Volume 1 · Chapter 2Silver‑Haired Prophecy
Ren's body ached with every heartbeat. His side throbbed where the shard of metal had bitten into his flesh, and sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill of the ruined plaza. He had chased the silver‑haired girl into a narrow alley, weaving between toppled statues and shattered storefronts, but now she stood just out of reach, sketchbook clutched to her chest.
"Wait!" Ren called. His voice sounded thin and cracked. He swallowed, fighting the dizziness. "Please—help me."
She regarded him with luminous eyes—pale as moonlight—and hesitated. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slackened. She lifted the sketchbook, thumb brushing back a lock of hair, and with a quiet murmur slipped several pages free.
Ren stepped forward as best he could. His leg was stiff, and each move sent a jolt of pain along his ribs. He realized then how close he was to collapse. The girl—Chu, he thought her name must be—bit her lip, as though weighing some inner fear. At last she knelt in front of him, flipping open her ragged packet of pages to reveal neat, precise drawings: diagrams of pressure points, swirling arrows indicating the flow of energy around a human torso.
"Hold still," she said softly, voice barely above a whisper.
He winced but obeyed. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small, leather‑wrapped bundle tied with string. Untying it, she revealed cloth strips and a tiny vial of pale blue liquid. Ren's breath hitched. Is it… medicine?
She dipped a cloth strip into the liquid and folded it carefully, then pressed it to the wound on his side. He tasted copper on his tongue as he exhaled sharply—both from the sting of the antiseptic and the shock of being touched. Her fingers hovered for a moment, trembling, before she wrapped the strip around his torso with firm, practiced precision.
The pressure was uncomfortable, but the bleeding slowed. Ren stared at her face, searching for a flicker of warmth, some sign of trust. Chu's expression was guarded—but not unkind.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked, voice low. "You told me—"
She cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I didn't tell you anything yet." Her tone was abrupt, almost defensive, as she tucked the vial back into her pocket. "My mistakes—" She stopped, shook her head, then forced a brittle smile. "That's later. For now, you owe me silence."
Ren closed his mouth. The raw ache in his ribs made words feel like shards of glass. He nodded once.
Chu rose to her feet and offered him a hand. Ren accepted it, surprised at her strength. With her help, he stood upright, and she guided him deeper into the alley's gloom. The green aurora‑light from above filtered through cracks in the collapsed walls, giving the rubble an otherworldly sheen.
They walked in silence until they reached a small alcove sheltered by a collapsed overpass. Chu brushed rubble aside, revealing an old air‑duct entrance. She ducked inside and beckoned. "Through here."
Ren glanced back toward Cadence Station's clocktower, now distant but still glowing its ominous Day 42. His pulse quickened. Time… He pushed the thought aside—he would find answers soon enough. He followed Chu into the tight, metal corridor.
The interior smelled of rust and damp earth. Chu lit a small lantern she carried, its pale flame dancing across pipes and cables. Ren's boots clanged on the duct's grated floor. He winced as the wrap around his side tightened.
"Why are you here?" Chu asked after a moment, voice echoing softly. "No one stays long in Cadence Station."
Ren hesitated. Trust. He thought of the clock stopped at 8:07, of the spiral countdown in her sketchbook. She knows more than she'll say. "I—I woke up in the plaza," he admitted. "I don't remember… anything before that."
Chu's lantern flickered, casting shifting shadows on her face. For the first time, he saw the strain in her violet‑gray eyes. "You're like all the others," she whispered. "Fated to forget."
Ren frowned. "Fated?"
She exhaled, glancing around as though the walls themselves might be listening. "Every forty‑two days," she said, voice low, "time resets. Everyone here wakes with no memory of what came before."
A chill ran down Ren's spine. Forty‑two days… He recalled the tower's frozen face: Day 42. The number echoed in his mind like a tolling bell. "So… none of us," he began slowly, "no one remembers past loops?"
Chu nodded. "Each cycle—you wake, you survive, you die or vanish, and then it all begins again."
Ren looked down at his hands, which shook slightly. He forced himself to inhale deeply. "But why?"
Chu lifted the lantern higher, revealing a sudden widening of the duct ahead—a makeshift hideout carved into the concrete. Within lay a small camp: scavenged blankets, a stack of food cans, and—most unsettling—a dozen tacked‑up sketches of Ren's face, each labeled Loop 1, Loop 2, Loop 3… up to Loop 41.
Ren's breath caught. "These… are my faces?"
"Not yours," Chu corrected, voice trembling. "Yours and mine—us. I draw you to remember, because I'm the only one who can." She crouched beside the sketches, brushing a fingertip across Loop 41's drawing. "I'm Chu. I've been here for one hundred thirty‑four loops."
One hundred thirty‑four. The number slammed into Ren's chest. He blinked, mind reeling. "One hundred thirty‑four?"
Chu nodded, eyes distant. "My father's experiment tore open time. My mother's soul… got caught in the rift. I'm the anchor. Until she's free, I can't leave." She twisted a lock of silver hair. "All I can do is try to save you—so maybe one day someone can save me."
Ren stared at her, understanding dawning. She's endured this cycle countless times—watched hundreds of versions of me forget her. He felt a surge of compassion—and dread. "Why tell me now?"
Chu closed her eyes, shoulders trembling. "Because I'm tired of cycles. I'm tired of losing you—of losing hope." She opened her eyes, glare fierce. "I need someone to remember beside me."
Silence settled between them, heavy and expectant. Ren swallowed. The weight of her confession pressed on him like the very walls around them. He recalled the antiseptic sting, the careful pressure of her bandages, the solemnity in her eyes. She trusted me.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then I'll remember." His voice was firm, though his heart pounded. "I'll remember every loop. We'll find a way to end this."
Chu's eyes shone with fragile hope. She offered him a thin smile—brave, determined. "Good. Because the cycle won't wait."
From somewhere above, a distant chime tolled—soft, echoing through broken concrete. Ren glanced up at the faint light filtering through the grate. They have only forty‑two days.
He exhaled and squared his shoulders. "Then let's begin."
Together, they rose. Outside, the ruined city waited—its countdown already in motion.