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"Rise and shine, sweetheart."
I opened my eyes to the same cracked ceiling. Same rust stain shaped like a horse's skull. Same cold stone under my spine.
Third loop.
I sat up before the nausea hit. My stomach remembered the beast's claws tearing through it, even if my body didn't have the scars. Muscle memory's a bitch when it includes dying.
"You got two minutes," the guard said through the door slot. Different guard this time. Younger voice. I filed that away.
I stood, testing my legs. Steady. The loops were teaching me things—small things. How to breathe through the panic. How to move like I hadn't just been gutted twelve hours from now.
"I'm up," I said.
The slot snapped shut.
I pressed my palms against the wall, counting my breaths. Loop one, I'd been terrified. Loop two, I'd been angry. Now I was cold. Methodical. Every death was data. Every reset was another chance to map this place.
The beast wasn't supposed to be there. That much was clear. Someone had released it after I won. Which meant someone wanted me dead worse than the Pits already did.
I needed to know who.
The door opened. Same iron scrape. Same two guards, except this time I looked at their faces. The tall one had a scar through his left eyebrow. The short one wore a ring on his right hand, iron band with a red stone.
"Move," Scarface said.
I moved.
They walked me down the same corridor, but this time I counted the doors. Eleven cells on the left. Nine on the right. Last door on the right had fresh scratches around the lock—someone had tried to pick it recently.
"Eyes front," Red Ring snapped.
I kept walking.
The arena roared above us. They were running warm-up matches, getting the crowd drunk and bloodthirsty before the main event. Before me.
"She looks scared," Scarface said.
"She should be," Red Ring said. "Roth's gonna carve her slow."
I almost smiled. Roth was going to lose his sword arm in forty-three seconds. I'd done it twice already.
They shoved me into the prep cell. Same weapons rack. Same dried blood on the floor. This time I didn't waste time on the sword. I went straight for the daggers.
"No daggers," Red Ring said. "Sword or spear."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
I picked up the sword. Felt the weight. Remembered how Roth moved, how he favored his right side, how he dropped his guard after a feint. I'd died learning that. Now it was his turn.
"You got ten minutes," Scarface said. "Try not to piss yourself."
The door slammed.
I tested the sword's balance, ran through the sequence in my head. Parry high, step left, cut low. He'd block. Then I'd pivot, use his momentum, and—
The door opened early.
Not the guards. Someone else. Thin man in a leather coat, face hidden under a hood. He moved like smoke, slipping in and shutting the door behind him in one motion.
"Kira Dane," he said. Not a question.
I kept the sword up. "Who's asking?"
"Someone who's curious why a disgraced royal guard is still breathing after two loops."
My blood went cold.
He knew.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"Yes, you do." He stepped closer. I could see his eyes now—sharp, gray, wrong. "You've died twice. Woke up twice. And you're about to go out there and kill Roth like you've done it before. Which you have."
I lunged.
He caught my wrist before the blade got within a foot of him. His grip was iron.
"Sit down," he said.
"Go to hell."
He twisted my wrist. The sword clattered to the floor. Then he shoved me back against the wall, one hand on my shoulder, the other holding something small and silver near my face.
A coin. No, not a coin—a token. Engraved with a spiral.
"This," he said, "is a loop anchor. Very rare. Very expensive. Someone paid a fortune to bind you to this day, to this place. You're not cursed, Dane. You're invested in."
"Let go of me."
"Not until you listen." His voice was calm, almost gentle. "Every time you die, you reset. Every time you reset, you get a little sharper, a little faster. Whoever set this up wants you to get very, very good at killing. The question is why."
I stopped fighting. "You tell me."
"I don't know yet." He released me, stepped back. "But I know where to look. There's a ledger in the announcer's booth. Black cover, red spine. It tracks every fight, every bet, every sponsor. If someone's running this loop, their mark will be in that book."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want to know who's rich enough to buy a loop anchor and dumb enough to waste it on a death match." He tucked the token back into his coat. "Get the ledger. Survive long enough to read it. Then we'll talk."
"I'm not working for you."
"You already are." He smiled. "You just don't know it yet."
The door opened behind him. Red Ring stood there, scowling.
"The hell are you doing in here?"
"Leaving," the thin man said. He walked past Red Ring like he owned the place. The guard didn't stop him.
Red Ring glared at me. "Time's up. Move."
I picked up the sword.
The crowd was louder this time. Or maybe I just noticed it more. The iron gate lifted, and I stepped into the sand. Roth was already waiting, grinning, spinning his blade.
"Fresh meat," he said.
I didn't answer. I counted his steps as he circled me. Watched his weight shift. Waited for the tell.
He lunged.
I parried high, stepped left, cut low. He blocked, just like before. I pivoted, used his momentum, and sliced through his sword arm at the elbow.
He screamed. The crowd went wild.
I didn't wait for him to fall. I kicked him in the chest, sent him sprawling, and pressed the blade to his throat.
"Yield," I said.
He spat blood. "Go to hell."
I looked up at the announcer's booth. The thin man's words echoed in my head. Black cover, red spine.
Then I looked at the main gate. The beast would come through there in thirty seconds. Unless I changed something.
I grabbed Roth by the collar, dragged him toward the gate.
"What are you doing?" he gasped.
I didn't answer. I hauled him upright, shoved him against the iron bars, and yelled up at the booth.
"You want a show? Open the damn gate!"
Silence. Then the announcer's voice, confused.
"The... the match is over. The victor is—"
"I said open it!" I slammed Roth's head against the bars. "Or do you only release the beast when I'm supposed to die?"
The crowd went quiet.
The announcer didn't respond.
But the gate stayed closed.
I smiled. There it was. Confirmation. Someone was controlling this. Someone in that booth.
I let Roth drop, turned, and walked toward the exit. The guards were waiting, weapons drawn.
"Back to your cell," Scarface said.
I went.
But this time, I counted the steps. Memorized the turns. Found the stairwell that led up to the announcer's level. It was guarded by a single man in an iron mask. Big, armored, holding a pike.
I'd need to go through him.
Next loop.
They threw me back in my cell. I sat on the stone floor, breathing hard, and ran through the new data. The thin man. The token. The ledger. The masked guard.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, I was staring at the cracked ceiling again.
Fourth loop.
I didn't wait for the guard to knock. I stood, stretched, and started planning. The masked guard was the key. He was too big to fight head-on, but I didn't need to fight him.
I needed him to move.
I spent the next three loops testing. In loop four, I picked a fight with Scarface and got stabbed in the gut. In loop five, I set a fire in the prep cell—got beaten unconscious before I could slip past. In loop six, I stole Red Ring's knife during the walk and made it to the stairwell before the masked guard put his pike through my ribs.
Each time, I learned.
His stance. His timing. The way he shifted his weight before a thrust.
Loop seven, I changed tactics.
I killed Roth fast. Then I grabbed his sword and sprinted for the exit before the guards could stop me. They chased me up the stairwell. The masked guard turned to block me.
I threw Roth's sword at his face.
He raised his pike to deflect it.
I slid under his guard, grabbed his ankle, and yanked.
He went down.
I didn't stop. I ran past him, up the stairs, and burst into the announcer's booth. The announcer—a weasel-faced man in silk—yelped and scrambled for a bell.
I grabbed his wrist, slammed him against the wall.
"The ledger," I said. "Where is it?"
"I don't—"
I pressed my forearm against his throat. "Black cover. Red spine. Where?"
He pointed to a cabinet in the corner.
I shoved him aside, yanked the cabinet open. There it was. I grabbed the ledger, flipped it open.
Pages and pages of names. Bets. Sponsors. Fight records.
And on the last page, a single mark. A buyer's seal.
A stylized V.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind me. The guards were coming.
I ripped the page out, stuffed it in my belt, and turned to the announcer.
"Who's V?"
He stared at me, wide-eyed.
"Who is V?" I shouted.
The door burst open. Red Ring and Scarface, weapons drawn.
I looked at the page in my hand. Looked at the announcer.
Then I jumped out the window.
The fall killed me instantly.
I woke up staring at the cracked ceiling.
Loop eight.
And I was smiling.
Because now I had a name.