The elevator ascent to the penthouse took exactly forty-two seconds. Maya counted them.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
Beside her, Julian hummed a low, classical tune. He was vibrating with a restless energy, the kind of manic enthusiasm a child displays before opening a birthday present. But Julian's presents usually involved scalpels or gravity.
"You're going to love this," Julian said, checking his reflection in the polished brass doors. He adjusted his tie—a silk crimson knot that looked like a fresh wound against his white collar. "I've been planning this particular evening for... well, for a very long time relative to my perspective."
"Forty-two," Maya whispered as the bell dinged.
The doors slid open.
The apartment had been transformed.
Usually, the penthouse was a cold shrine to minimalism: white marble, black leather, chrome accents. But tonight, the main living area was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of hundreds of candles. They were everywhere—lining the floor, clustered on the shelves, floating in bowls of water on the coffee table.
In the center of the room, a table was set for two. Crystal glasses sparkled in the candlelight. A bottle of wine, uncorked, sat breathing.
But it wasn't the romance that made Maya's blood run cold. It was the music.
A vintage record player in the corner was scratching out a jazz song. "I'll Be Seeing You."
Maya's hand flew to her stomach.
Loop 89.
She hadn't read about Loop 89 in the notebook yet, but the memory hit her like a physical slap. This song. This candlelight. She remembered the smell of burning wax mixed with the copper tang of blood. He had strangled her during the saxophone solo in Loop 89 because she had spilled the wine.
"It's beautiful, Julian," Maya said. Her voice was steady, anchored by the weight of the notebook hidden in her coat pocket.
"It's not finished," Julian said, gesturing toward the bedroom. "Go inside. On the bed. Put it on."
Maya didn't argue. She walked to the bedroom, her legs feeling like lead.
Lying on the duvet was a box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a dress.
It was red. Not just red—it was the color of arterial spray. It was silk, backless, and terrifyingly elegant.
Maya stripped off her wet clothes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Her skin was pale, translucent almost. She looked like a ghost haunting her own life. She quickly transferred the small leather notebook from her coat lining to the waistband of her underwear, praying the silk dress would hide the bulge.
She pulled the dress on. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. He had probably tailored it over a dozen timelines to fit her exact measurements.
She walked back out.
Julian was pouring the wine. He looked up, and for a moment, the madness in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a look of genuine, awe-struck adoration.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
He pulled out her chair. Maya sat. The silk of the dress was cool against her skin.
"What are we celebrating?" she asked, reaching for her water glass. Her throat was parched.
"Progress," Julian said, sitting opposite her. He picked up his wine glass. "To Loop 144. The loop where you finally accepted your role."
Maya froze. She stared at him over the rim of her glass.
"My role?"
"The Muse," Julian said, taking a sip. "Every artist needs a Muse. Someone to inspire the work. Someone to die for the art."
He picked up a silver bell and rang it.
The kitchen door swung open. Maya flinched, expecting a waiter, a chef, someone.
But it was a cart. A robotic serving cart, sleek and silent, rolled into the room. It carried two covered silver platters.
There were no witnesses. Just the two of them and the machine.
Julian stood and lifted the dome off Maya's plate.
It was a steak. Rare. Bloody juices pooled around the meat, soaking into the white potatoes.
"Your favorite," Julian said. "Filet Mignon. I cooked it myself."
Maya stared at the meat. In Loop 12, the notebook said he had used poison. Almonds.
She leaned in, pretending to smell the aroma. She sniffed for the sickly-sweet scent of cyanide. She smelled nothing but rosemary and garlic.
"It looks delicious," she said.
"Eat," Julian commanded gently. "It's getting cold."
Maya picked up her knife and fork. The silverware was heavy, balanced. Sharp.
She cut a small piece. She put it in her mouth. She chewed. She swallowed.
Julian watched her, his own food untouched. He was studying her throat as she swallowed, tracking the movement of her muscles.
"So," he said, leaning back. "Tell me about your day. Did you learn anything interesting at the university?"
Maya's grip on the fork tightened. This was the test.
"I went to the Physics lecture," she said, deciding to gamble. "They were talking about... elasticity."
Julian's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? I thought you were strictly Psychology."
"I wanted to understand your work better," Maya said, meeting his gaze. "I wanted to understand us."
Julian smiled. It was a slow, spreading expression that didn't reach his eyes. "And what did you conclude?"
"That tension," Maya said, repeating the concept she had read on a poster in the hallway, "creates potential energy. If you stretch something too far, it doesn't just snap. It explodes."
Julian chuckled. He swirled his wine. "You're threatening me, Maya. That's adorable."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He slid it across the table toward her.
"I have a surprise for you. Look at the screen."
Maya looked.
It was a live video feed.
The camera was grainy, hidden somewhere high up. It showed a living room. A beige couch. A TV playing a reality show. And a girl sitting on the couch, eating popcorn.
Chloe.
Maya dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the china.
"What is this?" Maya whispered. The air left the room.
"Your sister has a lovely apartment," Julian said casually, cutting his steak. "Did you know she leaves her balcony door unlocked? It's very unsafe. Anyone could just... walk in."
"Julian, stop."
"I've been thinking about variables," Julian continued, ignoring her. "You see, you're the constant. But Chloe? She's a variable. If I reset the day, she resets too. But..."
He paused, chewing thoughtfully.
"If I were to, say, send a contractor to pay her a visit... and if that contractor were to remove her from the equation before I hit the button..."
He tapped the violet face of his watch.
"I wonder if the grief would carry over. I wonder if you'd remember her death in the next loop, even if she was alive again. The trauma would be a permanent stain on the timeline. A permanent scar on your psyche."
Maya stood up, her chair scraping screechingly against the floor.
"Don't you touch her!" she screamed.
"Sit down," Julian said. His voice didn't rise. It just dropped an octave, becoming absolute.
Maya stood there, trembling. The red dress felt like it was suffocating her. The candle flames flickered in her vision.
"I said, sit down."
Maya slowly sank back into her chair.
"Good," Julian said. "Now, finish your steak."
Maya picked up her fork with a shaking hand. She took a bite. It tasted like ash.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
"I'm a perfectionist," Julian corrected. "And tonight, the scene is almost right. The lighting is good. The dress is stunning. But the emotion..."
He sighed, looking disappointed.
"It's still fear. I don't want fear, Maya. I want despair. Despair is beautiful. Fear is just... biological."
He stood up and walked around the table. He stood behind her chair. Maya stiffened, waiting for the wire, the knife, the hands.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear.
"I know about the coat."
Maya stopped breathing.
"I know you think you're clever," Julian murmured, his hands resting on her bare shoulders. His thumbs dug into her clavicles. "Hiding little notes. Leaving yourself clues. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the discrepancy in the fabric weight? I measure everything, Maya. To the gram."
He reached down. Maya thought he was going to strangle her.
Instead, he reached for her wine glass. He picked it up and drank from it, right where her lips had touched.
"But I didn't take it," he said softly. "Because it makes the game more fun. It gives you hope. And hope... hope is the necessary precursor to true despair."
He walked back to the record player. The song had ended. The needle was bumping against the center label. Thump. Thump.
"The dinner was a solid B-minus," Julian critiqued, looking at the wall. "The lighting was good, but your dialogue was clunky. And the threat against Chloe was a bit cliché on my part. I can do better."
He turned to face her.
"I think we should try the 'Jealousy' angle next. Loop 145. I'll bring a date home. Yes... that will be interesting."
He raised his wrist. The violet light of the Chronos device pulsed, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.
"No!" Maya cried out. She stood up, knocking her chair over. "Wait! We don't have to reset! I can do it better! Just—"
"Too late," Julian smiled. "Cut."
He pressed the button.
CLICK.
The candles, the red dress, the smell of rosemary, the video feed of Chloe—it all twisted. The room elongated, stretching like taffy. The sound of the jazz music slowed down into a demonic groan.
Maya reached out, her fingers inches from the steak knife. If she could just hold onto it. If matter remembers.
Her fingers brushed the cold silver handle.
Then, the white blindness took her.
7:00 AM.
Maya woke up screaming.
She thrashed in the sheets, her hand still clutching at empty air, her muscles coiled to strike.
"Shh, shh, it's okay."
Julian's voice.
Maya froze. She opened her eyes.
Sunlight. Coffee smell.
She was back in the bed. Julian was sitting next to her, wearing the grey sweatpants. He looked concerned.
But Maya wasn't looking at him.
She was looking at her right hand.
She was clenching her fist so hard her fingernails were digging into her palm. She slowly, painfully, uncurled her fingers.
There, pressed into the soft skin of her palm, was a deep, red indentation. A pattern.
The pattern of the silver handle of a steak knife.
She hadn't brought the knife back. But the pressure... the physical impact of holding it as the timeline snapped... it had left a mark.
Julian followed her gaze. He looked at her hand. He saw the mark.
His eyes narrowed.
"Rough night?" he asked, his voice losing its warmth.
Maya looked at him. She closed her hand into a fist, hiding the mark.
"Just a dream," she said. Her voice was flat. Dead.
"I see," Julian said. He stood up. "Well, get up. I have a surprise for you. I'm bringing a friend over for dinner tonight. A woman I work with. I think you'll hate her."
He walked to the door.
"Oh, and Maya?"
"Yes?"
"Wear the red dress. The one in the box."
He left the room.
Maya threw the covers off. She scrambled for her coat, hanging in the closet where it always was at 7:00 AM. She ripped the lining open.
The notebook was there.
She grabbed a pen. Her hands were shaking, but not from fear. From hatred.
She opened the book to a new page and wrote two words.
SAVE CHLOE.
Then, she looked at the red indentation on her hand again.
It faded as the blood returned to the tissue. But for a second, she had held onto the previous loop.
She wasn't just a passenger anymore. She was becoming an anchor.