Chapter 5 – 72 Hours (Day 1 & Day 2)
The metallic sound of the System's notification still echoed in his mind.
> [New Mission Available]
Survive the next 72 hours.
Reward: +10 Battle Points.
The boy breathed heavily, lips dry, body still trembling. The glowing panel hung before his eyes like a cruel reminder: it wasn't enough to bleed, to kill, to taste pure fear. Now the game demanded more.
A counter appeared at the top corner of his vision.
Time remaining: 71:59:59.
An invisible click marked the beginning of the nightmare.
---
Day 1 – Hunger
The gray morning light barely filtered through the filthy windows of the abandoned building. He rose shakily, clothes stiff with dried blood. Each movement was uncomfortable, as if he wore a second skin of scabs.
His stomach growled with stabbing pain. Too long without food. He tried to ignore it, but weakness made him stumble with every step.
"I need to… find something…" he muttered hoarsely.
Peering through a crack in the ruined wall, he saw Gotham alive and restless. The clatter of old cars, the distant sirens, shouts echoing through alleys. A laugh intertwined with a gunshot. This city breathed violence.
He slipped into the streets, hunched, moving quickly between shadows. He learned fast: keep your head down, walk like you don't exist. Any glance could be the last.
He rummaged through dumpsters. Found a moldy piece of bread. He hesitated, but the stench made him vomit before he could try. Not enough.
Hunger turned into rage. He slammed the dumpster lid with his fist. Mistake.
"Hey, look what we got here!" a gravelly voice boomed from a nearby alley.
Two ragged men stumbled closer, eyes feverish, grins rotten. Vagabonds—but dangerous. One clutched a rusty iron bar, the other only his fists, but he waved them with the confidence of someone who'd beaten men before.
"Nice jacket," the one with the bar sneered. "Looks new… for us."
The boy stepped back, instinctively raising the knife still stained with blood.
They laughed.
"You think that'll scare us, brat?" the taller one growled.
Fear ran cold down his spine, but he couldn't retreat. His hands shook, the blade gleaming faintly.
The man with the bar stepped forward slowly, savoring the tension.
The boy snapped. No thought—just a desperate lunge. The knife barely grazed the man's arm, drawing a shallow cut. The scream of pain was enough to make them back off.
"Freaking psycho!" the wounded one spat, clutching his arm. "Forget him. Let's go."
The two retreated, cursing and hurling threats. The boy collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, throat parched.
He hadn't killed them. He didn't want to. But he'd felt the blade sink, even if just a little. And that sensation chilled him more than hunger.
That night, he hid in a ruined building. Cold gnawed at him as he clutched the knife to his chest, ears straining against every echo outside. Sleep came in fragments, broken by nightmares of the men he'd killed. Blood, screams, lifeless eyes.
---
Day 2 – The Hunt
Dawn found him exhausted, barely conscious. The counter glowed: Time remaining: 47:12:04. Barely twenty-five hours gone.
The hunger was unbearable. Legs heavy, vision blurred. He forced himself to move. Stay still and he'd die.
From an alley, voices drifted. He pressed against the wall, listening. A group of gang members huddled around a burning barrel. He recognized the tattoo on one's arm—the same gang that had attacked him on day one.
"They say he's still alive," one laughed. "The brat stabbed two of ours and ran."
"Not for long," another spat. "No one survives Gotham without a crew. We'll find him. And when we do…"
Their laughter mixed with smoke. The boy slipped away, heart hammering. They were hunting him.
He quickened his pace, weaving through alleys, keeping silent. Hours dragged by. In an abandoned store, he found an empty bottle, filled it with murky water from a broken pipe. He drank it all, knowing it would hurt later.
By afternoon, the shouts betrayed him.
"There he is! The brat!"
Three gang members spotted him. He ran, feet pounding pavement, boots thundering behind.
He turned into a dead end. Cursed. Desperate, he scrambled up a pile of trash, through a shattered window. Glass tore at his skin, but he didn't stop.
Inside, darkness swallowed him. He crawled beneath a staircase, knife pressed to his chest, breath held.
"Swear I saw him come in here," a voice whispered nearby.
"Forget it. He's dead anyway. Gotham will handle him."
Their footsteps faded. Silence returned, but his body wouldn't stop trembling. Fear gnawed deeper than hunger.
That night, he found shelter beneath a bridge, among homeless wrapped in filthy blankets. He lay beside them, blending in. The stench was suffocating, the cold merciless.
He closed his eyes, but no rest came. Each time sleep dragged him under, he saw blood, blades, mocking laughter. He woke drenched in sweat.
---
End of Day 2
The counter flickered in his vision.
Time remaining: 23:58:42
.
One last night. One final hell.
He hugged the knife, eyes wide in the dark, waiting for dawn… or death.