Shredder sat in his cramped apartment, slouched in his chair, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen. Invincible had always captivated him—violent, unpredictable, and raw. The blood, the gore, the chaos—it felt like a reflection of his own life. The characters, flawed and broken, fighting for survival in a world that didn't care about them, felt strangely familiar.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the television. His apartment was small, sparsely decorated, a few cheap pieces of furniture, and an old rug that was starting to wear out. Outside, the wind rustled the trees, and the night was alive with the sounds of the city. But inside, it was still, almost suffocatingly so. His thoughts began to drift as he watched the show, half-engaged with the characters but more lost in his own mind. Something felt wrong, like a tension in the air that hadn't been there before.
Shredder's gaze shifted to the window across the room. It was wide open. The breeze from outside flowed in, carrying the scent of rain, crisp and cold. The kind of chill that crept under your skin, made you want to pull your blanket tighter. He had left it open earlier, hoping for some fresh air, but now, as he stared at the darkness beyond the glass, he felt exposed.
The thought passed quickly, swallowed by the rush of adrenaline that came with the next action-packed scene in the show. But the unease still lingered, gnawing at the edges of his awareness. He glanced back at the window.
Close it. Just get up and close it, his mind urged.
But he didn't. The show was too gripping. The characters were fighting for their lives—he didn't want to miss what happened next. He could deal with it later.
Another sound caught his attention, more distinct this time—a soft scrape. Like a footstep on the outside ledge, just below the window. It was barely audible, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
He turned toward the sound, the TV momentarily forgotten. A chill crawled down his spine. The room felt too quiet, too still. His pulse quickened.
Suddenly, there was a sharp crack—the window shattered in an explosion of glass. Before Shredder could react, a figure leapt through the gap. It all happened so fast, the blur of motion catching him off guard. The assassin moved with terrifying precision, landing on the floor like a shadow, instantly closing the distance between them.
Shredder's body froze, heart hammering. The figure was tall, cloaked in dark clothes, his face obscured by a mask. The blade he carried gleamed in the dim light, too sharp, too deadly. It was over before Shredder could even rise from his chair.
The knife flashed, slicing through the air, and then it was buried deep into Shredder's side. The force of the strike knocked the breath out of him. Pain exploded through his torso, sharp and hot. Blood surged from the wound, splattering against the floor. Shredder gasped, staggering back, trying to find his bearings.
"Wh—what...?" His words were ragged, barely a whisper. His mind struggled to catch up with the reality of what was happening. The TV continued to play in the background, the sounds of violence on screen so distant and hollow compared to the raw agony tearing through his body.
His hand instinctively pressed against the wound, but it did little to stem the flow of blood. He tried to push himself up from the chair, to get away, but the world was already spinning. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight darkening. The floor felt cold under his palms as he stumbled forward, but every movement felt like a slow-motion struggle against his own failing body.
Why didn't I close the window?
It was the one thought that kept echoing through his foggy mind. He should have known. He should have sensed that something wasn't right. The window. The air. The silence. It all felt wrong. And now, he was paying the price for it.
The assassin didn't speak, didn't make a sound. He stood there, watching, waiting, like some silent force of inevitability. Shredder's breath grew shallow, each gasp harder to come by. His body was growing colder, weaker. The room around him felt smaller, the walls closing in as the pain in his side intensified.
The knife was still buried in him, and with every pulse of his heart, it felt as though the world was closing in around him. His hand, slick with blood, slipped off the floor as he tried to drag himself away. He couldn't escape. His strength was gone.
I should've closed the window, the thought repeated, louder this time. But it was too late.
His hands fell limply to the floor, his vision dimming as the darkness overtook him. The final breath he took was shaky, almost a whisper, and as his body slumped against the cold floor, the TV continued to flash its brutal scenes of violence, the world outside still oblivious to his last moments.
And Shredder was gone, lost to a mistake that would haunt him forever—the simple act of leaving the window open.