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"You look like shit."
Vera's voice hit me through the convenience store glass before I even got the door open. She was behind the register, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Same black hoodie she always wore on night shift. Same way she looked at me when I showed up late, or drunk, or both.
Except I wasn't late. I was twenty-four hours early.
"Yeah, well." I pushed through the door. The little bell rang. My hands were still shaking. "I died yesterday. Or today. I don't know."
She didn't laugh. She just stared at me, and I saw her jaw tighten. "What?"
"The crash," I said. "Under the overpass. The truck flipped, the cab went up, I burned. Then I woke up at dispatch like nothing happened."
Vera came around the counter fast. She grabbed my wrist, pulled it toward the fluorescent light. Her fingers were cold. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." I tried to grin. It didn't land. "Pun intended."
"Mark." Her grip tightened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I pulled my hand back. Looked at the empty aisles, the humming fridge, the security monitor showing the empty parking lot outside. Everything normal. Everything wrong.
"I heard a voice," I said. "Right before the blast. It said 'Subject 447 selected. Protocol live.' Then I woke up yesterday morning, and the whole day played out again. Same dispatch call. Same route. Same—"
"Same what?" She stepped closer. Her voice dropped. "Same crash?"
"No." I shook my head. "I didn't take the job this time. I came straight here."
She studied me. I could see her doing the math, weighing whether I'd finally lost it or if this was something worse. Vera was good at that. She'd been good at reading me when we were together, and she was even better at it after.
"So you're telling me," she said slowly, "that you died in a truck fire, rewound a day, and now you're here."
"Yeah."
"And you think I'm supposed to believe that."
"I think you're supposed to listen." I leaned against the counter. My legs felt like water. "Because the voice didn't just pick me. It said 'protocol live.' That means something's running. Something big."
Vera's eyes flicked to the door. Then back to me. "You high?"
"I wish."
She exhaled through her nose. Reached under the counter and pulled out her phone. Tapped the screen. Frowned.
"What?" I said.
"No signal."
"What do you mean no signal? You've got full bars here."
"Not anymore." She held up the phone. The screen showed nothing. No bars. No carrier name. Just a blank white corner where the network icon should be. "It was fine an hour ago."
I pulled out my own phone. Same thing. Dead air.
"Okay," Vera said quietly. "That's weird."
"Weird doesn't cover it." I pocketed the phone. "When I woke up at dispatch, the sky looked wrong. Like there's a seam in it. And when I tried to call you earlier, the line just cut."
She set her phone down on the counter. Her hand stayed on it. "So what do you want me to do? Run?"
"I want you safe."
"Safe where?" She tilted her head. "If what you're saying is real, if something's got us locked in, where exactly am I supposed to go?"
I didn't have an answer.
Vera pushed past me, walked to the front window. She pressed her palm against the glass, staring out at the empty lot. The streetlights buzzed. Nothing moved.
"I had a dream last night," she said. "I was standing in the middle of the street, and the sky was peeling open. Like someone was pulling back a sheet. And underneath it was just... nothing. Black. Empty."
I went to stand next to her. "Why didn't you call me?"
"Because we're not together anymore, Mark." She didn't look at me. "You don't get to be the guy I call when I'm scared."
"Yeah, well." I swallowed. "I'm the guy who already died. So maybe you make an exception."
She turned. Her face was close. Too close. I could smell her shampoo, that same coconut stuff she used to leave in my shower. Her eyes searched mine.
"Prove it," she said.
"Prove what?"
"Prove you died." Her voice was steady. "Show me something I can't explain away."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. What the hell was I supposed to show her? The burn scars I didn't have anymore? The memory of white fire eating through my skin?
Then I remembered.
The voice. The retinal burn. The words that seared into my vision right before I woke up.
"Look at me," I said.
Vera frowned. "I am looking at you."
"No. Look at my eyes."
I leaned in. She didn't pull back. I watched her pupils dilate, adjust, focus.
And then she went still.
"What the hell is that?" she whispered.
"You see it?"
"There's... text. In your eyes. Like it's burned into your iris." She grabbed my face, turned it toward the light. Her fingers were shaking now. "It says 'Protocol Active. Subject 447. Time Remaining: 71:42:18.'"
"It's counting down," I said.
Her hands dropped. She backed up a step. "Mark."
"I know."
"What happens when it hits zero?"
"I don't know." I met her eyes. "But I don't think it's good."
Vera pressed her knuckles against her mouth. I could see her breathing speed up, see her trying to process. Then she lowered her hand and pointed at me.
"If you're lying to me," she said, "if this is some kind of sick joke—"
"It's not."
"Then we need to get out of here."
"Out where? Vera, listen—"
"No, you listen." She grabbed her jacket from behind the counter. "If something's got us trapped, if there's a countdown, then we find the edge. We test it. We see how far this thing goes."
"And if we can't get out?"
She zipped the jacket. Looked at me hard. "Then we find whoever's running it, and we make them stop."
I wanted to tell her it wasn't that simple. That the voice didn't sound human. That the crash felt engineered, like someone had been watching me, waiting for the exact right second to flip the switch.
But Vera was already moving toward the door.
"Wait," I said.
She stopped. Turned.
I crossed the store in three steps. Took her hand. She let me, but barely. Her fingers were stiff in mine.
"What?" she said.
I was about to answer when I saw it.
Silver lines. Thin, faint, flickering under the skin of her wrist. Like circuitry. Like something growing.
"Vera," I said slowly. "When did you get that?"
She followed my gaze. Looked down at her wrist. Frowned.
"Get what?"
I turned her hand over. The lines were clearer now. They pulsed once, twice, then faded back under her skin.
"That," I said.
She stared. Her breath caught. "I don't—"
The lights in the store flickered.
We both looked up.
When I looked back down, the silver lines were gone. But I'd seen them. And so had she.
"Mark," Vera said quietly. "What the hell is happening to me?"
I didn't answer. Because I was looking past her now, through the window, at the parking lot.
There was something standing under the streetlight.
It was tall. Too tall. No face. Just a smooth oval where the head should be. It wore a long coat, hands in its pockets, standing perfectly still.
Watching us.
I'd seen it once before. In the last loop. Right before the crash.
"Don't move," I whispered.
Vera froze. "What is it?"
"Behind you. In the lot."
She turned her head slowly. I felt her hand tighten in mine.
"Oh my god," she breathed.
The thing tilted its head.
And then it raised one hand and pointed.
Straight at me.
The countdown in my vision sped up. The numbers blurred, flickered, then locked again.
"Subject 447 flagged," a voice said. Not out loud. Inside my skull. Flat. Mechanical. "Secondary subject identified. Vera Zhao. Designation: Subject 448."
Vera's wrist lit up. The silver lines flared bright, racing up her arm, under her sleeve, spreading.
"Mark," she gasped. "Mark, it hurts—"
I pulled her back from the window. The thing in the lot took one step forward.
The streetlight above it went out.
And in the dark, I saw its face split open.
Not a mouth. Not eyes.
Just a grid of light, cold and white, scanning the store.
Scanning us.
"Run," I said.
Vera didn't argue.
We bolted for the back door. I heard glass crack behind us. Heard something move, fast, wrong, like joints bending backward.
I shoved the door open, dragged Vera through, slammed it shut.
We were in the alley. Dumpsters. Graffiti. The stink of old fry oil.
Vera pulled her sleeve up. The silver lines covered her whole forearm now, branching, multiplying.
"It's not stopping," she said. Her voice cracked. "Mark, it's not stopping—"
I grabbed her shoulders. Looked her in the eye.
"We're going to figure this out," I said. "I'm not letting you turn into whatever that thing is."
She nodded. Once. Hard.
Then something scraped against the door behind us.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like it knew we were listening.
"Move," I said.
We ran.
But the countdown in my vision kept ticking.
And I could still see the silver lines glowing under Vera's skin, brighter with every step.