There was no time to scream.
No time to fight.
Only silence.
The blade punctured his heart so smoothly it almost felt intentional, like the monster knew exactly how to carve through a human soul. The pain didn't just slice through his chest—it echoed into his bones, into his thoughts.
Then…
Darkness.
Heavy. Eternal. Soft, almost comforting.
And—
Breath.
A gasp tore through his throat like he'd been underwater for days.
His eyes snapped open.
He was lying down again. The cold floor pressing against his back. No blood. No wound. No monster.
Only the humming silence of that dim, accursed room.
People around him… unbroken, unaware.
It was the same. All of it. Exactly the same.
Alex stood up.
His hands flew to his chest.
No wound.
No pain.
Just the memory. The memory of what had just happened.
He had died.
That wasn't a nightmare. That wasn't some twisted hallucination.
He had felt the blade.
Felt it.
Died.
And now he was here again.
Alive.
Back.
---
He didn't speak for minutes.
Just watched. Every breath felt like a betrayal of logic.
The same boy who would soon scream and rip at his skin sat beside a girl who would crawl into a corner and vomit. The walls hadn't changed. The flickering torch still buzzed faintly.
It was too perfect.
Not a single detail out of place.
> "No… No, this isn't—" Alex muttered.
But before the thought could finish—
The visions returned.
Voices in the walls.
Shadows behind his eyes.
He knew what came next.
And yet, he could do nothing.
Panic surged through the crowd.
The chain reaction began again.
A girl slammed her head against the stone.
The man next to her screamed about rats in his mouth.
And Lysandra?
Still whispering.
Still clinging to those fake, fragile words.
---
When the monster came, it wasn't a surprise.
It was a promise kept.
The mask. The blade. The silence.
Alex tried to dodge.
Tried to move.
It was faster.
Smarter.
The pain was different this time—more drawn out. The dagger didn't aim for the heart. It dug into his abdomen. Twisted. Ripped upward.
His scream was short-lived.
Then—
Silence.
---
Again.
Breath. Air. The room.
He awoke with a cough and a scream caught in his throat.
His fists pounded the ground.
> "Why? Why am I back?! What do you want from me?!"
No answer.
Not from the walls.
Not from the monster.
Not even from himself.
---
He stood this time.
Shaky legs. Ragged breaths.
People stared.
He didn't care.
He grabbed the nearest person by the shoulders.
> "Listen to me. You have to fight it. Don't trust what you see. Don't trust what you hear. This place—it's not—"
The man punched him in the face.
Alex reeled back, nose bleeding.
He collapsed, laughing.
It wasn't funny.
But his mind didn't know how else to process it.
Everything repeated.
The same people.
The same screams.
The same blade.
And the same end.
---
Death didn't hurt anymore.
Not really.
What hurt was waking up.
Knowing he had to watch it all again.
Feel it again.
Try again.
Even when it made no difference.
---
Time lost meaning.
There were moments when he cried into his knees.
Other times he sat in the center of the room, waiting for the monster like an old friend.
Sometimes he tried warning people.
Sometimes he screamed until his throat bled.
Nothing ever changed.
No matter what he did.
The visions always came.
The monster always followed.
And he always died.
---
But then, in one repetition, something small shifted.
A second earlier than usual—Lysandra reached for him.
Just a twitch of her fingers.
Nothing more.
But it hadn't happened before.
He stared at her.
> "You… moved."
She blinked at him, confused.
The hallucinations began. Her mouth opened to recite the words—
But stopped.
Only for a moment.
Then she resumed.
But Alex saw it. Felt it.
A crack.
Tiny.
But real.
---
He clung to it like a dying man to a ledge.
He began studying every moment.
Every breath.
Memorizing when the visions started.
Which person went mad first.
How long it took the monster to arrive.
If he moved a few steps to the left—did the attack come sooner?
If he touched someone's shoulder—did their death speed up?
Each cycle, he learned.
Each death, he adjusted.
Not that it saved him.
But it gave him purpose.
And purpose was the only thing keeping him sane.
---
One day, he didn't scream when the blade came.
He whispered instead:
> "Too slow this time."
The mask twitched—just slightly.
Almost… amused.
---
And so, the deaths continued.
But something inside Alex began to shift.
His fear turning into cold resolve.
The pain dulled into information.
The madness around him became a pattern.
He still cried most of the time.
Still begged for it to stop.
Still broke down on the floor and screamed until his throat was on the verge of bleeding.
But now?
Now, he counted.
Now, he observed.
And every time he died, he carried something back.
A memory.
A reaction.
A crack in the perfect loop.
And he swore—
He swore through bloodied teeth and fractured ribs:
> "I'll break this room before it breaks me."