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"You're thinking about killing me."
Iris was sitting at the foot of my bed. Same black coat. Same blood still drying on her fingertips. The clock on my nightstand read 6:47 AM—exactly where it had been before my heart stopped.
"Get out," I said.
"Can't." She tilted her head, studying me the way you'd study a stray dog deciding whether to bite. "You're in the loop now. That means I'm in it too."
I was off the bed before she finished talking. My hand closed around her throat and I slammed her back against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Her pulse jumped under my palm—steady, not scared.
"Break it," I said.
"No."
"I will snap your neck."
"You will," she agreed. Her voice didn't even shake. "And then you'll wake up at 6:47 again. And I'll still be sitting on your bed. We can do this all day, Merrick. I've got time."
I squeezed harder. She didn't flinch.
"Let go," she said quietly, "and I'll explain the rules."
"I don't want rules. I want out."
"Same thing." She wasn't struggling. Wasn't clawing at my hand. Just watching me with those dark eyes like she was waiting for me to catch up. "You going to let go, or do you need to kill me first to prove I'm right?"
I shoved her away. She caught herself against the wall, rolled her shoulders, and smiled.
"Smart," she said.
My hand was burning.
Not pain. Heat. Actual heat radiating from my palm, up my wrist, into my forearm. I looked down and saw smoke curling off my knuckles.
"What the hell—"
"That's new," Iris said. She sounded almost interested. "Fire, huh? Could be worse."
Flames erupted across my fingers.
I jerked back, shaking my hand like I could fling it off. The fire didn't go out. It crawled up to my elbow, blue-white and hungry, eating nothing but air. No pain. Just heat and light and the smell of something burning that wasn't me.
"Turn it off," I said.
"Can't. It's yours."
"I don't want it!"
"Doesn't matter." She stepped closer, and I backed up until my spine hit the dresser. "Every time you die, you wake up with a new power. Fire's not bad for a first draw. I've seen worse."
"You did this."
"Yeah."
"Fix it."
"No."
I swung at her. Flames trailing off my fist like a comet. She ducked under it, came up inside my guard, and pressed two fingers to my sternum—right where she'd pressed the blood last night.
The fire went out.
All of it. Instant. Like she'd flipped a switch.
I was still standing there, arm raised, smoke drifting off my sleeve. My heart was slamming against my ribs. Hers—I could feel it now, her fingers still resting over my chest—was calm.
"See?" she said softly. "I can turn it off. But you can't. Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because it's mine." She stepped back, and I could breathe again. "The curse is mine. The loop is mine. The powers are mine. You're just borrowing them."
"I'm not borrowing anything—"
"You are." She walked past me, sat back down on the bed like we were having coffee. "And if you want out, you're going to do seven jobs for me. That's the deal."
"I don't make deals with people who stop my heart."
"You don't have a choice." She crossed her legs, leaned back on her hands. "You can fight it. Kill me a hundred times. Burn down the whole city if the power lets you. But at 6:47 AM, you'll wake up in this bed, and I'll be sitting right here. The only way out is through."
I wanted to put my hands back on her throat. Wanted to see if the flames would come back, if they'd listen to me this time. But her eyes were steady, and my hand still smelled like smoke.
"Seven jobs," I said.
"Seven jobs."
"And then you break it."
"Then I break it," she agreed. "You'll go back to collecting debts for Voss. I'll go back to being dead broke and in hiding. Everyone wins."
"What kind of jobs?"
"The kind you're good at." She stood, brushed past me toward the door. Close enough that I felt the warmth of her—warmer than my own skin, warmer than the fire had been. "Collecting things. Hurting people who need hurting. Keeping your mouth shut."
"I'm not your enforcer."
"You are now." She stopped at the door, looked back over her shoulder. "First job's tonight. I'll text you the address."
"I don't have your number."
She smiled. It was the same smile she'd worn last night when my heart stopped. "Check your phone."
I pulled it out. New contact. No name. Just a number and a message already waiting:
*2247 Brake Street. 9 PM. Bring something sharp.*
"What's at Brake Street?"
"A man who owes me," Iris said. "And if you don't show, you'll die before midnight. Probably something stupid. Car crash. Choking. Random aneurysm. The curse doesn't like waiting."
She opened the door.
"Wait," I said.
She paused.
"Why me?" I asked. "You could've cursed anyone. Why a debt collector?"
For the first time, something flickered across her face. Not fear. Not guilt. Something colder.
"Because you owe me now," she said quietly. "And people like you always pay."
She left. The door clicked shut. I was alone in my apartment with smoke still rising off my hand and a text message that felt like a leash.
I tried to leave.
Got as far as the parking lot before my chest started hurting. Not my heart—deeper. Like something hooked behind my sternum was pulling me back toward the building. I made it to my car, got the door open, and the pain doubled.
I turned around. Went back inside. The pain stopped.
She hadn't been lying. The curse didn't like waiting.
I spent the next three hours trying to break it. Called every contact I had in the night market. Burned through favors with witches, hexbreakers, a sangromancer who owed me for a quiet disposal last year. No one had heard of a curse that looped time and gave you powers. No one wanted to touch it.
One of them—old Russian woman who read blood like tea leaves—looked at my palm and went pale.
"This is not curse," she said. "This is *punishment*. You do what she says, or you do not stop dying."
She wouldn't say anything else. Wouldn't even take payment.
By eight PM, I was standing outside 2247 Brake Street with a knife in my jacket and a choice I didn't actually have.
The building was a pawn shop. Closed sign in the window. Lights on in the back.
I texted the number.
*I'm here.*
Three dots. Then:
*Good. He's in the office. Don't let him call anyone.*
*What does he owe you?*
No answer.
I tried the door. Unlocked. The bell above it didn't ring—someone had taped the clapper down. Inside smelled like old leather and gun oil. Display cases full of jewelry, watches, cameras. Everything people traded for cash when they ran out of options.
I heard a voice from the back. Male. Angry.
"—told you, I don't have it yet. Give me two more days."
I moved toward the sound. The office door was cracked open. I could see a man inside, mid-fifties, balding, phone pressed to his ear. Sweating.
"I know what I said," he hissed. "I know. But she's not—"
He saw me.
His face went white. He dropped the phone.
"No," he said. "No, I paid. I paid her."
"Apparently not," I said.
He bolted for the back door. I was faster. Grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the desk. The knife was in my other hand before I decided to pull it.
"Wait," he gasped. "Wait, please, I can get it. I can get whatever she wants—"
"What does she want?"
He stared at me. "You don't know?"
"Tell me."
His eyes darted past me, toward the front of the shop. I turned.
Iris was standing in the doorway.
"He sold something that wasn't his," she said. She walked in slowly, hands in her coat pockets. "Something that belonged to my mother. I want it back."
The man started shaking. "I don't have it anymore. I sold it. I swear I didn't know—"
"Who'd you sell it to?" I asked.
He looked at Iris. She nodded.
"A woman," he said. "Red hair. Fancy car. She paid cash. Didn't give a name."
"When?"
"Two weeks ago."
Iris came closer. Close enough that I could feel the temperature shift—she was warmer than the room, warmer than him, warmer than anyone should be.
"What did it look like?" she asked quietly.
He swallowed. "A… a locket. Silver. Had a bird engraved on it. She said it was old magic. I thought—"
"You thought you could sell my mother's death marker," Iris finished. Her voice was flat. "And pocket the cash."
"I didn't know it was yours—"
She looked at me. "Break his hand."
I didn't move.
"Do it," she said, "or I let the curse decide how you die tonight."
The man started begging. I looked down at him, at the knife still in my hand, at Iris standing three feet away with her eyes locked on mine.
"This wasn't the job," I said.
"This is every job," Iris said. "You do what I say. Or you wake up and do it again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. Until you stop fighting and just break his hand."
My palm started tingling. Heat building under the skin.
She smiled. Not cruel. Almost sad.
"Six hours," she said softly. "That's how long you have before the curse kills you. And when you wake up tomorrow, you'll have a new power. Maybe something worse than fire."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I don't have a choice either." She turned toward the door. "Break his hand. Get the name of the buyer. Text me when you're done."
She left.
The man was crying now. My hand was burning again. Smoke starting to curl off my wrist.
And the clock on the wall said 9:17 PM.
Six hours.