The telephone didn't just ring; it shrieked. In the 99th loop, every sound felt like a crack in a dam.
Min-ho's hand stayed frozen on Hana's arm. His knuckles were white. The caller ID, CHAIRMAN KANG, pulsed in a rhythmic, neon green.
"Mr. Kang?" Hana's voice was small, her eyes darting between his panicked face and the vibrating phone. "Your father is calling. Shouldn't you...?"
"He's dead," Min-ho whispered. The words slipped out before he could catch them, raw and jagged.
Hana froze. "What? The news said he was in Switzerland for 'medical recovery.' Everyone knows the Chairman is—"
"He died in the fourth reset," Min-ho snapped, his eyes wild. He realized his mistake instantly. He let go of her arm as if it had turned into a live wire. "I mean... he is dead to me. We don't speak."
He lunged for the phone and ripped the cord from the wall. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the sound of their synchronized breathing.
Hana stared at the severed cord. Then she looked at him. Her "gift" of cursed, intuitive empathy was working overtime. She could see the way his shoulders were hunched, like a man waiting for a blow that never came.
"You said 'fourth reset,'" she said quietly. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. A slip of the tongue. Go back to your papers."
"No." Hana stood up. She was a head shorter than him, but in that moment, she looked like a giant. "You're trembling. You're talking about your father like he's a ghost. And you're looking at that clock like it's a bomb."
She stepped closer, invading the five-foot "safe zone" he had commanded.
"Rule number two, Ms. Lee," he warned, backing into his office, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Stay back."
"The rules don't work if the boss is losing his mind," she countered, following him.
Min-ho backed into his mahogany desk, trapped. He reached out to push her away, but his hand landed on a leather-bound ledger he had left open, a mistake born of his morning panic.
Hana's eyes dropped to the page.
Min-ho scrambled to close it, but she was faster. She pressed her palm down on the paper, her eyes scanning the neat, obsessive rows of his handwriting.
May 14th: Car accident. Rain. Intersection of 5th and Main. June 22nd: Construction site. Falling glass. Instant. August 1st: Poisoning. Red wine. Gala event.
Underneath each entry was a single, repeated phrase in smeared ink: FAILED AGAIN.
The color drained from Hana's face. She looked at the dates. Many of them were in the future. Some were from years she remembered living through perfectly normally.
"What is this?" her voice trembled. "Is this... a hit list? Are you planning to kill me?"
Min-ho felt the world tilt. The air in the room grew cold, unnaturally cold. This was the moment. He could lie. He could tell her it was a draft for a novel. He could fire her and throw her out into the rain.
But then, he looked at the grandfather clock. The crack in the glass had grown. A splinter of glass fell to the floor with a crystal clink.
"I'm not the one killing you, Hana," Min-ho said, his voice breaking into a thousand pieces. "The world is. And I've spent ninety-eight lifetimes trying to figure out why."
Suddenly, the lights in the office flickered. The heavy oak doors, which Min-ho had locked, began to rattle as if someone or something were slamming against them from the other side.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
"Min-ho..." a voice called from behind the door. It wasn't the voice of a secretary. It was deep, resonant, and sounded like earth shifting in a grave. "Min-ho, let me in. It's time for the meeting."
Hana backed away from the door, her eyes wide with terror. "Who is that? The chairman is in Switzerland!"
Min-ho grabbed a heavy letter opener from his desk, his eyes fixed on the door. The shadows beneath the crack of the door were beginning to bleed into the room like ink in water.
"That's not my father," Min-ho hissed, pulling Hana behind him. "That's the loop trying to correct itself because you found out too early."
The 99th loop wasn't just breaking. It was hunting them.