The tile was cold against her cheek. That was the only thing that felt real.
Everything else was fire. A white-hot, jagged line of agony radiated from her abdomen, pulsing in time with the fading rhythm of her heart. Maya tried to inhale, but her lungs were heavy, filled with something wet and metallic. She coughed, and a spray of crimson painted the pristine white marble of the kitchen floor.
She couldn't move her legs. She could only watch the shoes.
They were Italian leather. Black. Polished to a mirror shine. She could see the distorted reflection of her own terrified eye in the toe cap.
"Disappointing," a voice said. It wasn't angry. It wasn't manic. It was the smooth, velvet baritone of a man critiquing a wine that had turned to vinegar. "You panicked, Maya. Again."
Julian crouched down. He was wearing the charcoal suit—the one he wore for board meetings, and apparently, for murder. He didn't look like a monster. He looked like a god carved from ice. His face was sympathetic, his brow furrowed with a concern that made Maya want to scream, if only she had the breath.
He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her damp forehead. His touch was tender. A lover's touch.
"I calculated the trajectory to miss the major arteries," Julian whispered, glancing at the knife that lay a few feet away. "You should have had at least four minutes of consciousness left. Enough for us to talk about why you tried to leave me. But your blood pressure spiked. Shock set in too early."
Maya's vision blurred at the edges. A high-pitched whine filled her ears—the sound of a television left on static. The room began to tilt.
"P-please," she gurgled.
"Shh," Julian soothed. He raised his left hand. On his wrist sat a device that looked like an expensive smartwatch, but thicker, humming with a faint violet light that made the air smell like burnt sugar. He tapped the glass face with a practiced, bored rhythm. "Don't worry, darling. We'll get it right next time. I just need to adjust the variables."
He looked her in the eyes, smiling with a terrifying, empty warmth.
"See you yesterday, Maya."
He pressed the bezel.
The world shattered into white.
7:00 AM.
Maya gasped, her body jolting upright in the bed. Her hands flew to her stomach, clutching at silk sheets, fingers digging into her skin, searching for the wound.
Smooth skin. No blood. No hole.
She hyperventilated, the air tearing through her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled backward, hitting the padded headboard, her eyes darting around the room.
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. The Seattle skyline was grey and rainy in the distance, but in here, it was warm. The smell of fresh espresso drifted from the other room.
"Easy, easy," a voice murmured from the doorway.
Maya flinched so hard her neck cracked.
Julian stood there. He wasn't wearing the charcoal suit. He was in grey sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt, looking sleepy and impossibly handsome. He held two mugs of coffee.
"Bad dream?" he asked, walking toward the bed.
Maya couldn't speak. Her brain was misfiring, trying to reconcile two opposing realities. In one, she was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. In this one, she was safe in the most expensive apartment in the city, with the man who claimed to adore her.
"I..." Maya's voice was a rasp. She touched her stomach again. The phantom pain was there—a dull, throbbing ache, like a bruise deep inside the muscle. "I felt... I felt dying."
Julian sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He set the coffees on the nightstand and reached for her. Maya shrank back instinctively, her breath hitching.
Julian paused, his hand hovering in the air. For a micro-second—less than a blink—his expression shifted. The concern vanished, replaced by something cold and clinical, like a scientist observing a rat in a maze. But then, the mask was back. He looked hurt.
"Maya?" he said softly. "You're shaking."
"I had a nightmare," she whispered, the lie tasting like ash. "You... you stabbed me."
Julian let out a soft, incredulous laugh. He reached out and finally touched her cheek. His skin was warm. "Me? Hurt you? Maya, look at this place. Look at us. I built this entire life to keep you safe."
He leaned in and kissed her forehead. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and ozone—hit her. It was the same scent she had smelled while dying.
"Drink your coffee," he said, standing up. "I have a meeting at ten, but I ordered that breakfast you like. The acai bowl."
Maya watched him walk toward the bathroom. "Julian?"
"Mm?" He paused at the door.
"What suit are you wearing today?"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "The charcoal one. Why?"
A chill, colder than the grave, swept down Maya's spine.
The shower water was scalding hot, but Maya couldn't stop shivering.
She stood under the spray, scrubbing at her stomach until the skin was raw and red. She needed to feel something real.
It was a dream, she told herself. Just a vivid, psychotic dream. Stress. It's finals week. Julian is intense, yes. Possessive, maybe. But he isn't a murderer.
She turned off the water and stepped out, wiping the steam from the mirror. She stared at her reflection. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She looked older than twenty-four. She looked haunted.
She reached for her toothbrush, but her hand froze.
On the glass shelf above the sink, Julian's razor sat at a precarious angle.
It's going to fall, a voice in her head whispered.
Clatter.
Before she could process the thought, the razor slid off the wet shelf and hit the porcelain sink with a sharp clack.
Maya stared at the razor. Her breath caught. She had known. She had known the sound, the timing, the exact angle it would land.
Déjà vu.
But this wasn't the soft, fuzzy feeling of having been somewhere before. This was high-definition. This was a script she had already read.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a thick sweater to hide her trembling. She walked out into the living area. The penthouse was an open-concept marvel of glass and steel, suspended thirty stories above the city. Usually, she loved the view. Today, it felt like a cage.
Julian was in the kitchen. He was dressed in the charcoal suit. He was tightening his tie in the reflection of the microwave.
"You look beautiful," he said without turning around.
"Thanks," Maya said. Her voice sounded tinny to her own ears.
She walked to the kitchen island. A bowl of fruit sat in the center. A ceramic knife block stood next to the espresso machine.
"I was thinking," Julian said, turning to face her. He leaned against the counter, crossing his ankles. "We should go to the gala on Friday. I know you hate crowds, but I want to show you off."
Maya gripped the edge of the counter. "I have to study, Julian."
"You can study later. You have all the time in the world."
All the time in the world. The phrase made her nausea spike.
"Julian," she said, testing the water. "Did we argue last night?"
He tilted his head. "Argue? No. We watched a movie. You fell asleep on my shoulder. It was perfect."
"Right," she breathed. "Right."
She reached for an apple from the bowl. Her hand brushed against a ceramic mug sitting near the edge of the island.
Flash.
Suddenly, the kitchen wasn't sunny. It was dark. Maya saw the mug flying through the air. She saw it shatter against the wall. She heard Julian screaming, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "Why can't you just be happy? Why do I have to keep fixing you?"
Then, the stab of pain in her stomach.
Maya gasped and jerked her hand back from the apple.
"Careful," Julian said.
He moved toward her. To help her? Or to hurt her? Maya didn't know. Her instincts were screaming at her to run, to bolt for the elevator, to get as far away from this beautiful man as possible.
"I need to go," she blurted out. "Library. I'm late."
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
She grabbed her bag and turned toward the door.
"Maya."
The tone of his voice stopped her. It wasn't loud. It was just... heavy.
She turned slowly. Julian was standing by the island. He was holding the ceramic knife. He was slicing the apple she had almost touched. The sound of the blade cutting through the crisp fruit was deafening in the silent apartment.
Crunch. Slice. Crunch.
"You're acting strange," Julian said, not looking up from his task. The blade glinted in the sunlight. "You're acting like you're guilty of something."
"I'm just tired," Maya said, backing away.
"You know I hate it when you lie to me." Julian set the knife down. He looked up.
His eyes were wrong.
For a second, they didn't focus on her face. They focused on a spot in the air just above her head, as if reading invisible text. He tapped the thick, violet-faced watch on his wrist.
"Hypothesis," he muttered to himself, barely audible. "Subject retains residual memory from Loop 143 due to cortisol spike."
"What?" Maya whispered.
Julian blinked, and the mask slammed back into place. He smiled—a dazzling, charming, million-dollar smile.
"I said, don't work too hard, babe. I'll see you tonight."
Maya didn't wait. She turned and ran.
She sprinted to the elevator, jamming her thumb against the down button. The doors slid open, and she threw herself inside, hammering the button for the lobby.
As the doors began to close, she looked back through the gap.
Julian hadn't moved. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching her. He wasn't smiling anymore. He raised his wrist, looking at the watch, his thumb hovering over the bezel.
He wasn't looking at a watch. He was looking at a timer.
The elevator doors clamped shut, severing the sight of him. Maya collapsed against the metal wall, sliding down to the floor, clutching her stomach where the phantom wound burned.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket to call her sister, to call the police, to call anyone.
She looked at the date on the screen.
Tuesday, October 14th.
Maya stopped breathing.
Yesterday was Tuesday, October 14th. She had taken a test yesterday. She had submitted a paper. She had lived this day.
She stared at the phone until the screen went black.
She wasn't crazy. She wasn't dreaming.
She was repeating.
And looking at the darkness of the elevator shaft rushing by, Maya realized the terrifying truth. Julian hadn't missed the artery by accident. He hadn't failed to kill her.
He was practicing.