Last Man Standing

Only one leaves alive.

The C-130 thundered through the sky like a beast on fire, its rear ramp yawning open into the freezing wind. Ninety-seven competitors stood packed inside, armored, armed, and silent, each eyeing the others like predators in a cage.

For Daren Wolfe, this wasn’t just a game. It was his redemption.

He stood near the edge, gripping his parachute straps, staring at the digital map blinking on his wristpad. The island below—Valdura—was a cursed place, a battlefield of legends and ghosts. He’d fought here before. He’d almost died here before.

This time, he wouldn’t.

A robotic voice echoed through the cabin:

“Prepare for deployment. Survival Protocol Initiated. Welcome to Valdura.”

One by one, the players leapt into the void.

The wind howled around Daren as he dropped, the island rushing up like a steel-toothed monster. He aimed for the southern cliffs—remote, rough terrain, but rich in loot. A dozen others veered elsewhere, but two were following him.

No problem.

He hit the ground hard, rolled, and sprinted to a shattered military outpost half-buried in ash and moss. Inside, he found an M416, a vest, and a handful of 5.56 rounds. Not much, but enough.

Footsteps. Fast. Close.

He ducked behind a wall.

The first follower entered, scanning wildly. Daren moved without hesitation. One clean shot to the head.

96 left.

The second player panicked, firing blindly. Bullets whizzed past Daren’s ear. He flanked, fast and quiet, and downed him with a burst to the chest.

95.

He exhaled. His heartbeat slowed. He looted quickly and moved on.

Valdura was shrinking. The Blue Zone, an electric death wall, closed in steadily, herding players toward each other like rats in a maze.

By mid-match, only 31 remained.

Daren crouched in the high grass near the center circle, his body covered in mud and blood. Across the hill, two players fought fiercely—grenades echoing, tracers lighting up the sky. Daren waited. When the victor emerged limping and distracted, he took the shot.

30.

He crept through the woods, looting a suppressor, painkillers, a ghillie suit. His face was a mask of sweat and dirt. His hands never shook.

He passed abandoned cars, burned-out buildings, bodies stripped of gear. Every corpse told a story. Some died quick. Some begged. Some made their last stand.

But Daren wasn’t here for kills.

He was here to win.

By the time the final circle formed, only four remained. The playable zone was no bigger than a warehouse parking lot, surrounded by cracked concrete, wrecked fences, and ruined machinery. The tension was unbearable.

Daren crouched inside an overturned cargo container, watching the zone shrink again. One wrong move now meant death.

A sniper’s shot rang out. Someone screamed, then silence.

Three.

Daren spotted the shooter — a masked man prone on a rooftop, eyes fixed through a 6x scope.

He crawled forward slowly, placed a frag grenade beneath the ledge, and rolled back. The explosion rocked the air.

Two.

Daren ducked as bullets pinged off the metal around him. The final opponent. Close. Aggressive.

He reloaded silently, then moved. He used smoke grenades to block vision, flanked right, climbed a rusted ladder to the high ground.

And then—he saw him.

A young man, agile and hungry, crouched behind an oil drum, scanning left. Daren didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, raised his rifle—

The young man turned and fired.

Both men were hit.

Daren dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his side. He gritted his teeth, aimed, and fired the final round.

Silence.

Then a voice echoed from above:

“Match Over. Winner… Daren Wolfe.”

The simulation faded.

The digital terrain dissolved into blue light. Valdura disappeared, and Daren was standing alone in a sterile chamber. The pain was gone. The blood, artificial. But the sweat, the fear, the exhaustion? Real.

He removed his visor and stepped out into the arena.

Hundreds of people roared from the stadium seats. A screen above flashed his name:

"Daren Wolfe – Champion. 1st Place. 11 Eliminations."

He didn’t raise his arms in victory.

He just stood still, breathing.

A reporter pushed forward with a mic. “Daren, that final moment—did you think you'd win?”

He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “No one thinks they’ll win,” he said quietly. “They just think they won’t be the one to die.”

That night, alone in his bunker apartment, Daren looked at the old photo beside his bed. His brother, grinning, holding a trophy. He’d died in the Games three years ago — too young, too brave.

Daren hadn’t joined for money. Or fame.

He joined to finish what his brother started.

And now he had.

But the Games never ended. The next season would come. New players. New maps. New ghosts.

He turned off the light and whispered to the dark:

“Next time, they’ll come for me. But I’m ready.”

In this world, there were no respawns. No second chances.

Only survivors.

Only the Last Man Standing.