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"Don't open it." Emma's hand locked around my wrist before I touched the door.
I looked down at her fingers. White knuckles. Pulse hammering against my skin.
"Your blood's on the other side," I said.
"I know."
"So we open it."
"No." She pulled harder. "Not yet."
I turned. She was close enough I could smell the coffee on her breath, the faint chemical edge of whatever she used to wash that blouse. Her eyes were locked on mine, and they weren't scared.
They were waiting.
"What's in there, Emma?"
"I don't know."
"Liar."
She didn't flinch. "You don't pay me to tell the truth. You pay me to keep you alive."
"You hired me," I said. "Not the other way around."
"That's what you think."
I yanked my wrist free. The door was cheap wood, painted over a dozen times, lock barely holding. I could kick it in. Should've kicked it in.
But Emma stepped between me and the door.
"Three minutes," she said. "That's how far back we went. Kyle said it, remember? Three minutes behind the door."
"So what happens in three minutes?"
"We find out if you're smarter than he is."
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. Unknown number. Text message: one line.
*You opened it last time.*
I showed her the screen.
Emma read it. Didn't react. Just slid her hand into her bag and came out with a phone I'd never seen before. Black brick, no case, screen cracked across the middle.
"What is that?" I said.
"Insurance."
She tapped the screen. It lit up. No apps. No home screen. Just a video file, timestamp running backwards.
00:02:47.
00:02:46.
00:02:45.
She turned the phone so I could see.
The video showed a hallway. This hallway. Same peeling paint, same water-stained ceiling, same door.
Same me, standing in front of it.
"That's live?" I said.
"No. It's three minutes ahead."
I watched myself on the screen. The other Mark looked at his phone, showed it to Emma, then reached for the door.
The door exploded.
Not a bomb. A body. Someone crashed through from the other side, slammed into the other Mark, drove him into the far wall. Blood sprayed. The phone hit the floor. The camera kept rolling.
I couldn't see faces. Just shapes. Two people on the ground, one on top, fists coming down.
Then the screen cut to black.
I looked at Emma. "Where did you get this?"
"From you."
"I didn't give you that."
"Not yet." She pocketed the phone. "But you will. Forty-seven seconds from now, if we follow the script."
"What script?"
"The one Kyle wrote. The one where you open that door, get your face caved in, and I drag you out while he resets and tries again."
My jaw was tight. "How many times has he tried?"
"Seventeen, he said. Could be more. Could be he's lying." She glanced at the door. "Could be this is number eighteen and we're still playing his game."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because somebody has to break the pattern."
I moved past her. Pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. No breathing. No footsteps. Just the hum of bad wiring in the walls and my own heartbeat.
"Mark." Emma's voice, low. "Don't."
"You said I opened it last time."
"And you lost."
"So what do you want me to do? Walk away?"
"I want you to think." She stepped closer. I could feel her behind me, inches away, heat coming off her skin. "Kyle doesn't just know what you do. He knows what you want to do. He's built this whole thing around the fact that you're too stubborn to let a locked door stay locked."
"So you think I should leave your blood on the other side and just walk."
"I think my blood's already dry."
I turned. She was right there. Close enough I had to look down to meet her eyes.
"How do you know?" I said.
"Because I've been here before."
That stopped me.
"When?"
"Two days ago. Forty-eight hours before I walked into your office. I came here looking for answers and found that door. Locked. Blood on the floor. Still wet." She didn't blink. "I called the cops. They broke it down. Nothing inside. Just an empty room and a window somebody left open."
"You didn't mention that in your statement."
"I didn't hire you to hear my statement."
"Then what am I doing here?"
"Learning." She pulled out the black phone again. Tapped the screen. Another video file.
This one showed a room. Small. Concrete floor. Metal chair bolted to the center. And a camera on a tripod, lens pointed at the chair.
Sitting in the chair: me.
Not the me standing in this hallway. Another me. Older. Face bruised. Hands zip-tied behind the chair.
And standing behind the camera: Emma.
I grabbed the phone. She let me.
On screen, Emma circled the chair. The other Mark didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched her.
"Tell me," Emma said on the video. Her voice was different. Harder. "How many loops has he done?"
The other Mark smiled. Blood on his teeth. "You mean how many times has he killed you?"
"Answer the question."
"Twenty-three."
"And you remember all of them?"
"Every single one. You want details? Third time, he drowned you in your bathtub. Seventh time, car bomb. Fifteenth time, sniper shot from the building across the street. You died fast that time. Didn't even feel it."
Emma on the video leaned in. "And this time?"
The other Mark's smile got wider. "This time you shoot me first."
The video cut.
I looked at Emma. The real Emma. Standing in the hallway. Breathing steady.
"When was this?" I said.
"Tomorrow night. If Kyle wins today."
My hand was shaking. I shoved the phone back at her. "You're saying Kyle loops forward too?"
"I'm saying the footage exists."
"That doesn't make sense."
"None of this makes sense. But here we are." She pocketed the phone. "So. Do you open the door, or do you walk away and let me handle it?"
"Handle what?"
"Whatever's waiting."
I looked at the door again. At the blood smeared under the gap at the bottom. At the lock, cheap brass, scratched to hell.
"If I walk away," I said, "what happens to you?"
"Same thing that always happens. I improvise."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Something scraped on the other side of the door.
We both froze.
The scrape came again. Metal on concrete. Slow. Deliberate.
Then a voice. Low. Male. Familiar.
"Mark."
I knew that voice.
"Mark, I know you're out there. I can hear you breathing."
Emma's hand went to her bag. I grabbed her wrist.
"Don't," I whispered.
She didn't pull away. Just held still, eyes locked on mine.
The voice on the other side laughed. "You think she's going to save you? She's the reason you're here. She's the reason you'll always be here."
I let go of Emma. Stepped up to the door. Put my hand on the wood.
"Who is this?" I said.
"You know who I am. You've known since the beginning. You just didn't want to believe it."
"Say the name."
"Thomas."
My chest went cold.
Thomas Grier. My ex-partner. Dead three years. The frame-up that ended my career. The closed case that made me walk away.
"Liar," I said.
"Open the door and find out."
Emma grabbed my shoulder. Pulled hard. I didn't move.
"Mark, don't—"
"He's using Thomas's voice," I said. "That's Kyle. He's in there."
"Then let him stay there."
"No." I reached for the lock.
Emma slammed her palm against the door, inches from my face. "If you open that door, we both die. That's the pattern. That's the loop. Kyle's counting on you being too angry to think straight."
"I'm thinking fine."
"You're thinking like a cop. And cops don't survive this."
I looked at her hand. Still pressed flat against the door. Fingers spread. No ring. No calluses. Nails painted dark red, one chipped.
"What are you?" I said.
"Someone who's tired of watching you die."
The door shook. Once. Hard. Like something heavy hit it from inside.
Emma stepped back. I pulled my gun.
The door shook again. The lock rattled. Wood splintered at the edge.
I aimed center mass. "Get behind me."
"No."
"Emma—"
"If you shoot him, you reset the loop. That's the rule. Kyle dies, time jumps back, he tries again. You have to let him walk out."
The door burst open.
I had one second to see what was inside.
Not Kyle.
Not Thomas.
A camera. Mounted on a tripod. Lens pointed straight at me. Red light blinking.
And on the screen behind it: me, standing in this hallway, gun raised, Emma beside me.
Live feed.
I smashed the camera. Kicked the tripod over. Stomped the lens until it cracked.
The screen stayed on.
The other Mark—the one on the screen—looked straight back at me.
And smiled.
Sirens hit the street outside. Close. Getting closer.
I turned to Emma. "Did you call them?"
She was staring at the screen. At something behind the other Mark.
"Emma."
"Look," she whispered.
I looked.
On the screen, in the background, the door to the stairwell opened.
Lyla stepped through.
My ex-partner. My last friend on the force.
She had her gun out. Aimed at the other Mark's back.
And before I could move, before I could shout, before I could do anything—
The shot fired.
Lyla went down.