"The problem with being chosen is…you never get to say no."
The first time I tried to rewind and nothing happened…I was sure I was already dead.
It was supposed to be routine.
A warm-up bout. Smaller venue. Hometown crowd. A guy named Blake Strahan—decent jab, good cardio, nothing I hadn't seen a hundred times before.
I knew I wasn't myself. The loop had worn me thin—memory lapses, blackouts, hallucinations. My right hand shook every time I held a cup. I hadn't slept more than two hours straight in a week.
But I thought I had one more in me.
That was my mistake.
The first round went normal. I circled, prodded, baited. He rushed. I clipped him.
The second round—he adjusted.
I didn't.
He landed a spinning back elbow I didn't see coming. My jaw lit up like a fuse. I fell. Black.
And I waited.
For the snap.The rewind.The whisper.
But it never came.
I blinked up at the arena lights, dazed, hearing the count hit eight… nine… ten.
My corner screamed. The crowd roared. My chest heaved like it was trying to reject my own lungs.
But nothing reset.
I lost.For real.
And worse?
I was still alive.
They helped me backstage, blood in my mouth, ribs cracked. I kept whispering, "Again. Again."
The medic looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Rest, champ. You'll get another shot."
"No," I said. "I already had it."
That night I curled up in the motel bathtub, cold water running over me, shaking like I was detoxing from something ancient. Something that had been living inside me.
Why didn't it rewind?
Was ten really the limit?
Then I remembered what Grady said:
"You gotta die clean. No rewind. That's the only way out."
But I hadn't died. Not really.
Which meant…
Maybe this wasn't over.
Maybe this was something worse.
The next morning, I found something in my locker.
A note. Torn from a rulebook. Handwritten in faded red ink.
"No one wins. Only passes on. -C."
There was no signature.
No envelope.
Just those eight words.
It wasn't from Grady. I hadn't told anyone about the loop. Not even Dutch. Not even my ex. Not even the guy who stitched my eyebrows shut between rounds.
So who the hell was "C"?
And what did they mean by "passes on"?
I went digging.
In the weeks that followed, I stopped fighting.
Started hunting.
I hit every dive gym in the region. Pored through forums. Searched for any mention of phantom resets, unexplained injuries healing too fast, fighters seeing visions before the KO.
I found three cases. All buried. All strange.
Case One:A Muay Thai champion in Thailand who "survived" twelve straight knockouts without brain damage. Retired at twenty-eight. Disappeared. His trainer claimed he "heard voices in the mat" and called him "reborn with every bell."
Case Two:An Irish boxer in the '80s who claimed he "lost ten fights in a row and still won them all." Died of a seizure in a pub. Before he died, he scrawled something in his notebook: "Clock's ticking. The next one is hers."
Case Three:A street fighter in Lagos known only as "Orun." Legend says he was unbeatable—until he walked into a market and stabbed himself in the throat. Last words? "I saw the one who took mine. Let the next carry it."
Three cases.
Three signs.
Same pattern.
Ten chances. Then it moves on.
The rewind isn't just a curse. It's a cycle.
A system.
And the scariest part?
It's not attached to me.
It's just passing through me.
That night, I sat in front of the mirror again. Looked into my own eyes.
I didn't see myself.
I saw something behind my face.Like my reflection had a passenger.Something waiting.
Not hungry.
Patient.
I thought about what Grady said:
"You can't trick it."
But maybe…
Maybe you could track it.
If the ability moves, if it passes on, then someone has to be next.
Someone close. Someone who's suffered. Someone who's watched me fight.
Someone who's been changed just by proximity.
There's one person I've ignored this whole time:
Kid Blaze.
Real name: Elijah Bannister.
He's seventeen. Fast. Raw. Too raw.
He's been hanging around my gym for months, watching me spar, copying my style in the mirror, shadowboxing my combos when he thinks no one's looking.
I caught him once mimicking my footwork so perfectly it scared me.
Like he already knew how I'd move before I moved.
I thought he was just a fan.
But lately… he's been different.
Quiet.
Focused.
Too focused.
Yesterday, he walked up to me after drills.
"Coach D… you ever feel like time slows down when you're about to lose?"
My heart stalled.
I didn't respond. Just nodded slowly.
"Sometimes," he said, "I see it before it happens. The punch. The fall. Like I've already been there."
I wanted to scream. To grab him. To warn him.
But how do you explain this?
How do you say: "You're next, kid. And it's going to ruin you."
But something in me knew… he already felt it.That weight behind his eyes. That numbness in his voice.Not just fatigue. Not fear.
Recognition.
I don't sleep that night.
I sit at the edge of my bed, staring at a fresh scar on my forearm.
Not from a fight.
From something else.
A mark I don't remember getting.
Like a tally.
Or a signature.
And for the first time since this began…
I start to wonder if this thing was never mine.
If I was just the courier.
A vessel.
A bridge between the last one and the next.
I've got one mission now.
Break the cycle.
If I can.
Or at the very least…
Warn the next one.
Before they lose their soul ten seconds at a time.
Before they find out the truth like I did:
No one wins.