CHECKPOINT: 3rd and Neon
He knows the sound before the pain.
Rain on chrome. A horn that arrives half a second too late. Magenta neon smeared across wet asphalt. Then the world folds.
He wakes on one knee in the same puddle, dog tag slapping his chest, lungs ripping open like it’s the first breath he’s ever taken. The hover-car is still wrapped around the lamppost. Sparks still fall. The clock over the noodle stand still reads 11:47.
It always reads 11:47.
Gold light burns under his paws — the checkpoint he never asked for. Ghosts of himself hang in the rain: one mid-impact, one already gone. They fade before he can look them in the eye.
Twenty-eight deaths. Same street. Same shirt clinging to rust-red fur. He still doesn’t know who wanted him dead. He only knows the rule.
Stand up.
Cross the intersection different this time.
Don’t look at the headlights.
The loop doesn’t care if he’s ready.