Andy West was currently playing Knights of the Old Republic again on his Xbox One. The title screen music rolled through the room, a tune he could have hummed in his sleep. He would probably beat it again and then put on another Star Wars movie — his latest kick. Over the years, his interests had gone through different phases. He'd had his Lord of the Rings stretch, cycling through all three extended cuts in a single weekend without blinking. There had been the Marvel run, hammering through every MCU film in release order. Anime had its turns too — a Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood binge here, a One Piece marathon there. Right now, though, Star Wars had the top spot. He had beaten every game and watched every movie over and over because, at this point, that was what his life allowed.
The "accident" during an MMA match had left him paralyzed from the waist down — a fucking joke, and one that still sparked anger every time it crossed his mind.
His once-brown hair had grown long and unkempt, hanging in loose strands that brushed against his shoulders. He still showered every day, but beyond that, personal upkeep wasn't a priority. Sweats and a sweater had become his uniform — easy to put on, easy to live in. The muscles that used to pack his limbs had withered away, leaving them thin and light. The injury had brought nerve damage, maybe even brain damage, to his arms, making movement clumsy and slow. Without gaming to keep his hands active, he doubted they'd work at all.
The glow from the TV washed over him in shades of blue, shadows stretching across the walls of the room. The quiet hum of the console was steady, broken only by the measured taps of his fingers on the controller. His eyes stayed on the screen, but his thoughts had already begun to drift, sliding back into memories of the past.
God, Andy's desire to get to the MMA had driven him to be good — even as a kid. Back then, the cage wasn't just a sport to him; it was a way out. He'd sit cross-legged on the worn carpet of their tiny apartment, watching grainy fight clips on a beat-up old laptop, memorizing every movement like other kids memorized baseball stats. While his brothers were out running the block, he was in the park shadowboxing until the streetlights came on.
He became a freak about it all. Push-ups in the hallway until the floor creaked, pull-ups on the rusted doorframe until the metal groaned, sprints up the cracked concrete stairs until his legs burned. Mornings were roadwork in the cold, evenings were rounds on the heavy bag until his hands swelled. The apartment walls knew the rhythm of his training as well as he did — thud, thud, thud, over and over.
By the time he hit high school, Andy wasn't just looking to train — he was hunting for every ounce of experience he could get. That's when he joined the wrestling team. He didn't care about letterman jackets or school trophies; this was just another weapon to add to his arsenal. His size made him a natural heavyweight, but it was the grind of wrestling — the constant battles for position, the war of balance and leverage — that sharpened him. It taught him how to break an opponent's will without throwing a single punch, how to stay heavy on top until someone's spirit cracked.
But for Andy, it wasn't just about the skills. His real desire was simple and burned down to the bone — he wanted to fight the best fucking fighters in the world. That was it. He didn't care where they came from, what their record was, or what belts they had hanging on their wall. He wanted the toughest, meanest, most dangerous men alive standing across from him under the lights. And he believed — no, he knew — that he could be the best. That belief wasn't a slogan or some motivational quote taped to a gym wall. It was something he carried in his chest like a loaded weapon.
Andy studied fighters like other kids studied superheroes — slow-motion replays of Fedor's crushing ground-and-pound, Daniel Cormier's dirty boxing, and Brock Lesnar's explosive double-legs. His Russian and Norwegian blood had gifted him the frame for it: a wide back, thick neck, boulder shoulders, and legs like steel pillars. Heavyweight wasn't just where he fit — it was where he ruled.
He learned to throw leather like a hammer and clinch like a vise. Wrestling became his foundation, pressure his weapon, and once he got on top, it was like trying to lift a car off your chest.
And he'd been born in the right era. Dana White had turned MMA into something huge — lights, cameras, big checks — and Andy understood what that meant. There was money in it now, real money, enough to get his family out of the building with the flickering hallway light and the smell of mildew in the stairwell. But the money was secondary. The glory of beating the best — that was the real prize.
He kept his anger where it belonged — in the cage, on the mats, in the gym. Outside of it, he carried himself like a man already destined for the big stage. Heavyweight gold was the goal, but beating the best fighters alive? That was the reason he'd fight until there was nothing left.
At 20, Andy was a prodigy and a rising star. He wasn't just good — he was a nightmare for anyone in the heavyweight division. A knockout king with hands that landed like cinder blocks, a takedown specialist who could plant you on the mat before you knew you were off balance, and the kind of fight IQ that made every move look calculated. Heavy hands, iron chin, wrestling pedigree — all of it rolled into one dangerous package. The fans called him The Beast of the Ring, and it stuck because no one could deny it.
His early fights against unproven prospects were over before the commentary team even finished their introductions. None lasted more than a minute. Andy didn't just win; he dominated — walking his opponents down, cutting off the cage, unloading until they crumpled. These weren't competitive bouts — they were statements. He left without a scratch while his opponents left with glassy eyes and the medics in tow.
That dominance earned him a spot in a big-name gym, a veteran trainer who had already coached multiple champions, and a manager who could put him in the right fights at the right time. The goal was clear: get him to the top, get him gold. The UFC Heavyweight Championship wasn't a dream anymore — it was a target, one fight at a time.
By 23, Andy was ranked in the heavyweight division's top ten. All that stood between him and a marquee win was a veteran who'd never worn the belt but had a reputation for ending hype trains — Marcus "Iron Jaw" Donnelly. A journeyman in the truest sense, Donnelly's chin was the stuff of legend, and his fight IQ was even sharper.
When the cage door shut, Andy dominated. From the opening bell, he pressed forward, forcing Donnelly to fight off his back foot. Every jab Andy threw landed stiff, every combination ended with a thudding hook to the body or head. In the clinch, he muscled Donnelly wherever he wanted him, ripping shots inside and grinding him against the fence. On the mat, his top control was suffocating, his weight breaking Donnelly down inch by inch.
For round after round, Andy controlled the pace, the position, and the damage. The crowd roared with every heavy connection, feeding the momentum as he imposed his will from start to finish.
Then it was the biggest scandal of the century — well contested, debated endlessly on sports talk shows, forums, and fight podcasts.
It happened in an instant. The bell rang. Andy let go, hands dropping as he took a step back. The round was over. But his opponent — whether out of bad timing, frustration, or pure malice — threw a punch they had no business throwing. It came from the blind side, fast and tight, and caught Andy clean on the temple.
The temple is one of the most vulnerable points on the human skull. The bone there is thin, almost fragile compared to the rest of the cranium, and just beneath it runs the middle meningeal artery. A solid, unexpected strike to that spot can cause the brain to rattle violently against the inside of the skull, creating a concussion instantly. If the blow's hard enough, it can fracture the bone or tear the artery, leading to internal bleeding — an epidural hematoma. Even without a fracture, the sudden shock to the area can disrupt the brain's electrical signals, causing dizziness, disorientation, or loss of consciousness.
For Andy, his guard was down, muscles relaxed, focus already shifting to the stool in his corner. That meant he didn't brace for impact — no neck tension, no reaction, no defense. The shot landed flush, whipping his head to the side, the force traveling through the thin bone into the brain. In the space of a heartbeat, the fight wasn't about winning anymore — it was about whether he'd even stay standing.
There were lawsuits and insurance money. Andy had already made a decent amount before that night — fight purses, bonuses, and a killing in advertisements. Sponsors loved The Beast of the Ring, and he'd been cashing big checks long before his name appeared in legal filings. After the punch, the settlements and insurance payouts took it to another level. It was enough to set him, and his family, for life.
The fighter who threw it claimed he didn't hear the bell, but Andy remembered the smile as he went down — something the camera hadn't caught. He'd seen that same smile once before, during a break in the trial when the lawyers had stepped away. Just a brief moment, the look in the man's eyes saying, I know what I did. That was all Andy needed to know the truth.
Not long after, the other fighter announced his retirement. He walked away before they could ban him, slipped out of reach, and that was the end of it. Nothing came of it, because by then, Andy was already in a fucking wheelchair.
The doctors didn't sugarcoat it. The punch hadn't just knocked him out — it had caused trauma deep in the brain where movement was controlled. The shot to his temple had shut down the pathway between his brain and his legs, leaving them dead weight. The swelling afterward climbed higher, making it hard for him to even trust his hands at first. Simple things — picking up a glass, hitting a button — felt foreign, like his body was answering in a language it no longer spoke.
They told him it was permanent. The signals just weren't making it through anymore. His legs would never take him anywhere again, and his arms would only give him what the damage allowed. One clean, unguarded punch had taken his balance, his freedom, and the career he'd built since he was a kid shadowboxing in a park.
He sighed, a slow, tired exhale that felt heavier than his own body. Somewhere along the way, he'd become a recluse. Not overnight, but piece by piece. His family had tried — God, they really had. They visited often in the beginning, called him daily, texted him little updates about their lives. But as the months became years, he stopped answering. Stopped looking them in the eye. Stopped letting them see the storm he was carrying. It wasn't fair to them, but it was all he could do. In his head, he was nothing now, and he didn't want them to have to pretend otherwise.
It started in the hospital. Recovery was just a word the doctors used — what he was doing was surviving. He had time, endless time, so he filled it with whatever would stop his brain from chewing itself up. He watched movies until he could quote entire scripts without thinking. Anime came next — the long ones, the sprawling sagas, the kind that could swallow whole days in color and motion. Somewhere in there, he found gaming. At first it was just to pass the hours, but soon it became a mission: force his hands to move, to grip, to react. Regain something. Over time, it worked, bit by bit. He got enough back to play, to move in small bursts of precision. It wasn't much, but it was his. Seven years since the punch, and he could at least hold a controller without his hands shaking. Small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
He kept his life stripped down to the bones. No reason to be fancy — fancy was for people who had somewhere to go. He created a trust only he could touch, the safety net in case things ever got worse. The rest of his fortune, he gave to his family. Let them live it up. Let them have the dinners, the trips, the laughter. Let them enjoy what he fucking couldn't.
Now, no one came to visit. Not because they didn't care — they just knew he wouldn't respond.
Couldn't respond.
Because the anger was always there. Constant. Not a sharp rage anymore, but a steady, gnawing thing that sat in his chest and wouldn't leave. It wasn't fair to unleash it on them. Better to keep it locked down.
The movies and anime helped. They were the only things that could pull his focus away, even for a little while. He liked all kinds, but his favorites were the ones with those weak-to-strong moments — the underdog training in silence, taking every hit, pushing through every failure, until all the work, all the suffering, exploded into that one moment of triumph. Those scenes spoke to something buried deep in him. Maybe because he'd lived it once — the grind, the sacrifice, the reward. Maybe because part of him still craved it. When he saw those characters finally win, he felt that rush again, even if it was just for a few minutes. And for Andy, those few minutes were worth everything.
As he sat there, all the power went out. It was night, the kind of deep quiet that made every little sound feel louder. Andy lived in a decently wealthy neighborhood in upper New York, close to one of the hospitals — made appointments easier. Even in his misery, he'd refused an aide, insisted on doing everything himself. He'd refused to die, refused to sit around feeling sorry for himself. But he couldn't shake the anger — the constant, grinding frustration that he couldn't do the thing he loved anymore.
He looked around in the dark until his hand found a small flashlight on the desk. Lucky for him, the batteries still worked. He flicked it on and swept the beam around his room… nothing unusual. He glanced toward the window. Everything else outside had power. Streetlights burned, houses across the way glowed warmly. Just his building was dark.
Maybe they're working on the lines, he thought.
Then, faintly, he heard a crackle — the sound of a radio coming to life somewhere upstairs. Old Mrs. Callahan. She had to be in her eighties, still clinging to relics from decades ago. AM/FM radio, rotary phone, the works. Weird.
Then his TV flickered. Just for a second. The lights still wouldn't come on, but the screen lit the room in flashes of blue and static. And after the flicker, a message appeared in bold, perfect clarity:
Would you like a New Lease on Life?Yes or No
Andy blinked. He reached for the television remote — nothing. Dead. Then he noticed the faint glow of his Xbox controller on the desk, the logo light steady and bright. He picked it up and realized he could move the on-screen selection between Yes and No.
He frowned. "Weird as hell."
Of course he wanted a new lease on life. His life fucking sucked. Without giving it much thought, he clicked Yes, intending to go to bed and forget the whole thing. Just another crazy moment to laugh about someday — or not think about at all.
That was until he coughed, sudden and deep. Metallic taste flooded his mouth. He looked down and saw the dark splash of blood against his sweater. Another cough tore through him, and more blood came.
His chest locked tight, like something inside was trying to tear its way out. What the hell…? The thought flashed through his head, but it was drowned out by the violent pounding in his ears. His heart was thrashing, panicked, like it wanted to escape his ribcage. Heat rushed up his neck, then drained away so fast his skin prickled with cold.
No… no, not like this… His mind clawed at the thought, but his body wouldn't answer.
Vision narrowed to a tunnel, the edges burning with static. Every beat of his heart felt like a hammer against an eggshell. Shit, I can't… breathe. His hands, the ones he'd worked for years to regain, wouldn't even grip the controller anymore. It slid away as his arms went slack.
He tried to focus on something, and his eyes locked on the TV just as it shifted:
CONFIRMATION ACCEPTED — New Lease Protocol Initiated
Scanning viable universes… COMPLETECompiling environmental compatibility… COMPLETECalculating optimal narrative integration… COMPLETESELECTION: Star Wars UniverseDetermining temporal coordinates… COMPLETE — Knights of the Old Republic EraPreparing host data stream… COMPLETELaunching Character Creation Suite…
The screen changed again — sliders, portraits, menus appearing in crisp clarity. Species Selection at the top, a long list scrolling past: Human, Twi'lek, Mirialan, Zabrak, Wookiee…
Wouldn't that be nice, Andy thought as the darkness swallowed him. What a cruel joke.
Then everything went black.
They would find him in his apartment the next morning, slumped in that same chair. Cause of death: his heart had exploded inside his chest. No trauma, no blockage, no warning. The doctors called it a freak occurrence — a medical mystery that would never be explained.