Chapter 1: The Death Loop Livestream

It was just after Memorial Day weekend, and I’d pulled a late shift at work—so late the sun was almost up. That’s when I came across an old man sprawled on the sidewalk in downtown Toledo. The city still smelled like barbecue and fireworks, the air thick with the hangover of summer’s first big holiday. As I hesitated, torn between stepping in or walking away, a flood of text—like chat spam on a Twitch stream—suddenly flashed before my eyes:

"Damn, the MC died because he didn't help the old man—got stabbed to death by the old man's son who showed up."

"Sure, the killer's some psycho with freakish strength, but the guy really didn't help his dad. Guess he had it coming."

"See? Selfish people never last long."

I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart hammered. Those words felt heavy—like they could crush me. Forcing myself forward, I reached for the old man’s elbow, hands shaking as I helped him up.

My worst fear still came true—they accused me.

Even though I had my phone out and recorded the whole thing, the old man wouldn’t let up, demanding cash. His voice carried down the empty street, echoing off the glass fronts of closed shops.

When I tried to pull away, his son came charging over from behind and stabbed me. Eighteen times.

A flash of white light, and I was right back to when the old man fell.

The comment spam kept refreshing before my eyes, making my heart race:

"Getting scammed just for helping an old man—serves him right for being so dumb."

"Doesn't want to pay up but insists on playing hero. Isn't that just asking to die?"

At 12:07 a.m., I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the old man collapsed in front of me, my heart pounding wildly. The chill of the late-night air couldn't cool the panic building inside me.

He curled up on the concrete, groaning, the streetlight stretching his shadow long across the pavement. The city was quiet except for the distant rumble of a passing semi on the overpass.

I pulled out my phone. My finger hovered over 911, refusing to press. The number glowed on the screen, but I just couldn't do it—paralyzed by the memory of what came next.

I could still remember—clear as day—how my cousin got scammed for thirty grand, three years back, after helping an old man. Money he still hasn't gotten back. The story came up every Thanksgiving. Every year, someone added a new detail.

As I hesitated, translucent lines of text floated before my eyes, just like a Twitch chat flood, scrolling up the side:

"Damn, the MC died because he didn't help the old man—got stabbed to death by the old man's son who showed up."

"Sure, the killer's some psycho with freakish strength, but the guy really didn't help his dad. Guess he had it coming."

[See? Selfish people never last long.]

I stumbled back two steps. The chat spam followed my eyes, getting sharper and more vivid—too real to be a hallucination. I swear, it was like someone hacked reality, overlaying my world with their cruel commentary.

Cold sweat soaked my back. I rubbed my eyes, but the chat was still there, updating nonstop:

[Hurry up and help! If you don't, you'll be dead in three minutes!]

[No spoilers up ahead—I love watching these self-destructive choices.]

"What the hell?"

My voice trembled, but my body moved on its own toward the old man. I felt like a marionette, like my strings were being yanked by fear—and by whoever was watching.

The [stabbed to death] detail in the chat was too specific, too real. I couldn't risk it.

"Are you okay, sir?"

I crouched down and caught a strong whiff of whiskey on him. It stung my nostrils, the kind you find in a plastic bottle at the gas station.

The moment he saw me, his cloudy eyes suddenly cleared, and his bony hand clamped onto my wrist like a steel trap.

"You! You're the one who hit me!"

The old man shouted with surprising strength, not at all like someone injured. His voice was hoarse, but it carried. Echoed off the empty storefronts.

"Pay up! You’re not leaving unless you give me five grand!"

My scalp tingled. I scrambled to hold up my phone.

"I'm recording! You fell by yourself—I've got it all on video!"

The old man wouldn't let go, tugging at my clothes. For someone so old and frail, his grip was shockingly strong. His nails dug into my skin, and I winced, trying to keep my balance.

I tried to break free. Suddenly, a dark figure burst out of the alley—

A burly man, nearly six foot three, with a vicious glare and something gleaming in his hand. Boots thudded against the pavement. He moved like he owned the night.

"You bastard, how dare you hurt my dad!"

His roar rattled my eardrums. It was the kind of voice that made you freeze, even if you knew you’d done nothing wrong.

The chat exploded:

[That's it, the classic 18-stab scene.]

[Recording's useless—werewolves in a frenzy don’t care about reason.]

[First time watching live—does he start stabbing right away?]

Instinct kicked in. I tried to run. But as soon as I turned, my back went cold—then searing pain crashed over me.

Once. Twice. Three times... By the eighteenth, everything was red.

My legs buckled. The world tilted sideways. Streetlights blurred.

Just before I blacked out, I saw one last chat comment float by:

[Welcome to the Death Loop Livestream. See you all next episode~]

In the midst of agony, white light swallowed everything. I felt weightless, like falling through TV static.

"Ah!"

I jolted awake. I was back on the sidewalk. My breath came in ragged gasps. My shirt was dry—not soaked with blood.

A glance at my phone: 12:07 a.m.

Up ahead, the old man was just starting to fall. The streetlight flickered above him, throwing harsh yellow light over everything.

"I... was reborn?" I touched my unharmed back, my legs going weak. I almost dropped my phone, hands shaking.

The floating chat comments appeared again:

[Episode Two! Help or not this time?]

[I bet fifty cents he’ll help again and get scammed.]

[Hold on, this script’s different!]

I was shaking all over. This time, I noticed a tiny viewer count in the corner—12,487 people watching. The number ticked up, one by one, like a sick scoreboard.

This wasn’t a hallucination. There were really over ten thousand "people" watching me make this life-or-death decision!

The old man started groaning as he fell. My mind was racing.

Last time, I helped and got stabbed. What if I don’t help this time? The chat said I’d die either way, but maybe...

I stepped back. Then I bolted.

"Help! An old man fell!"

I shouted as I ran, hoping to draw attention from passersby. My voice cracked. Raw from panic.

Curses from the old man echoed behind me, but I didn’t care.

The chat went wild:

[Smart! But you’re running the wrong way!]

[The alley on the left leads straight to the police station, dummy!]

[He’s about to run into that car.]

Car? What car?

I dashed into the street—blinding headlights bore down on me. For a split second, I saw my own reflection in the windshield, eyes wide with terror.

The screech of brakes was ear-splitting, but it was too late.

I was thrown into the air. A chat comment drifted by:

[Too bad, lived two minutes less than last time.]

White light again.

On my third rebirth, I collapsed to my knees. The hard concrete bit into my skin. It was real. All too real.

The old man hadn’t fallen yet—time seemed to have rewound a few seconds. The world was stuck on replay, like a broken record.

"What the hell is this place?!"

Fear and pressure finally broke me. I screamed. My voice bounced down the empty block—no answer.

But the chat seemed amused:

[Wow, the MC finally realizes something’s off!]

[Only three episodes in and he’s losing it? It gets even wilder later.]

[Just lie down and wait for death—no matter what you pick, you die~]

After I let it out, I forced myself to calm down. My breathing slowed, and I wiped sweat from my forehead, trying to think like I was debugging a stubborn piece of code.

As a software engineer, I believed—if it’s a system, it has a loophole. Every loop has an exit. Maybe this was no different, just a higher-stakes puzzle.

These chat comments seemed to predict the future. Maybe...

"Who are you? How do I get out of here?"

I asked quietly. My words were barely more than a whisper, but the digital audience heard me.

The chat froze for a second—then blew up:

[He’s talking to us?]

[Breaking the fourth wall? That’s not in the script!]

[Just tell him the truth, his memory resets anyway.]

One golden comment stood out:

[The killer is Carl Mason, has 'werewolf syndrome,' and targets people who are 'selfish' or 'stupid.' Congratulations, you’ve been chosen as his prey.]

It felt like falling into an ice pit. My mouth went dry, and the world seemed to shrink around me.

Werewolf syndrome—I’d seen it on the news. People with it are usually huge, violent, quick to anger. Stories about attacks would trend for days on Twitter, everyone arguing about mental health and justice.

So no matter if I help the old man or not, I can’t escape Carl Mason’s murder script?

The old man started to fall—time was running out.

This time, I made a choice—unexpected, but logical. I dialed 911.

"I want to report a crime. There’s a planned attack on Main Street..."

I kept my voice low and moved away from the old man, slipping into the corner store. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly white.

Through the glass, I saw the old man get up by himself, angrily searching for me. He paced back and forth, muttering curses.

Five minutes later, Carl Mason showed up. They talked in hushed tones, glancing my way. I pressed myself against the chip display. My heart pounded in my ears.

The chat grew hyperactive:

[Whoa, never seen this development before!]

[He actually called the cops? That’s out of character!]

[But before the police arrive, he’ll...]

Suddenly, all the chat comments turned blood red: [Get down, now!!!]

I instinctively dove to the floor. Bags of Doritos scattered everywhere as I hit the linoleum.

The store window shattered—a falling window AC unit smashed the spot where I’d just been standing. Glass rained down, sparkling in the harsh lights.

Looking up, I saw Carl Mason grinning viciously from the rooftop across the street. His teeth glinted, and his eyes burned with manic glee.

Before my fourth death, the chat was still going, casual as ever:

[Next time, try a different escape route...]

White light.