The numbers burned into my vision.
23:12:47
They didn't blink.
Didn't fade.
They simply counted down—second by second—like a death sentence carved into my skull.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands clenched so tightly my nails cut into my palms.
"Make contact," I muttered. "That's all you say. How?"
The system remained silent.
Of course it did.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to stand. My legs trembled, not from weakness, but from memory.
In my previous life, I avoided him for years.
I thought distance meant safety.
I was wrong.
I grabbed my phone.
His number was still there.
Pinned.
Untouched.
Just like before.
My finger hovered over the screen.
22:59:01
The countdown pulsed once—slow, deliberate.
A warning.
"If I call him," I whispered, "does that count?"
No response.
My chest tightened. I knew this system well enough already.
It wouldn't answer unless I made the wrong choice.
I pressed the call button.
The ringing tone echoed in the silent room.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
"Hello?"
My breath caught.
His voice was exactly the same. Calm. Controlled. As if he'd never held a knife to my body.
"It's me," I said, forcing my voice steady.
There was a brief pause.
"…Are you okay?"
The question sent a chill down my spine.
In my past life, he never asked that.
"I need to see you," I said. "Today."
Silence stretched between us.
22:41:33
The numbers flashed red.
I clenched my teeth. "If you don't come, I'll come to you."
"…All right," he finally said. "An hour. Same place."
The call ended.
The moment the line went dead, pain exploded in my chest. I collapsed to my knees, gasping.
[Warning.]
[Contact incomplete.]
"What do you want from me?" I screamed.
[Mission Update:]
Contact confirmed only upon physical proximity.
The pain intensified.
My vision blurred as a new message appeared.
[Failure will result in termination.]
I laughed weakly.
"So even calling him isn't enough."
The system did not respond.
But the countdown continued.