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I woke up choking on air that didn't taste like blood.
My chest heaved. No hole. No wet heat spreading under my ribs. I slapped my hand against my sternum, felt the muscle move, felt my heart hammer like it was trying to punch through bone.
I was in my apartment.
The blinds were half-open. Morning light cut across the floorboards. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. I grabbed it. The date stared back at me.
Three days earlier.
I sat there for maybe thirty seconds, just breathing. Then I checked my wrist.
The number was still there. Small. Black. Like someone had tattooed it under the skin while I wasn't looking.
07.
"What the hell," I muttered. My voice came out hoarse, like I'd been screaming. Maybe I had. I didn't remember waking up. I remembered the warehouse. The freight lift. Viktor's guy with the suppressed Glock. The sound it made when the round punched through my vest.
I remembered dying.
Now I was here. Again.
I stood up too fast and my knees almost gave out. The apartment was exactly how I'd left it—correction, how I'd left it three days from now. Coffee mug in the sink. Jacket on the chair. The job file still sitting on the kitchen counter, because I'd been stupid enough to print it.
I walked over and flipped it open. Same client. Same target. Same meet location in Prague.
Same job that got me killed.
I closed the file. My hand was shaking. I made it stop.
Okay. So this was real. The reset was real. Which meant I had seventy-two hours to figure out who sold me out, why Viktor's crew was waiting at the exact drop point, and how to stay alive long enough to finish the job.
Or I could run.
I looked at the number on my wrist again. Seven lives left. Maybe. I didn't know the rules. Didn't know if it was seven total or seven more after this one. Didn't know what happened when it hit zero.
I wasn't going to find out by sitting here.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up my contact list. Ava's name sat near the top. She was the one who'd brokered the job. Grey-market intel, clean aliases, and a reputation for not asking questions as long as you paid upfront.
Last time—last loop—I'd trusted her.
This time, I didn't trust anyone.
I called her anyway.
She picked up on the third ring. "You're early."
"Yeah, well. I'm motivated."
"Motivation's cute. Cash is better." Her voice was dry, clipped. I could hear traffic in the background. She was already out, probably meeting another client. Ava didn't sleep much. Said it was bad for business. "What do you need?"
"Same job. Different question."
"I'm listening."
"Who else knows about the Prague drop?"
Silence. Then: "No one. That's the point of paying me."
"Humor me."
"Mark, if you're getting cold feet—"
"I'm not. I just want to know if anyone else came asking."
Another pause. Longer this time. I could almost hear her thinking. Ava was smart. She didn't stay alive in this business by ignoring red flags.
"No one," she said finally. "But if you're worried about a leak, maybe you should look closer to home."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you've worked with a crew before. Maybe one of them got chatty."
I thought about Lea. Last time I'd called her, she'd told me to be careful. She'd sounded worried. But Lea had been out of the game for two years. She ran a clinic in Barcelona now, stitched up bar fights and tourist accidents. She wouldn't sell me out.
Would she?
"Thanks," I said.
"That's it?"
"For now."
"You're being weird, Mark."
"Yeah. I get that a lot."
I hung up before she could ask anything else.
Next step: I needed to get ahead of Viktor. Last time, I'd walked into that warehouse blind. This time, I knew where his guys would be. I knew which door they'd use. I knew the one with the Glock would come in from the left, and the one with the shotgun would cover the freight lift.
I could avoid them.
Or I could take them out first.
I checked the time. If I remembered right, Viktor's crew wouldn't arrive in Prague until tomorrow afternoon. That gave me a day and a half to prep, to move my own timeline up, to grab the package and get out before they even knew I was there.
It was a good plan.
It was also exactly what I'd thought the first time, before someone put a bullet in my chest.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. I needed gear. I needed a new route into the city. And I needed to figure out who the hell was watching me close enough to know I'd be at that warehouse at that exact time.
Because if they knew once, they'd know again.
I was halfway down the stairs when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer. Then I did.
"Mark Weston." The voice on the other end was calm. Male. American accent, maybe East Coast. I didn't recognize it.
"Who's this?"
"Someone who's been watching you die."
I stopped walking.
"You've got seven left," the voice continued. "I thought you'd want to know."
My wrist burned. I looked down. The number was still there. Still 07.
"How do you—"
"Same way you do. Difference is, I'm not the one bleeding out in a warehouse."
I forced my voice steady. "What do you want?"
"I want you to stop running the same play. You think you can outsmart Viktor with three days of hindsight? You can't. He's got someone feeding him real-time intel. You move early, they move earlier. You change the route, they change the ambush."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Stop trying to finish the job. Start trying to find the leak."
The line went dead.
I stood there in the stairwell, phone still pressed to my ear, and tried to breathe.
Someone else knew about the loop.
Someone else was counting my lives.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and kept moving. I didn't have time to process this. I had seventy-two hours, minus the ten minutes I'd already burned.
I hit the street and flagged a cab. Gave the driver an address three blocks from my actual destination, paid in cash, and walked the rest of the way. Old habits. The kind that keep you alive.
The gear locker was in a storage unit under a fake name. I keyed in the code and pulled the door up. Everything was still there. Two handguns, a rifle, body armor, cash, and three clean passports.
I grabbed the Glock and checked the mag. Full. I slid it into my waistband and pulled my jacket over it.
Then I sat down on the concrete floor and made myself think.
Viktor had known I'd be at the warehouse. The mystery caller said someone was feeding him real-time intel. That meant the leak wasn't in the job file. It was in my moves. Someone was watching me, reporting back every time I got close.
Which meant I couldn't run the same route.
I couldn't use the same contacts.
I couldn't trust anyone I'd trusted before.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my messages. Three days ago—three days from now—Lea had texted me. "Be careful in Prague." I'd thought it was just her being Lea. Now I wasn't so sure.
I opened a new message. Typed: "Need a favor. Off the books."
I stared at the screen for a long time before I hit send.
Then I stood up, locked the unit, and started walking.
I had a plan. It wasn't a good one. But it was different, and different was the only advantage I had.
I was going to skip Prague entirely. I was going to track down Viktor's supplier, the one who'd sold him the intel package in the first place. If I could get to the source, I could cut off the feed.
And if I couldn't, I'd die again.
I checked my wrist. The number hadn't changed.
Seven lives.
I wondered how many I'd need.
I made it to the airport two hours later. Bought a ticket to Berlin under one of the clean passports. Sat in the terminal and drank bad coffee while I waited for boarding.
My phone buzzed. Lea. "What kind of favor?"
I typed back: "The kind you don't ask about."
Three dots. Then: "You in trouble?"
"Always."
"Mark."
"I'll explain later. Just need a name. Someone in Berlin who deals in surveillance tech. High-end stuff. The kind that tracks targets across borders."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"There's a guy," she wrote. "Calls himself Frost. Operates out of a club in Kreuzberg. But Mark, if you're going after him, you need to know he's connected. Russian mob, Interpol, maybe worse. He's not someone you walk up to and ask questions."
"I'll manage."
"You better."
I pocketed the phone and boarded the flight.
Five hours later, I was in Berlin. The city was cold, grey, and exactly as unwelcoming as I remembered. I grabbed a cab and gave the driver the name of the club. He didn't ask questions. Smart man.
The place was underground, literally. A concrete stairwell leading down into bass-heavy darkness. I paid the cover and walked in.
The club was packed. Bodies moving in the strobe lights, the air thick with sweat and smoke. I pushed through the crowd and found the bar.
The bartender looked at me once and nodded toward a door in the back.
I went through.
The room behind it was quiet. Soundproofed. A man sat at a table, mid-forties, suit jacket, no tie. Two guys flanked him, both carrying.
"Frost?" I said.
He looked up. Smiled. "Depends who's asking."
"Someone who needs to know who's been tracking me."
"That's a broad question."
"I've got a narrow timeline."
He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat.
"Name?"
"Mark Weston."
His smile widened. "Oh, I know you. Viktor's been asking about you."
My hand moved toward the Glock.
Frost raised a hand. "Relax. I don't work for Viktor. I work for money. And right now, you're more interesting."
"Why?"
"Because you died two days ago. And here you are."
I went still.
Frost leaned back in his chair. "See, I've got eyes in a lot of places. One of them is that warehouse in Prague. My client wanted footage of your body. Proof of kill. Standard contract stuff. But then you disappeared. And this morning, my system flagged your passport at Berlin-Tegel."
He tilted his head.
"So either you've got a twin, or something very strange is happening."
I didn't say anything.
Frost's smile faded. "I don't like strange. Strange is bad for business. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell me how you're still alive. And I'm going to decide whether to sell that information or kill you myself."
One of his guys shifted. I heard the safety click off.
I looked at Frost. Then I looked at the two guns pointed at me.
"Alright," I said. "But you're not going to believe me."
I started talking.
I told him about the reset. About waking up three days earlier. About the number on my wrist. I didn't tell him everything. Just enough to make him curious.
Frost listened. Didn't interrupt. When I finished, he was quiet for a long time.
Then he laughed.
"Time loop. You're telling me you're in a goddamn time loop."
"Yeah."
"Prove it."
I rolled up my sleeve and showed him my wrist.
He leaned forward. Stared at the number. Reached out and touched it. His finger came away clean.
"What happens when it hits zero?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"And you think Viktor's the one burning your lives."
"I think someone's feeding him intel. I think that someone knew I'd be in Prague. I think they'll know wherever I go next."
Frost sat back. Tapped his fingers on the table.
"You're right," he said. "I don't believe you."
He nodded. The guy on my left raised his gun.
I didn't move.
Frost held up a hand. "But I'm curious. So I'm going to make you an offer. You want to know who's tracking you? I'll tell you. For a price."
"Name it."
"When you finish this loop, when you reset, you come back here and you tell me everything. Every detail. Every rule. Every limit. I want to know how it works."
"And if I don't reset?"
"Then I'll have killed the only man who could cheat death. Either way, I win."
I thought about it. Didn't have a choice.
"Deal."
Frost smiled. Pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen a few times, then turned it toward me.
A photo. Blurry. Taken from a rooftop. A man in tactical gear, rifle in hand, eye pressed to the scope.
"That's the one who shot you," Frost said. "He works for a private contractor. British outfit. Very quiet. Very expensive. They don't take jobs unless someone pays seven figures upfront."
"Who hired them?"
"That," Frost said, "is the expensive question."
I stared at the photo. At the rifle. At the angle.
And then I saw it.
The timestamp in the corner. Two days ago. Six hours before I died.
They'd been watching me before I even got to Prague.
I looked up at Frost. "I need a name."
He slid the phone back into his pocket. "I'll get it to you. Twenty-four hours. Check your messages."
"Why help me?"
"Because if you're telling the truth, you're the most valuable asset I've ever met. And if you're lying, you'll be dead soon anyway."
He stood up. His guys lowered their weapons.
"Clock's ticking, Mark. Better make this loop count."
I left the club and walked back into the cold. My phone buzzed. A message from Frost. Just one line.
"They knew you'd come here, too."
I looked up.
Across the street. Rooftop. Third building from the left.
A red dot landed on my chest.
I dove left. The shot cracked past my ear and punched through the wall behind me.
I rolled, came up running, pulled the Glock, and fired twice at the rooftop. Didn't wait to see if I hit anything. Just ran.
Another shot. This one clipped my shoulder and spun me into a parked car. I hit the ground and kept crawling.
Footsteps. Behind me. Close.
I turned, raised the Glock, and froze.
The shooter was standing five feet away. Rifle lowered. No mask. Just a face.
Young. Maybe thirty. Calm.
He looked at me. Looked at the blood spreading across my shoulder.
Then he smiled.
"Boss said you'd come back," he whispered.
The red dot landed between my eyes.
I didn't even hear the shot.