Chapter 4
1745words
Those two numbers burned into my retina like white-hot branding irons. Not an error code. Not random gibberish. A cold, merciless declaration—a death countdown displaying exactly how many chances I had left.
Fifteen characters.
My entire arsenal to save two lives.
Reality pieced itself back together as the nightmare memories crashed over me. I finally understood my impossible situation. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. A goddamn cursed time loop. Every time I died, everything reset to the beginning of "The Last Night," with Sarah Miller saying that stupid line, followed minutes later by Jason knocking at my door. Each cycle beginning with her innocence and ending with my death.
And I was trapped in this endlessly looping snuff film, with only one tool at my disposal—that comment box on my phone screen with its pathetic fifteen-character limit.
My heart still convulsed with phantom pain from the knife that had pierced it, but an ice-cold clarity washed over my frayed nerves. Fear still buzzed in my ears like white noise, but I couldn't afford to drown in it anymore. No time for screaming. No time for breaking down. Every second I breathed was one less second to prepare.
I needed to be smarter. More precise. Fifteen characters—not even enough for a decent tweet—but somehow I had to use them to change Sarah's fate and, by extension, my own.
"God, Mark, you're terrible. I really thought you were hiding in my closet or something." Sarah's flirty voice chimed right on cue from my phone, like the bell marking another round in hell.
I didn't waste characters on vague warnings like "run" or "watch out" this time. Those were useless—she'd just think someone was trolling her. I needed to give her something she couldn't dismiss, something that would snap her out of her love-drunk haze instantly.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as my mind raced. Had to be concise. Had to hit hard.
I took a deep breath and forced my trembling fingers to type with deliberate precision:
"He's a killer. Knife in closet."
Ten characters. Not one more, not one less. Just enough to shatter someone's reality. I hit send, eyes locked on the screen.
The comment flashed onto the screen instantly. Sarah, mid-giggle at the camera, froze. Her eyes dropped to the message that had appeared from nowhere. Her brows knitted together—first in annoyance at being interrupted, then in growing confusion and unease. Those five words—"He's a killer"—hit her trust like a sledgehammer.
She didn't scream or bolt like I'd expected. Instead, she hesitated. Glanced at the comment, then up at the closed closet door. Her expression was complicated—half "what kind of stupid prank is this" and half can't-help-but-wonder, with a seed of fear taking root beneath it all.
"Mark?" she called out, her voice wavering slightly. "Is that you posting this? Because it's not funny."
The closet remained silent.
That silence was more terrifying than any reply could have been.
The color drained from Sarah's face. She was smart—just temporarily blinded by love. Now that doubt had cracked her certainty, suspicion grew like wildfire. Without another word, she carefully rose from the bed and crept toward the closet on silent, bare feet, moving like a cat approaching a strange noise.
It worked! My heart raced as hope flared in my chest again.
Just then, a measured knocking sounded behind me.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Jason. Right on schedule.
Punctual as ever, like death's own delivery service.
My body went rigid, but I didn't retreat this time. I'd already died once—already faced the ultimate fear. What remained was pure survival instinct and the rage of someone with nothing left to lose.
I ignored the door completely and bolted for the kitchen. Not for water—for a weapon. I yanked open the drawer and grabbed the heavy cleaver we used for splitting chicken bones. The cold metal handle felt reassuring in my grip, even if that security was an illusion.
"Emily? You home? It's Jason." That fake gentle voice called through the door again.
I crept to the corner of the living room—a blind spot where I could ambush him when he inevitably used his key. I had no illusions about my chances—a sheltered teenage girl against a grown man—but I had no choice. Waiting passively meant certain death. Fighting gave me at least a chance.
I glanced at my phone again. On screen, Sarah had reached the closet. Instead of yanking it open, she pressed her ear against the door, listening intently. After a few seconds, she jerked back suddenly, taking two quick steps away. She'd heard something.
My warning had worked. I'd told her there was a knife in the closet, and now she was confirming it for herself.
"Sweetheart, I know you're in there." Jason's voice hardened with impatience. "If you don't open up, I'll have to use our 'little secret.'"
The key. That bastard was going to use my own key again.
I clutched the cleaver, my palm slick with sweat. My heartbeat thundered in my ears like war drums.
The wait was excruciating, each second stretching into eternity. I heard the soft scrape of the key entering the lock, then the decisive *click* as it turned.
NOW!
The instant the door swung inward, I launched myself from the corner with a primal scream, cleaver raised high, swinging with every ounce of strength I possessed at the figure entering my home.
But instead of the wet thunk of blade meeting flesh, I heard a sharp metallic clang.
*CLANG!*
Sparks scattered in the air. Jason hadn't even stepped through the doorway—he'd just extended his arm, and on that arm... was a small steel plate, like something salvaged from an appliance, strapped to his forearm. With this improvised shield, he effortlessly deflected my desperate attack.
The impact sent shockwaves up my arm, numbing my hand to the wrist. The cleaver nearly slipped from my grasp.
I stared at him in stunned horror, my mind emptying of all thought.
How could he know? How could he possibly know I'd be waiting with a knife? How could he have prepared that steel guard in advance?
Jason sauntered in, wearing the smug smile of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. "Such a spirited welcome. Seems you already know about my 'surprise.'"
He kicked the door shut behind him, sealing off my escape. He flexed his armored forearm, showing off his foresight. "I figured you might not be so cooperative this time. So I came prepared. You see, this is all about learning—and I'm learning more about you with every visit."
The sick bastard! He wasn't predicting the future—he was analyzing me! Treating me like a lab rat, using my behavior from the previous loop to anticipate my next move!
Despair crashed over me. I'd thought I was seizing control, but I was still just a plaything in his twisted game.
"What... what are you?" My voice quavered.
"I'm Jason, your Jason." He advanced slowly, his eyes burning with sick possessiveness. "Game over, Emily. Hand over the knife."
I retreated instinctively, but the living room was small, and within seconds my back hit the wall. Trapped.
Just then, my phone screen flashed, drawing my eye. On screen, Sarah had finally gathered her courage and yanked open the closet door!
Inside stood Mark in his white mask, knife raised, ready to spring out. He clearly hadn't expected her to open the door herself—his posture showed a split-second of surprise.
Sarah seized that crucial moment. She screamed and bolted for the door.
She'd done it! She'd escaped the initial attack!
But Mark was craftier than I'd anticipated. Instead of giving chase, he reached into the closet corner and grabbed something—a rope. He'd prepared for her escape, set a trap in advance.
Sarah reached the door, fingers just grazing the handle, when Mark caught up. With practiced ease, he looped the rope around her ankles and yanked hard.
Caught mid-stride, Sarah crashed face-first onto the floor.
"Where you running to, baby?" Mark's voice oozed from behind his mask, dripping with smug satisfaction.
Shit! I'd helped her dodge the first attack only to lead her into something worse.
In my apartment, Jason's patience snapped. He lunged forward before I could react. A sharp pain lanced through my wrist as he wrenched the cleaver from my grip. In one fluid motion, he twisted my arm behind my back, drove his knee into my spine, and slammed me face-down onto the floor.
"See how pointless fighting is?" His breath was hot against my ear, carrying a metallic tang that made my stomach turn. "It just makes everything more... entertaining."
I thrashed wildly, but the raw strength difference between us made it hopeless. My phone had fallen just within view. On screen, Sarah was crab-walking backward across the floor while Mark stalked toward her with the measured steps of a practiced killer.
My plan had failed. Ten characters had bought her mere seconds. Now she was going to die. And so was I.
"No need to rush," Jason said, as if reading my thoughts. He forced my head sideways against the floor, angling me to see my phone screen perfectly. "First, you get to watch her die. That's for trying to fight back."
On screen, Mark loomed over Sarah, knife raised high.
"No... please don't..." I sobbed, my voice breaking.
A silver flash.
Sarah's scream cut off mid-breath.
In the same instant, something cold pressed against the back of my neck, followed by white-hot agony that sent the world spinning away.
The world, once again, went black.
...
...
"God, Mark, you're terrible. I really thought you were hiding in my closet or something."
Familiar voice. Familiar lines.
Back again.
Phantom pain lingered where the blade had severed my spine, making me gag and heave. I gulped air desperately, my pajamas soaked through with cold sweat.
Twice now. I'd died twice.
I lifted my phone with shaking hands, dread coiling in my stomach. I was terrified to see that number—that countdown to my final chance.
When my eyes found the bottom corner of the comment box, my blood turned to ice.
There, in cold gray digits:
10/10.
It had changed. From fifteen to ten.
Each death didn't just reset time—it also... reduced my character limit.
My chances were evaporating with each failed attempt.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Outside my door, Death knocked for the third time.
And this time, I had only ten characters left.
