1
I didn't hit anything.
Concrete vanished under my feet and there was a brief, weightless moment, the kind you get when an elevator starts moving before your stomach does.
Then I was standing.
No stumble. No bruise. Just upright, as if someone had picked me up by the collar and put me down again.
The first thing I saw was the bank clock.
19:38.
Same fat red digits as before, mounted above the glass doors. Same date underneath.
11 / 08.
Traffic moved past in the same pattern. A delivery scooter buzzed by, barely missing a taxi that swerved and honked. A dog on a leash tried to go one way while its owner dragged it the other.
My lungs forgot what to do for a second.
I turned my head.
Across the street, the factory stood exactly as it had a few minutes—no, a lifetime—ago. Whole windows. Fresh paint. Logo still proud.
A group of students in uniforms walked past me, laughing at a joke I could have finished for them, because I'd already heard it once.
One of them dropped a candy wrapper.
It fluttered to the same patch of pavement I remembered from… earlier? Later?
My skin went tight.
2
I checked my phone.
The black glass showed me my own face, pale and wide-eyed, and nothing else. No boot screen, no battery symbol. Just dead.
Fine.
I knew this dance.
I lifted my gaze and scanned the sidewalk.
Angel came around the corner a few seconds later, like someone had hit replay.
Cram-school folder under her arm. Bag on her shoulder. Hair pulled back with the same cheap clip. Lips pressed tight, eyes on her watch.
I felt something cold run through my chest.
I knew exactly how the next half hour was supposed to go.
I also knew I was standing at the point where it started.
I swallowed.
"Option three," I said under my breath. "Time hates me personally."
Then I stepped into the flow of people and started after her again.
3
I didn't bother hanging back this time.
"Angel," I said, loud enough to carry, as I closed the distance.
She jerked, turned, and stared at me.
Up close, her expression was near identical to the first time: wary, polite, already preparing to say she was busy and walk away.
We hadn't met yet, from her perspective.
We had, from mine.
"Do we know each other?" she asked.
"Not yet," I said. "But I'm working on it."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Are you from my school?" she asked.
"Different school," I said. "Different… everything."
That wasn't reassuring. Her fingers tightened on her folder.
I held both hands up, palms out, like the men I hated were about to do later.
"I'm not here to sell you anything, I'm not a cult, and I'm not hitting on you," I said. "I just need to walk with you for a bit."
"Why?" she said.
Because a van is already turning into position three blocks from here.
Because there is a chair waiting for you in a corridor I've memorised.
Because I was cut out of your body while a doctor called time on your life.
None of that would help.
"You're being followed," I lied.
Her shoulders twitched instinctively. She glanced back along the street.
All she saw were other students and office workers.
"By who?" she said.
"Me, if you keep asking questions while we're standing still," I said. "Move, please."
The sharpness in my voice surprised both of us.
After a second, she began walking again.
I fell into step beside her.
4
"You shouldn't say things like that," she muttered. "You'll scare people."
"Being scared will keep you alive tonight," I said.
I was watching the corners, parked vehicles, anyone loitering too long. The city had become a map of potential ambush points in my head.
"You sound like my father," she said. "He watches those crime reports and then lectures me every time I go out."
"He's right," I said.
"He's paranoid," she replied.
I almost laughed.
If he'd been paranoid enough, I wouldn't exist.
"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.
"Demon," I said.
She gave me the exact same look as last time.
"You're still using that?" she said.
Still. Different choice of words.
I swallowed. "Been stuck with it my whole life."
"Parents are cruel," she said. "Mine named me 'Angel' and then expected me to live up to it. Yours must really hate you."
"You have no idea," I said.
She frowned, trying to decide if that was a joke.
5
We reached the convenience store.
Last loop, I'd hesitated outside. This time, I went in right after her. She glanced back once, then focused on the shelves.
She picked up the exact same drink, the exact same rice ball. Waffled at the snacks. Changed her mind. Went for the cheapest option again.
Habit is a powerful thing.
I walked up the next aisle, not really looking at anything, just watching her out of the corner of my eye.
If I wanted to change the script, this was my first real chance.
"Angel," I said quietly, from the end of the aisle.
She looked over.
"This city isn't safe tonight," I said. "If I were you, I'd call someone to walk you home."
She tilted her head.
"Is this some kind of warning?" she asked. "Do you know something, or are you just trying out scary lines on strangers?"
"Yes," I said.
That didn't help.
She stared, waiting for a proper answer.
"I heard…" I started, then stopped. Any lie I tried to build would tangle itself up as soon as someone asked for details.
"Forget it," I said. "I'm bad at explaining."
She paid at the counter, bowing to the cashier, and walked out.
I followed.
Again.
6
The street beyond the store felt like a stage I'd seen a rehearsal for.
Same half-lit road. Same vending machines. Same bored cat washing its face near a potted plant.
I knew where the van would be, two blocks ahead.
I also knew that if I kept doing the same thing, I'd get the same result: being dragged out of the moment right when it mattered.
Maybe the trick was to change the pattern earlier, before whatever force had me on a leash decided I'd gone too far.
"Angel," I said, keeping pace. "Humour me. Take a different route tonight."
She glanced over. "This is the shortest."
"The station's still there if you go two streets over," I said. "You can take the longer way once."
"My pass is for this station," she said. "Changing lines costs extra."
"Consider it an investment in not ending up as a headline," I said.
"Headline?" she echoed.
I winced. Bad word choice.
"You know what I mean," I said.
7
She stopped walking.
We stood under a streetlamp. The light pooled around her like some bad symbolism shot from the news, only they weren't here yet.
"Look," she said. "If there's something specific you're worried about, say it. Otherwise, you're just creeping me out."
Fair point.
"I can't be specific," I said. "If I am, something… interferes."
She stared.
"Interferes," she repeated.
"Yes."
"You realise how that sounds," she said.
"I realise a lot of things," I said. "Mostly that you die tonight if you keep going this way."
Silence stretched between us.
Her jaw worked.
"That's not funny," she said at last.
"I'm not trying to be," I said.
"Then you're crazy," she replied. "Either way, you're wasting my time."
She stepped around me and continued down the original path.
For a moment, I stood there and watched her walk away, anger and helplessness tangling in my chest.
Then I swore under my breath and followed again.
8
The van waited where I remembered it: engine idling, lights off, a rectangle of heavier darkness parked along the curb.
The man at the payphone took up his position ahead.
Patterns resent being told no.
Angel's pace slowed when she saw the stranger blocking her way. Her shoulders stiffened. The earlier unease I'd planted in her came back; I could see it in the way her hand tightened on her bag again.
Maybe that would make her dodge him.
Maybe she'd cross the street.
Maybe—
"Evening," the man called, hands visible, smile soft. "Sorry, can I ask you something?"
Angel shifted sideways, already angling to go around him.
He matched her movement.
I felt the air thicken.
The world didn't tilt yet, but it was coiling, ready.
I stepped closer, faster this time, putting myself on a collision course with both of them.
"Hey," I called. "Angel, my friend's waiting—"
My voice distorted in my own ears, like hearing it through a closed door.
No, not yet.
I pushed harder, forcing my legs to move.
The man glanced my way, annoyance flickering across his face. A second shape moved in the van, hand on the door.
Angel saw me now. Her eyes widened in recognition and something like relief.
"Demon—"
Her mouth formed my name.
My hand caught the strap of her bag.
Contact.
The world clenched.
9
For one impossible second, everything froze.
The van. The stranger's reaching hand. The loose advertisement flapping on a nearby wall. The entire street held like a photograph.
Only Angel's eyes moved, flicking between my face and the man beside her.
"Do not touch the piece," something deep in my skull seemed to say.
The pressure I'd felt before slammed down as if in retaliation.
My fingers burned. Not from heat or cold—just a raw, wrong sensation, as if nerves were being reminded they belonged to someone else.
I tried to hold on.
The instant stretched.
Then time snapped forward again.
The van's door slid fully open with a metallic scrape. The man swore, grabbed for Angel's arm.
My grip slipped.
I lunged.
The invisible weight around my body doubled.
My movement slowed to a crawl.
Angel twisted, tried to pull away, tried to shout. A hand clamped over her mouth. Her bag fell, contents spilling across the pavement. The drink container rolled, hit the curb, tipped.
I watched all of it in excruciating detail, as if someone had chosen a slower frame rate just for me.
"Let go," the pressure in my head insisted.
My knees buckled.
I hit the ground.
10
By the time I dragged myself upright, the van's door had slammed.
It lurched away from the curb, tyres squealing.
Angel's voice, muffled and frantic, hit the inside of my ears like a fist.
My heart hammered. My legs refused to cooperate.
I staggered after the van anyway, stumbling, grabbing at the side, missing as it rolled out of reach.
The man who'd blocked her path was gone; maybe in the passenger seat now, maybe left behind.
The streetlamp overhead flickered.
I chased the van for half a block, lungs burning, some stupid part of me convinced that if I just kept moving, the force dragging against me would loosen.
Instead, it tightened.
The pavement blurred under my feet. The road warped. Sound flattened again into a single dull tone.
The van pulled ahead, turned a corner.
Angel's cry cut off as if a hand had been put over the whole scene.
The bank clock in my memory flashed 19:50.
The world around me folded inward.
I closed my eyes and tasted dust.
When I opened them again, the first thing I saw was red digits above a bank door.
19:38.
Same date. Same street. Same factory.
My hand still tingled where I'd grabbed her bag.
Attempt number two had failed.
The day was waiting, patient as a predator, for me to walk through it again.