Three months passed, and nothin' happened. Not a peep from those punks. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, like some storm was gonna roll in and wash everything away. But the days kept goin' by, same old, same old. The shop got back to normal—well, as normal as it could be. Gramps still wasn't around, but the voice in my head kept me company. It didn't feel like a burden, not anymore. It was like he was still watchin' over me.
The gangbangers I'd taken down? No sign of 'em. Cops had told me to watch my back, but maybe they were wrong. Maybe that was it. Maybe the thugs decided they'd had enough, figured I wasn't worth the trouble. Maybe they had bigger fish to fry.
I didn't trust it, though. Not for a second. The calm before the storm has a way of foolin' you.
I spent my days workin' in the shop, puttin' the pieces back together. Gun parts, metal, tools—it was my therapy. My therapy and my job. Sometimes I'd think about the fight that night—how quick it all went down, how I'd pulled the trigger without thinkin', how I hadn't felt any real regret. The dead guy's face sometimes popped into my mind, but it was like lookin' at a photo from a bad dream. I couldn't afford to dwell on it.
SDidn't matter. My focus was the shop. The world outside? Didn't care. I knew there were things out there I couldn't control, but my hands? My hands could fix things. Fix anything.
Some nights, after work, I'd sit at home, crack open a beer, and fire up Arena Breakout again. It wasn't the same as it used to be, but it was a distraction. A way to shut everything else out. Gramps' voice would come through loud and clear when I lost a round.
"You ain't gonna win if you keep playin' scared, Aaron. Get your head in the game."
It was exactly what I needed. Never had to explain myself. Never had to talk about how broken I still felt. Gramps knew.
But as the months stretched on, it felt like I was waitin'. Waitin' for somethin'. Waitin' for those assholes to come back, for the other shoe to drop. Maybe I was just ready for the fight again. Or maybe I was just tired of the silence.
Either way, it felt like a damn eternity before anything actually happened.
But then, just like that, the world turned upside down again.
It started with the screech of tires—three cars, flying down the street like they were hell-bent on making a point. I heard the engines, then the crack of gunfire. Instinct kicked in. I dove under the table, heart pounding, hands shaking but steady enough to reach for the old Glock stashed under it.
Gramps' voice cut through the chaos, shaking but full of that stubborn old man grit. "Aaron! Get outta here! This ain't worth it! They're comin' for us!"
But I couldn't. I wouldn't. This is my home. My place to rebuild, my place to live. I wasn't gonna let some punks tear it all down. Not again.
Shots rang out. The sound of bullets ripping through the air, slamming into metal, wood, and anything else in their path. I returned fire, no hesitation. Every shot, every dodge, felt like a blur. But it didn't take long before I realized this wasn't gonna end in my favor. These weren't street kids looking to steal a few bucks. These were gangsters with real firepower, and there were too damn many of 'em.
I was a damn fool for not listening to Gramps. He begged me to leave. But in my heart, I knew—I couldn't back down. Not like this.
But the situation? It wasn't looking good. I could feel the weight of reality crashin' down on me, the cold, bitter sting of panic creeping up my spine. My heart rate shot up, but the fight was still in me. I kept firing, keepin' my cool.
"Alright, alright," I muttered to myself as I ducked behind the sofa, trying to steady my breathing. "This ain't the time to lose it, Aaron."
I cracked a joke, stupid as it was, just to keep my mind off the chaos. "Man, this ain't the kinda action I signed up for tonight. I was tryna dodge bullets on my phone, not in real life! But hey, at least I ain't gettin' clapped by 12-year-olds in Arena Breakout. Small wins, right?"
The sound of gunfire grew louder, but my words? They were just an attempt to calm my nerves, to remind myself I wasn't just some kid runnin' from a fight. I was Aaron Freeman. And Freeman's don't run.
But even as I fired back, I knew I wasn't gonna win this one. Too many enemies. Too many guns. And as much as I tried to hold my ground, it became clear: I had to retreat. My heart weighed heavy, but my mind kicked into gear.
With a sigh of resignation, I took one last shot—damn near a miracle I didn't get hit or so I thought and made a tactical retreat. I stumbled through the back door of my home, heart racing, and as the sound of chaos continued behind me, I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
"Who knew runnin' a gun shop would be this damn action-packed?"
I muttered, trying to keep my cool. But reality was sinking in fast. I was leaving my place, my sanctuary, behind. And the world felt like it was crashing down again.
I limped away, barely able to stay on my feet, but something didn't sit right. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I glanced down. Blood was soaking into my chest, warm and sticky. I hadn't even realized I'd been hit, not until now.
I looked down at my brand-new Versace t-shirt. The one I'd just bought last week. The one I'd been proud to wear, the one that made me feel like I had something to show for all the shit I'd been through.
"Aww, come on!" I groaned, wincing as the pain in my chest flared up. "Not my damn shirt... this thing was expensive!"
I couldn't even joke about the pain anymore. The blood was spreading, and I knew I wasn't out of the woods yet.
I wasn't alone. Not anymore. Not in this fight. Not as long as Gramps' voice was with me
And for now, that was enough to keep me going.
As I stumbled away from the wreckage, my body aching, blood dripping from the wound in my chest, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I barely had the strength to pull it out, but when I saw the caller ID, I froze. It was Officer Harris, the neighborhood cop. The guy who'd known me since I was a kid, he was good friends with Gramps
I hit answer, the screen barely visible in the dim light as I tried to catch my breath.
"Yo, Harris," I said, my voice coming out weak but still tryin' to sound like the usual Aaron Freeman. "Guess you're not gonna make it to the gun shop tomorrow, huh? Whole place is a war zone."
There was a long pause on the other end, and I could almost hear the concern in his voice. "Aaron, where the hell are you? You need help? I'm on my way—"
I cut him off with a chuckle, though it was strained.
"Nah, I'm good. I'll be fine. Just need go to hospital little hiccups, ya know?"
The laughter in my chest faded quickly, replaced by a wave of dizziness. I didn't have much left. The blood loss was makin' my head spin, but I couldn't let Harris know how bad it was. Not yet.
I tried to stand tall, to keep my shit together, but my legs buckled under me. I dropped to my knees, my phone clutched in my hand as the pain surged through me.
"Ah, man, this... this ain't how I pictured goin' out," I muttered, slumping forward as the world blurred around me. I could still hear Harris on the other end, yellin' my name, tellin' me to stay with him, to hold on.
But the darkness was creeping in. I could feel it. I could barely breathe. I was losing consciousness, my body giving in.
But then, out of nowhere, there was that voice. That familiar, old, gruff voice that I hadn't heard in a while.
"Aaron, you can survive this. Freeman's don't quit. You hear me?" Gramps' voice echoed in my mind, like it always did when I needed it most.
I smiled weakly, a tear sliding down my face as I collapsed against the cold concrete. "I hear you, Gramps. I ain't done yet. Not today…"
But even as the world went dark, the last thing I could hear was Harris on the phone, shouting my name.
And Gramps, still there, still fightin' with me.
"You can survive, Aaron," he said again, as if he could reach across time and space to keep me going.
For a moment, it felt like he was right there with me, standing tall, stubborn as ever.
And in that moment, maybe I believed him. Maybe.
But then, just as the darkness was
swallowing me whole,
That guy with the ragged clothes and skeleton face showed up again, loomin' over me like he owned the joint. But this time? I wasn't scared. Maybe it was the blood loss talkin', or maybe I just thought this whole thing was too damn funny to care anymore.
I looked up at him, wincin' as the pain shot through me, and said, "What do you want, man? Rent money? 'Cause I ain't got it."
That skeleton-faced weirdo didn't even flinch. He just pointed one of those bony fingers right at me and started speakin'—or, I guess, chantin'—in some gibberish that sounded like it came straight outta a low-budget fantasy movie. I blinked, tryin' to figure out if this was real or just the blood loss messin' with me.
Then it happened.
A light—bright enough to make the sun jealous—burst outta nowhere. It swallowed me whole, blinding, searing, and way too intense for my already fading senses. It wasn't like a flashlight or a headlight; it was like the freakin' universe itself cracked open and decided I was the target.
I tried to back away, to do somethin', but my body wasn't listenin'. The light wrapped around me, pulsin' like it had its own heartbeat, and I felt the pain in my chest fade. The fear? Gone. Even my smart-ass remarks were gone.
I wanted to scream, maybe even cuss him out one last time, but I couldn't. The light had me, draggin' me somewhere, and all I could do was let it.
something strange happened. A bright, blinding light—too bright for my eyes to even comprehend—engulfed me from all directions. It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen. It was as if the world itself had cracked open, and this light was spillin' out, wraping me up, pullin' me in.
I tried to resist, but it was like the light had a mind of its own. It was too powerful, too overwhelming. The pain in my chest, the weight of everything, all faded away as the light surged around me. I couldn't even scream, couldn't fight it.
And then, just like that, I was gone—snatched up by that crazy, blinding light. One second, I'm bleedin' out on the floor, wonderin' why Skeletor's cousin is speakin' in tongues, and the next? Poof. No pain, no shop, no nothin'. Just... gone.
I didn't know where I was, but I sure as hell wasn't in that shop anymore. It was like I'd been yanked from my own world, pulled out of the chaos and into something... different.
The air smelled different. The ground felt different. Hell, even the sky looked different. But I didn't have time to process it. I was still reeling from the shock, still hearing Gramps' voice echo in my mind.
"You survived, Aaron," it whispered again, like a lifeline in the storm.
Aaron Freeman, for all of his life, was stunned and happy. He couldn't believe it—he had survived. The adrenaline hit him like a freight train, and with all the strength he could muster, he shouted,
"I SURVIVED!"
His voice echoed through the strange new world, a mix of disbelief and triumph.
But just as he was catching his breath, he heard a cough. His heart skipped, and he turned his head, eyes wide.
There, standin' not too far off, were three dudes lookin' just as lost as I felt—faces all twisted up like someone told 'em pineapple belongs on pizza. And a little further back, there he was: ol' Raggedy Skeletor, except he wasn't a skeleton at all. He was just some old dude with actual flesh, laid out flat on the ground like he'd run a marathon in those beggar clothes of his.
And me? I couldn't help it—I laughed. Not just a little snicker, but a full-on,
"this is too stupid to be real" kinda laugh.
"Man, this is wild. I survive all that madness just to land smack in some isekai bullshit"