James didn't move for a long time.
The room was exactly the same—same pale ceiling, same rain tapping against the window, same faint smell of coffee and dust. His phone lay on the nightstand, glowing softly with Ada's message.
Ada: You're late. Don't forget our coffee.
His hands were shaking.
"This isn't possible," he whispered.
He grabbed the phone, unlocked it, checked the date. Same day. Same time. Same everything.
James swung his legs off the bed and stood up too fast, dizziness washing over him. His reflection in the mirror looked normal—dark circles under his eyes, unshaven jaw, the same old scar on his chin.
But his eyes were different.
They looked like they belonged to someone who had watched the world end.
He pressed his palms against the sink and took a deep breath.
Think. Don't panic.
If this was a dream, it was the most detailed one he had ever had. If it wasn't—
He swallowed.
—then Ada was going to die again.
At 11:47 p.m.
The café looked the same.
Every detail matched his memory perfectly—the fogged glass, the soft jazz music, the faint smell of roasted beans. Ada sat at their usual table near the window, hands wrapped around her mug, watching the rain.
She looked up and smiled when she saw him.
"You're late," she said.
James froze.
Hearing the words again—knowing they had already been spoken once—sent a chill through him.
"Three minutes," he said automatically, his voice tight.
Ada raised an eyebrow. "You checked, didn't you?"
His stomach dropped.
Every word. Every reaction. Exactly the same.
James sat down slowly, studying her face like he was afraid it might vanish if he blinked. She looked alive. Warm. Real.
"I was thinking," Ada said, stirring her drink. "After work, maybe we could walk home together? If it stops raining."
James nodded too quickly. "Yes. Definitely."
She paused. "You sound… intense."
"Sorry," he said. "Just tired."
The waitress brought his coffee.
"No sugar," she said cheerfully.
James stared at the cup.
"I didn't order yet," he said.
She laughed. "You always get the same thing."
Ada smiled. "See? Even strangers know you."
James forced a smile back, but inside, panic was building.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was repetition.
James spent the day testing reality.
At lunch, before his coworker could speak, James said, "Let me guess—you're going to complain about the printer again."
His coworker blinked. "Yeah. How did you—?"
James didn't wait for the answer.
Later, he took a different route home.
A block away, a car honked twice.
Paused.
Honked again.
James stopped walking.
The sound echoed exactly as it had before.
"No matter what I change," he muttered, "it still happens."
The world wasn't reacting to him.
It was following a script.
By evening, his chest felt tight with urgency.
He met Ada after work and didn't let her out of his sight.
"You're being weird," she said as they walked. "Did something happen?"
James opened his mouth, then closed it.
How do you explain that you watched someone die and woke up to yesterday?
"Promise me something," he said instead.
Ada sighed. "Now what?"
"Tonight, don't go anywhere alone."
She laughed. "James, I live ten minutes away."
"Please," he said, more sharply than he meant to.
She studied him. "Okay. Okay. I promise."
Relief flooded him.
Maybe this time would be different.
At 11:30 p.m., they were still together.
James checked his phone every minute, his pulse racing.
"Relax," Ada said, sitting beside him on the couch. "You're acting like midnight is a death sentence."
His jaw tightened.
11:40 p.m.
"You should stay," he said suddenly. "Here. Tonight."
Ada blinked. "What?"
"I mean—just for tonight," he said quickly. "The weather's bad. It's late."
She hesitated, biting her lip. "James…"
11:45 p.m.
"I don't feel comfortable," she said softly. "You're scaring me a little."
His heart dropped.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I just—"
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it and frowned. "That's strange."
"What?" James asked.
"It's my neighbor," she said. "She says there's someone outside my building asking about me."
Cold spread through James's veins.
"Don't go," he said immediately.
"I won't," Ada replied. "I'll just check the camera feed."
She stood up.
11:47 p.m.
The lights flickered.
The room went silent.
James's phone buzzed in his hand.
Incoming call.
Ada.
His breath caught.
She was standing right in front of him.
"Ada?" he said slowly.
Her phone slipped from her hand.
Her eyes widened.
Then everything went wrong.
The window shattered.
Glass exploded inward as a deafening crack echoed through the room. Ada screamed as something slammed into her from behind, knocking her off her feet.
"Ada!" James shouted.
He rushed forward—but the world seemed to lag, like reality itself was stuttering.
Blood splattered across the floor.
Ada lay motionless.
James fell to his knees beside her, his mind screaming denial.
"No," he whispered. "Not again. I changed it. I changed everything."
Her eyes fluttered open briefly.
"James," she breathed.
Tears blurred his vision. "I'm here. I won't let you—"
Her gaze shifted past him.
Fear filled her eyes.
Then she was gone.
James woke up screaming.
Rain tapped against the window.
7:18 a.m.
The digital clock glowed softly in blue.
He sat up, gasping, clutching his chest.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
His phone buzzed.
Ada: You're late. Don't forget our coffee.
James stared at the message.
Then he laughed.
The sound was broken, hysterical.
"So that's how it is," he said quietly.
No matter what he did—
No matter what he changed—
Ada still died.
And the world reset like nothing had happened.
James wiped his face, his expression hardening.
"Fine," he said.
"If this day wants to repeat…"
His eyes darkened.
"…then I'll learn every single way it can kill her."