[COUNTER: 2,821]
[27 DAYS, 3 HOURS UNTIL TRIAL 2]
Finding Marcus Webb should have been easy.
Former Marine, honorably discharged three years ago, worked private security in Queens. According to social media—what little still functioned—he'd survived Trial 1 with a counter of 5,800. One of the highest recorded numbers in New York.
The problem was that Marcus Webb didn't want to be found.
I spent two days tracking him. His apartment in Astoria was abandoned, cleared out with military precision. His security company's office was locked up, no forwarding information. His gym membership had been canceled the day after Trial 1.
It wasn't until I checked the third location—a veterans' support center in Flushing—that I got a lead.
"Marcus?" The coordinator, an older woman with tired eyes, shook her head. "He came by once, right after the culling. Took all his personal effects from his locker and left. Didn't say where he was going."
"Did he seem different? Scared, angry, anything unusual?"
She considered this. "Focused. Like he was preparing for deployment. He took the first aid kit, the emergency rations we keep for homeless vets, a map of the city." She paused. "And he asked me something strange."
"What?"
"He asked if I'd ever felt like I'd lived the same day twice. Like déjà vu, but stronger." Her eyes met mine. "Have you ever felt that?"
My blood ran cold. "What did you tell him?"
"That trauma does strange things to the mind. That he should talk to someone." She looked away. "He just nodded and left. I haven't seen him since."
Marcus was asking about loops.
Which meant either he remembered, or he was experiencing something close to it.
I needed to find him before the Guardians did.
The break came from an unexpected source.
I was walking through Central Park—stupid, probably, given what had happened there—when my burner phone buzzed. Elena's coded message:
MARINE SIGHTING. ROCKAWAY BEACH. BUNKER BUILDING.
Rockaway Beach. Far edge of Queens, right on the Atlantic. If you wanted to disappear in New York while staying close to resources, it was a smart choice.
And if Marcus had military training, he'd look for defensible positions.
Bunkers.
I took the subway as far as it ran—service was spotty, but the A train still limped out to the Rockaways. The train was packed with people heading to the coast, either trying to escape the city or find family.
A woman across from me had a counter of 247. She was crying silently, clutching a photo of two children.
I looked away.
[COUNTER: 2,818]
The counter never stopped falling. Even when I slept, even when I sat still, it ticked down with mechanical inevitability. Every minute cost me something.
I got off at Beach 90th Street and walked toward the shore.
Rockaway Beach had always been half-forgotten, a stretch of sand and aging buildings at the edge of the city. Now it looked post-apocalyptic. Burned-out cars lined the streets. Buildings sat empty, windows shattered. The beach itself was scattered with debris from Trial 1—torn clothing, abandoned bags, dark stains in the sand that I tried not to think about.
And there, near Beach 108th, were the old bunkers.
Built during World War II, mostly buried now, converted over the decades into storage, homeless shelters, forgotten pieces of history. Perfect for someone who wanted isolation and security.
I approached carefully, watching for Guardians.
The first bunker was empty, graffiti-covered walls and broken bottles. The second had been turned into a makeshift shelter—sleeping bags, canned food, evidence of recent occupation.
The third bunker's entrance was blocked by a chain-link fence.
But the fence had been cut recently. Clean edges, military precision.
I squeezed through.
Inside, the bunker was dark, lit only by cracks in the ceiling where sunlight filtered through. The air smelled of concrete and ocean salt.
"That's far enough."
I froze.
The voice came from deeper in the bunker. Male, calm, with the kind of authority that expected to be obeyed.
"I'm not armed," I said, raising my hands.
"I know. I've been watching you since you got off the train."
Of course he had.
"I'm looking for Marcus Webb."
"I know that too. You've been asking around for two days. Sloppy tradecraft." A figure emerged from the shadows. "The question is why."
Marcus Webb was exactly what I'd expected: early thirties, muscular build, buzzcut growing out, eyes that never stopped moving. He wore tactical pants and a black t-shirt, and even in the dim light, I could see scars on his arms.
What I didn't expect was how tired he looked.
Not physically tired. Soul tired. Like he'd been carrying weight for far too long.
"My name is Connor," I said. "I need to talk to you about the trials. And about remembering things you shouldn't."
His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes.
"You're one of them," he said quietly.
"One of who?"
"The anomalies. The ones who loop." He stepped closer, and I saw it—the same glitch-mark, this time on the side of his neck, partially hidden by his collar. "How many times have you died?"
"Seventy-three."
He laughed, short and sharp. "Christ. I thought my six was bad."
Six loops. Fewer than Amara, far fewer than me, but enough to break most people.
"When did you start remembering?" I asked.
"Loop four. Woke up the morning of the announcement with memories of three different deaths—crushed in Trial 1, bled out in Trial 3, starved between trials." He sat down on a concrete block, rifle I hadn't noticed propped nearby. "Spent a week thinking I had PTSD flashbacks. Then I realized the memories were too detailed, too specific. Wrong."
"The mark," I said, pointing to his neck. "When did you get it?"
He touched it unconsciously. "Loop five. Right after I started remembering. Got a message: 'Observer assigned.' No other explanation."
Same as the rest of us. The Observer was collecting anomalies, marking us, watching us.
But for what?
"I'm putting together a network," I said. "People who remember, who've looped. We share information, strategies, increase survival odds."
"And draw Guardian attention." It wasn't a question.
"You know about the Guardians."
"Hard not to. Loop five, I tried to warn people about Trial 1. Told them what to expect, how to survive. Guardian appeared within hours, killed me and everyone I'd talked to. Instant zero counters." His jaw tightened. "Learned my lesson. This loop, I've been staying quiet. Alone."
"That's not sustainable. You can't survive all the trials solo."
"Can't survive them in a group that draws Guardians either."
He had a point.
I sat down across from him, leaving space, non-threatening. "Trial 2 is coming. The Divide. You ever make it that far?"
"No. Died in Trial 1 three times, between trials twice. This is my first time past the culling with time to spare."
"Then you don't know what's coming."
I explained Trial 2—the pairings, the choice, the sixty-eight percent mortality rate. Watched his face process the information with military efficiency.
"Prisoner's dilemma on a massive scale," he said when I finished. "System's testing cooperation versus self-preservation."
"Except the pairings are emotionally loaded. Family, friends, people you care about."
"Which makes cooperation harder." He stood, paced. "In the Marines, we drilled this kind of scenario. Hostage situations, resource allocation under duress. The answer is always the same: prioritize mission success over individual attachment."
"This isn't a mission."
"Isn't it? Survival is the mission. Everything else is secondary." He looked at me. "In your seventy-three loops, how many times have you sacrificed someone you cared about?"
Too many. Far too many.
"Enough to know it doesn't get easier."
"But you keep doing it."
"Because the alternative is dying and resetting with less time. The math doesn't lie—I have to survive long enough to break the system, or this loop continues forever."
"Break the system," Marcus repeated. "That's your goal? Not just survival?"
"Survival is just buying time. Breaking the system is the only way to end this."
He considered this for a long moment. "I've been thinking about the system architecture. Military background gives me a different perspective than most." He pulled out a notebook—similar to mine, filled with dense handwriting. "The trials follow a pattern. Escalating difficulty, sure, but also escalating specificity. Early trials are broad—survival, combat, basic adaptation. But I've heard reports from high-counter survivors about later trials. They get personal. Targeted."
"Trial 6," I confirmed. "That's when it shifts. Trials start pulling from your fears, your traumas, your specific psychological vulnerabilities."
"Which means the system is collecting data. Learning about survivors, categorizing them, customizing challenges."
"And?"
"And that means there's a database. An archive. Somewhere, the system is storing information about every human, every trial, every death." His eyes were sharp now, tactical. "If we could access that database, we'd have intel on future trials. Maybe even on the system's weaknesses."
I'd never thought about it that way. In seventy-three loops, I'd been focused on individual survival, on trial-by-trial adaptation. But Marcus was thinking bigger—strategic instead of tactical.
"You think we can hack the system?"
"I think the system is software, even if we don't understand the hardware. Software has vulnerabilities." He showed me his notes. "Trial 1, there were glitches. Moments where the creatures froze, where the environment phased. Errors in the code."
"I noticed that too. Different loops, same glitches."
"Consistent glitches mean consistent vulnerabilities. If we can map them, exploit them—"
A sound cut him off.
Footsteps above us, on the bunker's roof.
We both went silent.
Marcus grabbed his rifle in one smooth motion, finger off the trigger but ready. I pressed against the wall, out of sight from the entrance.
The footsteps stopped directly above us.
Then a voice, female, echoing through the cracks in the ceiling:
"I know you're in there. Both of you. And I know you're talking about things that violate protocol."
Not a Guardian. The voice was too warm, too human.
But that made it worse somehow.
"My name is Dr. Sarah Okonkwo," the voice continued. "I'm not here to fight. I'm here because I have the same mark you do. And I need to know what the hell is happening to us."
Marcus and I exchanged glances.
Dr. Okonkwo. The third name on my list.
But how did she find us?
"How do we know you're not a Guardian?" I called up.
"Guardians don't negotiate. They enforce." A pause. "And I have information you need. About Trial 2. About what the system is really testing."
Marcus raised an eyebrow at me: Your call.
I thought about it. Three anomalies in one place would definitely draw Guardian attention. But if Dr. Okonkwo had intel we didn't...
"Come down," I said. "Slowly. Hands visible."
The footsteps moved to the entrance. A moment later, a woman descended the bunker stairs.
Dr. Sarah Okonkwo was tall, maybe six feet, with dark skin and gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore scrubs under a heavy coat and had the kind of steady hands that came from years of surgery.
And on her left palm, clearly visible: the glitch-mark.
"Thank you for trusting me," she said. "I know that's in short supply these days."
"We haven't decided to trust you yet," Marcus said, rifle still ready. "Start talking. How did you find us?"
"Same way you found each other—pattern recognition. I've been tracking anomalies since Trial 1. People who survive against probability, who make decisions that suggest foreknowledge, who carry themselves like they've been through combat they can't have experienced." She looked at me. "You've been asking around about Marcus for two days. It wasn't hard to follow your trail."
"If you could track me, Guardians could too."
"The Guardians are tracking all of us. The question is whether they're enforcing yet or just observing."
She had a point.
"You said you have information about Trial 2," I prompted.
"I do. But first, tell me your loop counts. I need to know how much experience I'm working with."
"Seventy-three," I said.
"Six," Marcus added.
Dr. Okonkwo's eyes widened. "Seventy-three. My god." She took a breath. "I'm at twenty-nine."
Twenty-nine loops. More than Marcus and Amara combined, but far less than me.
"When did you start remembering?" I asked.
"Loop fifteen. Every death before that is... fuzzy. But fifteen onward is crystal clear." She sat down, uninvited but natural, like she was used to taking charge. "I'm a trauma surgeon. Or was. Spent twenty years in emergency rooms, making life-or-death decisions in seconds. When the loops started, the deaths didn't break me the same way they might break others. I was already used to loss."
"What's your counter?" Marcus asked.
"Four thousand two hundred. Highest I've ever started with."
Impressive. The system considered her highly adaptable.
"You said you have information about Trial 2," I pressed.
"I do. But not from personal experience—I've never survived Trial 1 before this loop. I died in the culling every single time until now."
Marcus frowned. "Then how do you know about Trial 2?"
"Because I've been harvesting intel from survivors of Trial 2 in this timeline." She pulled out a tablet—somehow still functional, running on a jury-rigged battery. "I've interviewed forty-seven people who survived The Divide. Documented their experiences, their choices, the outcomes. I've been building a database."
She handed me the tablet.
The data was impressive—spreadsheets, interview transcripts, statistical analysis. She'd categorized the pairings, tracked the choices, calculated survival rates based on different variables.
"According to my research," she continued, "the system doesn't pair people randomly. It uses a specific algorithm based on emotional attachment and counter differentials."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if you're paired with someone, the system has calculated that your attachment to them is significant and that your counter values create maximum psychological tension." She pulled up a graph. "Look at this—pairs where both people have similar counters tend to choose mutual sacrifice or mutual benefit. But pairs with large counter differentials? Seventy-three percent of the time, the lower-counter person insists the higher-counter person take the boost."
"Altruistic sacrifice," Marcus said.
"Or strategic. If you know you're going to die soon anyway, giving the boost to someone who can survive longer makes sense."
"But the system punishes that," I said, remembering my own experiences. "In my loops, every time I tried to optimize based on counter values, the system adapted. Later trials got harder, more targeted."
Dr. Okonkwo nodded. "Because the system isn't just testing individual survival. It's testing humanity's capacity for both selfishness and sacrifice. It wants to see the full spectrum of human decision-making under pressure."
"Why?" Marcus asked the question we were all thinking.
"I don't know. But I have a theory." She pulled up another document. "I've been analyzing the trial patterns across all available data. The escalation, the types of challenges, the specific moral dilemmas. It's not random. The system is running a comprehensive assessment of human adaptability—physical, mental, moral, social."
"Assessment for what purpose?" I asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?" She looked at each of us. "But here's what I know: the Observer marks are consistent across all of us. Same basic structure, different configurations. Like we're being tagged for a specific subset of the larger experiment."
"Test subjects within the test," Marcus muttered.
"Exactly. And if we're being monitored separately, it means we're not following the expected pattern. We're variables the system wants to study more closely."
My wrist tingled.
[OBSERVER NOTATION: ANALYSIS ACCURATE]
[CONVERGENCE DETECTED]
[THREE ANOMALIES IN PROXIMITY—PROBABILITY: 0.0004%]
[CONTINUE]
The Observer was pleased. Three of us together was statistically impossible without intervention.
Which meant it wanted this.
"We're being manipulated," I said quietly. "The Observer is guiding us together."
"For what purpose?" Dr. Okonkwo asked.
Before I could answer, Marcus stiffened. "We have company."
I heard it then—footsteps above. Multiple sets. Moving with coordinated precision.
"Guardians," Marcus confirmed, checking his rifle. "At least three, maybe more."
[PROTOCOL VIOLATION: CRITICAL]
[MULTIPLE ANOMALIES IN UNAUTHORIZED CONGREGATION]
[ENFORCEMENT REQUIRED]
The text appeared in all our visions simultaneously.
"They're not here to observe anymore," Dr. Okonkwo said, standing. "They're here to enforce."
"How do we fight them?" Marcus asked, tactical mode engaged.
"We don't," I said. "Guardians can't be killed. I've tried in previous loops. The only option is to run and separate."
"Three different directions," Dr. Okonkwo agreed. "Make them choose which one to follow."
"They'll follow all of us," Marcus countered. "If there are three Guardians—"
"Then we make them work for it." I grabbed my notebook, shoved it in my jacket. "We meet again in seventy-two hours. Different location, one at a time. Marcus, you pick the spot and send coded messages."
He nodded.
The bunker entrance darkened.
A Guardian descended the stairs.
"GO!"
We scattered.
Marcus went up through a ventilation shaft he must have scouted earlier. Dr. Okonkwo ran deeper into the bunker, toward the beach-side exit. I headed for the main entrance, gambling that the Guardian would follow the person moving most aggressively.
I was right.
The Guardian turned toward me, its movements precise and unhurried.
I ran.
Out of the bunker, across the beach, into the maze of abandoned buildings along the shore. I could hear it behind me—not running, just walking with that impossible speed-distance warping.
I ducked into a burned-out apartment building, through what used to be a living room, out a back window into an alley.
The Guardian appeared at the end of the alley.
I ran the other direction.
[COUNTER: 2,814]
Seven units lost in minutes.
I couldn't keep this up.
I needed to break line of sight, confuse its tracking.
There—an old subway grate, probably leading to maintenance tunnels.
I pried it open, dropped down into darkness.
The tunnels were flooded, knee-deep water that reeked of sewage. I waded through, using my phone's dying battery for light.
Behind me, I heard a splash.
The Guardian had followed.
I pushed deeper, turned corners randomly, trying to lose it in the labyrinth.
Finally, I found a service ladder leading up to street level. Climbed it, emerged in a different neighborhood—Howard Beach, maybe.
I checked behind me.
No Guardian.
Either I'd lost it, or it had given up.
Or it was letting me go.
[OBSERVER NOTATION: EVASION SUCCESSFUL]
[NETWORK ESTABLISHED: 3/12 ANOMALIES]
[GUARDIAN RESPONSE CATALOGUED]
[CONTINUE]
I was breathing hard, soaked in sewage water, down seven counter units.
But I'd done it.
Three anomalies found. Three people who remembered, who could share intel, who could help map the system's weaknesses.
I pulled out my burner phone. Two messages waiting.
Elena: HEARD GUARDIAN ACTIVITY ROCKAWAY. STATUS?
Amara: MARINE CONTACT SUCCESSFUL?
I typed back: NETWORK AT 3. DOCTOR ACQUIRED. GUARDIAN ENCOUNTER. ALL SURVIVED.
I started the long walk back toward Manhattan, every shadow making me tense, every passerby a potential threat.
[COUNTER: 2,812]
Twenty-six days until Trial 2.
Twenty-six days to prepare, to gather more intel, to figure out what the Observer wanted.
And twenty-six days to decide who I'd sacrifice when the system forced me to choose.
Because in Trial 2, everyone had to choose.
And in seventy-three loops, I'd learned that the right choice was always the one that let you survive.
Even if it killed a part of you that could never come back.
[END CHAPTER 4]
[NEXT TRIAL IN 26 DAYS, 19 HOURS, 7 MINUTES]
[ANOMALIES IDENTIFIED: 3/12]
[NETWORK STATUS: FORMING]
[GUARDIAN ENCOUNTERS: 3]
[OBSERVER STATUS: MONITORING]