You were deep into San Andreas that night, locked in the kind of chaos only that game can deliver. You had a five-star wanted level, sirens screaming, helicopters chopping up the sky, and the mini-map a solid wall of flashing red and blue.
Perfect.
Exactly how you liked it.
Cops swarmed from every direction, but you were mowing them down like nothing—headshots, shotgun blasts, grenades raining from your stolen police chopper. They fell easy. Predictable. Just NPCs doing what NPCs do.
Until he showed up.
You didn’t notice him at first. Just another cop car skidding into the intersection in front of you. But when the door opened, he didn’t rush like the others. He stepped out slowly… almost calmly.
Tall.
Uniform darker than the rest.
Badge scratched to hell.
And his eyes—
Not red at first, not glowing—just wrong.
You fired a full SMG clip straight into his chest. He jerked a bit from the impact but didn’t fall. You switched to the shotgun—point-blank blast. Nothing. He kept walking toward you like your bullets were air.
You muttered, “Man, what the hell?”
Like he heard you, he tilted his head and said:
“You can’t kill me.”
The voice wasn’t a game voice. Too clear. Too deep. And it didn’t come from your TV speakers—it came from behind you, inside your room.
CJ took off running. Not because you made him—because the game did it on its own.
You were sprinting through Los Santos with this cop right behind you, his footsteps pounding louder than any in-game audio, shaking your controller. You jacked a car and floored it. He sprinted after you at the same speed, keeping up with a modded sports car like physics didn’t apply to him.
You tried everything:
Ran him over.
Exploded him with C4.
Dropped him off Mt. Chiliad.
Drowned him in the ocean.
Crushed him under a train.
Every time, he stood back up.
Every time, he said the same thing:
“You can’t kill me. I don’t die.”
And then he chased you—
through Los Santos,
through the desert,
through the forests,
through Las Venturas…
The entire map became a hunting ground.
You couldn’t escape him. You couldn’t hide. He always knew where you were. Even when you paused the game, his breathing continued in the background—slow, steady, getting closer.
Finally, he caught CJ in a back alley of San Fierro. You were shooting wildly, heart thumping in your chest, but he grabbed your character by the throat—something the game engine wasn’t even built to animate.
He leaned in close, eyes burning now, glowing red like coals.
“Respawn.”
Then he stabbed CJ with something long and dark, and the screen went black.
When you respawned at the hospital, you felt relief—brief, stupid relief. Maybe it was over. Maybe it was just some wild glitch.
But exactly ten minutes later, no matter where you were—driving, walking, hiding, mid-mission—you heard boots behind you. Slow. Purposeful.
You turned the camera.
There he was.
Walking out of the fog, the shadows, an alley, a doorway—
It didn’t matter where you were.
He always found you.
Every ten minutes.
He killed you again.
And again.
And again.
You turned off the console.
But an hour later—
after you’d put the controller down,
turned off the lights,
and settled into bed—
you heard footsteps.
Boots. Heavy. Slow.
Walking across your hallway.
Getting closer to your room.
And a voice—clear, closer than ever—whispered:
“You can’t kill me…
but I can kill you.”
The doorknob turned.
And the cycle never stopped.