The ghost crashed to the asphalt-like ground with a muffled thud. But it recovered instantly. It lashed out with its other foot, aiming straight for Hill's head with lethal intent and malice.
Hill barely managed to dodge, feeling the chilling breeze as it whipped. Without even thinking, he threw himself over onto the fallen ghost.
Pure survival drove him – no strategy, just instinct. His body ached for rest, but he clung to the ghost's ankle, his grip iron-tight. He had to press his advantage now. As the creature writhed and twisted beneath his weight, Hill adjusted his position so that he was straddling its chest, using his weight to pin it down fully.
The ghost felt solid but unnaturally cold beneath him. It was like sitting on a massive ice block. Its bony fingers were clawing at his arms, leaving stinging bloody trails but Hill pushed through the pain.
He cocked his fist back and aimed for that ghastly face, with a grunt of exertion, he slammed it down with everything he could muster.
The impact shot up his whole arm to the shoulder, his knuckles exploding in painful sensations as they connected with the ghost's jawbone. An inhuman shriek pierced the air as the ghost's head snapped towards the side. Hill didn't let up.
He rained down blow after blow, his fists blurring with newfound speed and willpower. Each punch sent cold jolts of uncomfortable pain up his arms, but he kept going. The ghost thrashed and clawed, desperately trying to reach for his eyes, for his throat – for anything vital.
But Hill twisted and dodged, never breaking his rhythm.
The ghost's once-solid face started breaking apart under the barrage. Its nose caved in; teeth splintered into jagged fragments filling its mouth.
With a cracked yell, Hill put his entire body behind one final punch. His fist crashed through the center of the ghost's face with a loud and horrible crack. The creature's head collapsed inward, eye sockets sinking, jaw hanging loose in apparent shock.
Before Hill could pull his hand free, the ghost's fingers shot up and locked around his throat. Those skeletal hands were somehow clamping down with crushing force despite its command center being devastated. His air supply was instantly cut off.
A wave of bitter cold radiated from the ghost's grip. The chill burned worse than fire, spreading across his skin.
Small crystals of ice began to appear on his neck, growing larger and expanding outward from the ghost's fingertips. The pain was excruciating. It was like his skin was being burnt with ice instead of fire.
As the freezing crept toward his skull, Hill began to see strange visions – glimpses of a life not yet lived.
He saw his sister, supposedly dead, wasting away in some filthy alley with a needle in her arm. Her once-bright eyes now vacant, her body wasted to nothing, slumped against garbage bags in tattered clothes.
Then his father appeared, standing in their kitchen, pill bottle trembling in his hand. Tears streaked his face, his eyes swollen and red. The man stared at the pills, his whole body shaking with grief.
Next came his mother, withered and fragile in a hospital bed. Machines surrounded her, their constant beeps the only proof of lingering life. Doctors and nurses hovered nearby, but her closed eyes and ashen face told the real story – she was losing her fight.
The final vision showed Hill himself – hair long and unkempt, face stubbled, crimson colored eyes that were reduced to hollow pits in his gaunt face. This future version sat perched on a bridge's edge, staring down at dark waters below. His ragged coat couldn't hide how his hands trembled on the railing.
This man had nothing left – no hope, no joy, no future. Just an empty shell where a person once lived.
Is this really what's waiting for me? Hill thought. Is this how it all ends?
I don't want to die like that. I won't become that person. Not now, not ever!
Rage and determination surged through him like a fire on dry grass. This ghost wouldn't take his life – not when he still had reasons to live and a chance to change his path. If he survives this trial, and defeats this manifestation, he would be able to finally obtain the power he needs to turn his life around.
Despite the feeling of impending death, he began to view this as a golden opportunity, a make-it-or-break-it moment.
With a muffled roar, he grabbed the ghost's neck, mirroring its own hold on him. He squeezed harder and harder with each passing second. He was not going down without a fight.
The ghost bucked and thrashed beneath him, but Hill continued to hold on tight, his grip tightening like a python's coil.
He couldn't explain this sudden strength. Maybe adrenaline, maybe desperation, maybe pure rage. Whatever fueled him, he knew he couldn't stop.
His mouth split open as a furious roar ripped out from the depths of his throat. He squeezed harder still. The ghost's neck began to give under his grip.
The cold kept spreading through him, but Hill barely noticed anymore. All he felt was the fire of his determination.
With one final effort, he clenched with all his might. A sickening crunch followed and the ghost's neck snapped like a twig. Its skeletal head flopped to the side as its body went limp, its grip on his throat finally loosened.
Its fingers fell away, leaving blackened skin that was coated in a thick layer of ice.
The damage was simply too much and Hill's efforts seemed to be too little too late. The ice had reached his skull, freezing his head and neck solid, potentially effecting his brain. Darkness began to spread rapidly through his head as his thoughts slowed and jumbled.
He was dying. He had failed himself at the worst possible moment.
As consciousness slipped away, he heard the thousand voices screaming again. But this time, they were all calling out his name.