove we’re exactly what they think we are: terrified animals. And what do soldiers do to animals that break out of the pen? They put them down."

  He turned to the rest of the captives, whose eyes were wide with a new kind of doubt.

  "The guards are bored," Kloric continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "They’ve been driving through the heat all day. They’re praying one of us tries to bolt. It gives them a reason to pull the trigger and go home early. If you run, you aren't escaping—you're giving them a gift."

  He looked back at the Speaker, whose confidence was visibly crumbling. "So go ahead. Be the first one out. Give them their target practice. I’ll stay here and watch how long you last before the first bullet hits the back of your head."

  The silence in the truck was now absolute.