7:00 AM.
The alarm didn't buzz.
It didn't need to.
Eron Vale opened his eyes precisely three seconds before it would have gone off. He reached out with practiced ease, tapped the "off" button, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed in one fluid motion.
He had done this a hundred thousand times.
The same room. The same morning. The same sun filtering in through the blinds at the same precise angle. The world never changed. Only he did.
He stood, cracked his neck once to the left, twice to the right, and walked barefoot across the wooden floor to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with the same face—sharper now, colder, older than it had any right to be. His body hadn't aged a day past twenty-nine, but his eyes… they'd lived centuries.
He brushed his teeth with the same brand of mint paste, using the exact number of strokes he always did. He didn't do it for hygiene. He did it for control. In a world that repeated itself endlessly, routine was sanity. Routine was resistance.
---
7:12 AM.
Downstairs, the kettle clicked just as he reached the last step. He poured the water into the French press, watching the steam curl up like ghosts of all the people who never remembered him.
He didn't mourn them anymore.
He just… observed.
---
7:18 AM.
His phone buzzed on the counter—just once. A weather alert: Light drizzle expected at 3:00 PM.
He wouldn't need an umbrella. He wouldn't be outside by then.
Not this version of the day.
---
7:22 AM.
He sat at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand, leather-bound notebook in the other. Not to write. Just to look. The pages were filled with notes from other versions of this day. Codes. Movements. Failures.
He'd been shot here.
Poisoned here.
Blown up here.
Forgotten here.
But not today.
Today was a test run.
A low-risk simulation.
He'd use today to observe, to recalibrate the behavior of Subject Dorian Black—a mid-tier asset of the Helix Order, who believed himself invisible. Dorian was the kind of man who liked to watch people squirm. Eron preferred people who screamed. Easier to track their patterns.
---
7:30 AM.
He changed into a charcoal gray suit, freshly pressed from the dry cleaner around the corner. He knew the cleaner's name was Elise. She had three kids and was cheating on her husband with the butcher next door. She didn't know he knew. But Eron knew everything… eventually.
He tied his Windsor knot in 7.2 seconds.
Slipped on his watch.
Pocketed a steel pen—uncapped, not for writing.
The day had begun.
Again.
---
7:48 AM.
The elevator dinged as he stepped inside his apartment building's lobby. A woman in her mid-30s joined him—brown bob, business casual, nervous fingers tapping her phone screen.
"Forgot your lunch again," Eron said.
She blinked. "Huh?"
He nodded toward her bag. "You always forget it on Tuesdays."
She smiled sheepishly, eyes widening. "Oh… yeah. That's weird. How did you—?"
The elevator doors opened.
He stepped out without answering.
---
7:53 AM.
Outside, the city moved like a mechanical stage play. Eron crossed the street without looking. He didn't need to. He knew the red Toyota wouldn't come until 7:55. The driver would be late today—his kid had spilled cereal on his shirt, and he was still wiping it off in the kitchen right now.
Every step Eron took was placed where it had landed in thousands of loops before.
But he wasn't just retracing steps.
He was watching.
Adjusting.
Rewriting the choreography in real-time.
Because the world believed it was Day One.
But for Eron Vale…
It was Day 100,000.
8:10 AM.
Eron sat at his favorite café. Table by the window, third chair from the left. The barista, Max, with his split haircut and rushed energy, didn't even ask for the order.
"Flat white, two shots, no sugar?"
Eron offered a half-smile. "You always remember."
Max grinned, flattered.
Eron wasn't here for coffee. He was here for timing.
At 8:14, a man in a navy coat would enter the café, mumbling on a call, flustered, dropping a folder of papers near the counter.
At 8:15, a girl with red sneakers would bend down to help him, triggering a delay in his schedule.
At 8:17, Dorian Black would walk past the café's glass wall and glance inside—casually, like any man might when passing a crowd.
That moment was all Eron needed.
---
8:14 AM.
Right on cue, the man in the navy coat entered. He dropped his folder. The girl helped.
Max stepped away from the counter. The noise in the room changed—shifted.
Eron leaned slightly forward, coffee to his lips. Through the glass wall—
8:17:03
There he was.
Dorian Black.
Helix recruiter.
Minor strategist.
Useful.
And more importantly… arrogant.
Dorian paused, as expected, and glanced toward the window.
Eron let their eyes meet.
A flicker—one second too long.
Just enough for Dorian to register: That man is familiar.
---
8:19 AM.
Eron left a tip before Max could say thanks. He exited through the café's side alley. No one noticed. No cameras faced that way. He'd disabled the one above the door loops ago.
He walked toward the financial district, checking his watch.
Not for time.
For tempo.
---
8:34 AM.
Office Tower 14.
Lobby Security Checkpoint.
Eron stood behind a woman with a green coat and oversized bag. Her ID card would fail twice. He'd seen it. On the third try, she'd get through. That was his gap.
On loop #46, Eron had posed as a building technician and memorized the guard's ID scans.
On loop #2371, he'd broken into the server room and inserted a temporary access bypass code.
On loop #18,004, he mapped out the guard rotation and bathroom schedule.
Today, he used none of those things.
He walked past security with a forged ID… and a confident nod.
The guard waved him through without a blink.
Confidence, Eron had learned, was better than any code.
---
8:38 AM.
18th Floor.
The Helix satellite office wasn't officially linked to Helix. On paper, it was Kelser & Partners, a boutique data consultancy.
Inside, six people worked—none knowing they served the deepest layers of a corporate machine that traded influence like currency.
Eron didn't walk in.
He observed from the corridor window. One floor down. One building over.
He lifted a small device, turned the dial.
Microscope camera. Infrared filter.
He studied Dorian at his desk, typing on his laptop, then checking his phone.
"Still using a burner," Eron muttered.
He smiled.
He had planted the number in Dorian's contacts three loops ago under the name "Eleanor (Redheels)." Dorian had been drunk then. Lonely.
It took one fake flirty message and two false photo drops to get him curious.
Today, Dorian would call it.
And Eron would answer.
---
9:00 AM.
The burner phone in Eron's coat buzzed.
He let it ring once. Twice.
Then picked up.
"This is Eleanor," he said, voice soft, laced with the perfect blend of disinterest and heat.
Dorian hesitated.
"…You don't sound like your texts."
"That's because I don't type like I talk, darling. You prefer voice, don't you?"
He let silence hang.
Dorian chuckled.
"I knew it. You're sharper than the rest."
"Then prove it," Eron whispered. "Let's play a game."
Click.
He ended the call.
---
9:01 AM.
Dorian stared at the phone.
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
Eron turned off the burner, tossed it into a passing delivery truck's open side flap with an effortless flick.
He didn't need it anymore.
By lunchtime, Dorian would search for Eleanor. By evening, he'd wonder who she was. By night, he'd get a message—not from Eleanor, but from someone warning him that Eron Vale had eyes on him.
And tomorrow? Eron would do it all again—with a better script.
Because this day wasn't about winning.
It was about learning.
Refining.
Designing the perfect future.
11:00 AM.
Eron sat in a rented co-working space two blocks from the Helix satellite office. Clean desk. Blank walls. A silent laptop—never connected to the internet, never reused twice.
On its screen was a live feed.
Dorian Black. 18th Floor. Nervous now. Restless.
He was replaying the call in his head.
Hook delivered.
Eron flipped through a series of printed files. Helix recruitment records, coded email trails, fragments of conversation he'd memorized and mapped out over 12,000 previous loops. Patterns emerged when you watched the same people lie, cheat, and manipulate every day.
Dorian was an opportunist. He'd betray his own handler if he saw value in the trade.
Eron would make himself that value.
---
11:08 AM.
He stood and walked to the whiteboard.
There, he drew two names:
"Dorian Black"
"Malco Frey"
Between them, a simple arrow.
"Recruiter → Handler"
He stared at the board for a moment.
Then added a third name:
"E. Vale"
This time, the arrow curved beneath the others. Not visible at first glance.
A puppet string.
He didn't need a title.
He needed control.
---
12:10 PM.
Across the city, Dorian checked his phone again. No new message. The silence was bait. Eron knew. He'd tried it across thousands of loops.
If you chased Dorian, he got defensive.
If you ignored him, he got curious.
If you hinted you were smarter… he got obsessed.
And obsession made people predictable.
---
12:32 PM.
Lunch break.
Dorian left the Helix office and headed to his usual spot—a rooftop café with low traffic and no cameras. Private. Discreet. Exactly the kind of place a mid-tier operative would choose for "off-the-record" meetings.
Eron was already there.
Sitting at a distant table, wearing black sunglasses, reading a book he'd memorized long ago: "The Prince." Machiavelli's pages were worn, underlined with annotations from 8,713 different loops.
Dorian passed by, glanced his way.
Didn't recognize him.
Perfect.
Eron stood casually, as if just leaving. He "accidentally" dropped a slip of paper from his book as he walked past Dorian's table.
Dorian's eye caught it.
He picked it up.
Two words were written in bold ink:
"Still watching."
---
12:37 PM.
Dorian looked around.
Nothing.
He stared at the note, palms beginning to sweat.
He'd take it back to the office. Scan it. Analyze the ink. Run it against internal databases.
And he'd find…
Nothing.
Because Eron had written that note with a pen made from melted-down Helix-grade ballistics paper—no DNA, no fibers, no trail.
Dorian would lose sleep tonight.
That meant he would slip tomorrow.
And when he slipped, he'd run to his handler.
And when he ran to his handler, Eron would be waiting.
---
2:00 PM.
Back in the co-working space, Eron reviewed the other threads.
Every major player in the Helix Order had blind spots. Their arrogance created them.
He'd learned their faces. Their secrets. Who they bribed. Who they blackmailed. Who they feared.
He wasn't just playing Dorian.
He was using Dorian to climb.
Step by step. Lie by lie.
He wasn't here to expose the Helix Order.
He was here to become its ghost king—the name no one knew, but everyone obeyed.
And the beauty of the loop?
If he failed today…
He'd wake up tomorrow at 7:00 AM, and try again.
Sharper. Colder. Smarter.
---
3:00 PM.
The drizzle began, right on schedule.
Eron looked out the window.
The city shimmered in gray.
Everyone else lived forward.
But him?
He lived perfectly backward—repeating, refining, evolving.
He had no powers.
Just time.
Time and an unbreakable will.
4:00 PM.
Inside a government building labeled "Urban Development Records," Eron stood near a dusty filing cabinet—one the digital systems hadn't fully cataloged.
Why?
Because Malco Frey, Dorian's handler, had a fake identity here. His real estate records showed three safehouses, one secret apartment, and a parking permit connected to a non-existent car. Eron had uncovered all of this during loop #42,786.
Today wasn't about collecting new information.
It was about testing a push.
---
4:05 PM.
He left a photo on the top shelf.
Grainy. Printed from a 2002 surveillance file. It showed Malco talking to an arms dealer long before he ever joined Helix.
He left a note taped to the back:
"We all have beginnings. Yours wasn't as clean as you pretend."
He knew the records clerk would notice it.
Would report it.
Would send it up the chain.
Malco would panic—but never show it.
He'd call Dorian in two days.
He always did.
And when that call happened, Eron would intercept it. Again.
But with more leverage this time.
---
5:15 PM.
The rain had passed. The sky bled gold between buildings.
Eron stood on a rooftop.
He lit a match and dropped it into a metal bin, burning today's notes. Even though he'd remember every line.
Even though it would all reset.
It wasn't about record-keeping.
It was about discipline.
Reminding himself that this day was never real.
But the effect he created?
That lasted.
The burn. The whisper. The paranoia.
He didn't need recognition.
He needed power to ripple beneath the surface.
Unseen. Untouchable.
---
6:00 PM.
He returned to his small apartment. Same layout. Same streetlight outside the window.
He cooked a simple meal.
Cleaned the dishes.
Brushed his teeth.
Wrote a single sentence in a notebook filled with thousands of them.
"Dorian noticed the note faster today. Loop 100,000: Efficiency up by 12 seconds."
He closed the book.
Laid down in bed.
Closed his eyes.
And whispered to the ceiling:
"Reset me."
---
7:00 AM.
Alarm.
Same beep.
Same light.
Same start.
But not the same man.
He was smarter.
He was colder.
He was evolving.
And tomorrow, he'd be better again.
Because time is only a prison if you don't learn how to use it.
Eron Vale had stopped fearing the loop.
He was now its master.