Muscle Memory

The limo's front end crumpled like an accordion as it collided with the unyielding trunk.

The force of the impact lifted the rear of the vehicle, sending it into one final, sickening flip.

For a heart-stopping moment, the world outside the windows became a blur of green grass and night sky.

*CRAAASHHH!!! *

Then, with a thunderous crash, the limo came to rest upside down.

The roof, now crushed against the ground, groaned under the weight of the inverted vehicle.

Shattered glass tinkled as it settled around them, and the acrid smell of burning rubber filled the air.

Silence fell, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and the labored breathing of the passengers.

The once-luxurious interior of the limo had become a twisted maze of metal and leather, barely recognizable in the dim light filtering through the broken windows.

Brandon's arms trembled with exertion, still wrapped protectively around Bailey and Elise.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, acutely aware of the warm trickle of blood running down his forehead.

Brandon's head throbbed, his vision swimming as he fought to stay conscious.

The world tilted and spun, a kaleidoscope of twisted metal and shattered glass. He tasted copper in his mouth, felt warm blood trickling down his face.

'Gotta... stay... awake...'

His eyes darted around the wreckage.

Elise and Bailey lay motionless beside him, their bodies limp.

Gordon was slumped under the steering wheel, unmoving.

Suddenly, a flood of memories crashed over Brandon like a tidal wave.

His hands moved of their own accord, checking for a pulse on the girls' necks, assessing their injuries with practiced efficiency.

'Clear airways... stop bleeding... secure the perimeter...'

The thoughts came unbidden, a soldier's training etched into his muscles and mind.

But how?

He'd never...

A flash of memory: his hands, smaller and younger, assembling a rifle with lightning speed.

Another: a man's terrified face in his crosshairs, just before...

Brandon shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

These couldn't be his memories.

The apparently timid boy he'd transmigrated into wouldn't know how to field-strip a weapon or neutralize a target— would he?

Yet as he maneuvered through the wreckage, his body moved with the fluid grace of a trained operative.

'This doesn't make sense,' he thought, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain.

'How could someone with this level of training get taken out by school bullies?'

The contradiction nagged at him as he struggled to free himself from the mangled limo.

There was more to his past – to the original Brandon's past – than anyone had let on.

Brandon's muscles strained as he kicked at the crumpled limo door.

With a screech of protesting metal, it finally gave way.

He crawled out onto the debris-strewn grass, every inch of his body aching in protest.

Just as he emerged, cold steel pressed against the back of his skull.

The unmistakable muzzle of an assault rifle.

Brandon's heart hammered in his chest.

'I-is this it?,' he thought. 'After everything, this is how it ends.'

He closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

The world seemed to slow down, each second stretching into eternity.

'I'm sorry, Elise. Bailey. I couldn't protect you.'

Just as despair threatened to close in, a sharp crack split the air.

The crushing pressure on Brandon's skull vanished in an instant.

He spun around, his senses sharpened, to see the assassin's body crumple to the ground, a neat hole in the forehead—a clean kill.

Reinforcements had arrived, but Brandon wasn't about to rely solely on them.

Muscle memory kicked in as he swiftly checked the magazine, and assessed his surroundings.

Every movement was fluid, precise—a practiced routine he didn't even know he possessed.

Diving behind the wrecked limo, he used the twisted metal as cover. The night exploded into chaos once more, the crack of gunfire echoing through the trees as more assassins converged on his position.

*CLINK!*

*CLINK!*

*CLINK!*

But instead of fear, a cold, focused calm settled over him.

Brandon's heart slowed, his breathing even, as he peered around the edge of the limo.

Through the haze of smoke and the sharp bursts of muzzle flashes, he spotted three figures moving with lethal intent.

Their approach was methodical, their triangular formation precise and co ordinated.

They weren't here to make mistakes.

But neither was he.

His grip on the assault rifle tightened, the cold metal a comforting weight in his hands. He exhaled slowly, and in that moment, the world narrowed to a single point of focus—the first assassin breaking cover, sprinting toward a nearby tree.

Brandon's finger squeezed the trigger—once, twice—each shot a precise, calculated action.

The man dropped mid-stride, a burst of crimson spreading across his chest before he hit the ground.

The second assassin, a woman with close-cropped hair, retaliated instantly.

*CLINK!*

*CLINK!*

*CLINK!*

Bullets pinged off the limo, sparks showering around Brandon. He ducked instinctively, counting the seconds in his head—one, two, three—before popping up again.

She was already moving, but Brandon had anticipated it.

He led his target, adjusting his aim with cold precision, and squeezed off a short burst.

The rounds struck true, catching her in the shoulder and neck.

She spun with the impact, collapsing to the ground as her weapon clattered away.

The third assassin, more cautious, had taken cover behind a stone statue, only the top of his head peaking out.

Brandon's mind worked quickly, calculating angles and possibilities. His eyes locked onto a decorative fountain behind him, the metal surface glinting faintly in the dim light.

Without hesitation, he adjusted his aim and fired.

The bullet pinged off the fountain with a metallic ring, ricocheting at the perfect angle to catch the assassin in the back of his head.

The man slumped forward, lifeless, before he even had a chance to react.

The gunfight had lasted less than thirty seconds.

Brandon blinked, his ears ringing in the sudden silence.

He stared at the rifle in his hands, then at the bodies littering the ground.

'How the fuck—'

Brandon's mind raced.

'Who are these people? How do I know how to do this?'

The precision, the calculated brutality – it felt alien, yet disturbingly familiar.

Before he could dwell on it further, the screech of tires announced the arrival of his reinforcements.