The contract was still damp from the rain when Min-ho locked it in the floor safe behind his desk. He didn't need to read it. He knew every clause, every typo, and the exact slant of Hana's signature.
He looked at his hands. They were trembling.
Don't look at her, he told himself. If you look at her too long, you'll remember the 42nd loop. The one where you took her to Jeju Island. The one where she wore a yellow dress and told you she loved the smell of the ocean right before the cliff gave way.
"Mr. Kang? Should I... start now?"
Hana was standing by the door, her oversized trench coat making her look smaller than she was. She was fidgeting with the strap of her bag a nervous habit she'd had since she was six.
"Your desk is in the outer office," Min-ho said, his voice a flat, metallic rasp. "You will sort the physical mail. No digital filing. I want you occupied with paper. It's slower."
Hana frowned. "Paper? In a tech conglomerate? Isn't that a bit... inefficient?"
"Efficiency is not your concern. Staying where I can see you is." He walked toward her, his expensive leather shoes clicking like a metronome. He stopped just inches away, close enough to see the dampness of her lashes. "From 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM, you are a ghost. You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't offer opinions. And you certainly don't tell me what I am 'feeling'."
Hana didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, her brown eyes scanning his face with that terrifying, intuitive lucidity.
"You're doing it again," she whispered.
Min-ho stiffened. "Doing what?"
"Your pulse," she said, pointing to the vein in his neck. "It's thrumming like a trapped bird. And your eyes... you're looking at me like I'm already gone. Why are you mourning someone who's standing right in front of you?"
Min-ho's breath hitched. She's too smart. She was always too smart. In the 12th loop, her curiosity had been what got her killed; she had uncovered a corporate conspiracy she was never meant to see.
"Get out," he hissed.
"But—"
"OUT!"
He slammed the door behind her, the glass rattling in its frame. He leaned his forehead against the cool surface, closing his eyes.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the silent office.
Min-ho snapped his eyes open. He looked at the antique grandfather clock in the corner a relic he had kept through every single reset. The glass face of the clock had a long, jagged fissure running straight through the center.
The hands weren't moving.
They were stuck at 10:14 AM.
His blood turned to ice. In every previous loop, the "glitches" didn't start until the third month. The breaking of physical objects, the freezing of time in small pockets, these were signs that the universe was becoming unstable. That the loop was wearing thin.
It was only Day One, and the world was already fracturing.
He lunged for the door, throwing it open. "Hana!"
She was startled midway through sitting at her new desk. "Yes? Sir?"
He grabbed her arm, forgetting his own 'no-touch' rule. Her skin was warm, vibrant, and terrifyingly real. "The schedule," he choked out. "What time is your lunch break?"
"I... I don't have one scheduled yet? Mr. Kang, you're hurting my—"
"You don't leave this building," he commanded, his voice shaking with a raw, unfiltered panic. "Not for lunch. Not for coffee. You stay in this room. If you step outside into the rain, I will fire you. Do you understand?"
Hana looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. For the first time, she didn't look annoyed. She looked profoundly sad.
"You're not a jerk," she realized softly. "You're a sentry. Who are you guarding me from, Mr. Kang?"
Before he could answer, the office phone on her desk began to ring. The caller ID displayed a name that made Min-ho's heart stop.
[CHAIRMAN KANG - PRIVATE LINE]
His father. The man who had died in the 4th loop and hadn't appeared in any loop since.
The 99th loop wasn't just changing. It was breaking.