Chapter 1: My Killer Wears My Face

I'm going to die tonight at 2:40 a.m.

The words landed like ice in my chest, cold and final—a beat of stunned silence followed, my mind blanking out for a split second. I just stared at the clock, not quite believing what I’d just told myself. Even as they echoed in my head, my heart thudded with this weird cocktail of dread and resignation. Funny, how you can get used to the idea of your own death when it keeps coming back around.

The killer is a man in a black hood. The thought creeps in like a draft, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I can almost smell the cheap polyester, hear the soft swish as he moves. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—tall, broad-shouldered, always shrouded in that same nondescript hoodie—haunting me, even in those rare moments when I manage to forget what’s coming. He’s always lurking in the corner of my eye, impossible to shake.

Calling the cops, hiding, running, offering money—none of it works. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve gone through every desperate move in the book, every trick you can think of when you’re out of options. No matter what I do, he always finds me. It’s like he’s memorized the script and I’m just an actor stuck on the stage.

He finds me every time, right on the dot, and kills me like it’s nothing to him. No hesitation. No words. Just a flash of steel—cold, precise, enough to make my skin crawl. It’s almost like he isn’t even angry—just focused, like I’m a job he’s got to finish.

This is my thirty-first time trapped in this same nightmare.

Thirty-one. I whispered it under my breath, every single time I woke up. Just to remind myself it was real. Most people would give anything for a second chance. I’ve gotten thirty, and each one hurts more than the last.

This time, while we fought, I finally managed to tear off his hood.

My hands shook as I grabbed the fabric—slick with sweat, my panic rising. For a second, I almost hoped I’d see a stranger’s face, some explanation that made sense.

But I never expected—never even imagined—the face underneath would be my own.

The sight punched the air right out of me. The world tilted. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d lost my mind.

An older version of me, at least ten years older, eyes full of exhaustion.

He looked like someone who’d seen too much. Deep lines around his mouth. Hair streaked with gray. Those eyes—my eyes—looked back at me, worn out and hollow.

He looked at me, voice hoarse. "Evan Marsh, get out of the way."

Hearing my own name in that gravelly voice made my skin prickle. He sounded like he hadn’t slept in weeks, or maybe years. There was something in the way he said it—like this was the last thing he wanted to do.

My name is Evan Marsh, and I’m your average night-shift clerk at a 24-hour convenience store outside Toledo.

If you asked anyone in town about me, they’d probably just shrug. I was the guy who rang up your gas station coffee at 3 a.m., the face you barely remembered by morning. I wore my name on a cheap plastic badge, and most days it felt like a borrowed identity.

After graduating from college and failing to land a real job, I ended up scraping by on the night shift at this place on the edge of town.

I’d majored in English, if you can believe it. Yeah. Thought I’d write the next great American novel. Instead, I was stocking shelves and sweeping up spilled Slurpees at the Speedway on South Avenue, with nothing but fluorescent lights and the hum of the freezer for company.

No family. No friends. Not even a cat. Maybe that’s why nobody noticed.

I’d drifted through life like a ghost. My phone never buzzed except for spam calls. No one called to check in, and the only mail I got was junk. Sometimes, I wondered if I’d just slipped between the cracks of the world, invisible even before all this started.

The first time I woke up in the loop, I thought it was just a nightmare. Then the sharp pain of the knife slicing my skin yanked me back to reality.

The kind of pain that makes you gasp. Bright, white-hot, impossible to ignore. I remember thinking, This can’t be real. But the blood on my hands and the cold tile beneath me said otherwise.

The second time, I tried calling the cops, but the store’s landline was dead and so was my cell—no explanation.

I remember the panic. The way my fingers fumbled with the receiver. The silence on the other end of the line was worse than any busy signal. I checked my cell, watched the bars drop to zero, and felt the world close in.

The third time, I hid behind the chip rack. Didn’t matter. The killer found me, like he already knew my every move.

I crouched low, holding my breath. My heart pounded so loud I thought he’d hear it. But he walked straight to me, knife glinting in the flickering light, like he’d watched me do it a hundred times before.

The fourth time, I grabbed the biggest bottle of whiskey off the shelf and tried to fight back, but he dodged it like it was nothing, and the blade still plunged into my chest.

I swung hard, desperate. But he was faster—ducked under my arm and drove the knife home. The bottle shattered on the floor, mixing with the blood. I remember the sting of alcohol in the wound, the world spinning out.

Ten times. Twenty times. Thirty. Each death felt so real... it was enough to make me want to give up.

You’d think you’d get numb to it. You don’t. Every time, the pain is new, raw, like a fresh wound. After a while, I started to wonder if this was hell—my own personal punishment, looping forever.

I tried everything: running out the front door only to get cut off. Hiding in the bathroom and getting dragged out. Playing dead and still getting stabbed. Even stacking all the cash on the counter—he ignored the money and killed me anyway.

I even tried barricading myself in the walk-in cooler once, thinking maybe I could freeze him out. Didn’t work. He broke the lock and dragged me out anyway, eyes cold as ice. The money never mattered. He never even glanced at it.

His moves were so precise, it was almost creepy. He knew every corner of the store like the back of his hand, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

He’d sidestep the mop bucket. Duck under the security camera. Step over the loose floor tile. It was like he had a blueprint in his head. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

This wasn’t just a robbery. It was an execution. Planned to the last detail.

There was a cold, inevitable purpose behind every step. It was personal, somehow, even before I knew the truth.

Why me? Why now?

The question rattled around in my skull. Kept me awake, even when I should’ve been too exhausted to care.

Why this store? Why not somewhere else?

Why here, of all places? Not somewhere bigger, with more to steal or more people around?

Why do I have to die over and over? Only to wake up again in front of the freezer.

Every time, the same spot. The same blast of cold air. The same flicker of fluorescent light. Like the universe was rubbing it in.

Tonight, loop thirty-one. Time to try something different.

Desperation breeds creativity, I guess. I was done running. This time, I’d be the one watching him.

I’d memorize every detail. Every move. Every habit.

If I couldn’t outfight him, maybe I could outthink him. Maybe I’d missed something. Some pattern hiding in plain sight.

If I couldn’t stop my death, I at least wanted to know why.

Knowledge was the only weapon I had left.

I clung to it like a lifeline.

Time ticked by. Second after second. I stood in front of the freezer, forcing myself to stay calm.

I could hear the hum of the fridge. The soft whir of the security camera. Every sound felt sharper, clearer. I forced my breath to slow, counting the seconds in my head. My thoughts buzzed—don’t panic, just watch.

The loop gave me one advantage—I could predict everything.

It was like déjà vu, only worse. I knew the script. Knew my lines. But this time, I was determined to improvise.

The killer would come in through the back door. Five steps to the shelves. Eight more to the counter. Then straight for me.

I pictured it in my head, step by step. Five to the shelves, eight to the counter. I could almost hear the rhythm of his boots on the linoleum. My heart tapped out the same beat.

His right foot dragged a little. Maybe an old injury. Maybe just a habit.

That sound—the scuff of a shoe on linoleum—always sent a chill down my spine. Every time I heard it, I tensed up, waiting for the worst.

He always held the knife the same way. Left hand in his pocket. Right hand gripping the blade, edge down. Classic ambush stance.

I’d seen enough true crime documentaries to know what that meant. He was ready. Practiced. Not some amateur with a grudge.

He never spoke. Never took the money. I was always his only target.

It was like I was the only thing that mattered. No threats, no demands. Just silent, relentless purpose.

I pulled out the store’s order log and jotted down everything I’d noticed, even though I knew it would vanish when the loop reset.

The pen scratched across the page. My handwriting was shaky but determined. I knew it wouldn’t last, but maybe writing it down would help me remember. Help me focus.

At 2:39 a.m., I quietly moved to the side of the counter, instead of standing right in front.

My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my jeans, trying to look casual, like I was just rearranging the gum display. My heart hammered in my chest.

At 2:40, I heard a faint sound from the back door. He was here.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The door creaked—just like always. I forced myself not to flinch.

I held my breath, pretended to tidy the candy shelves, kept the door in the corner of my eye.

I could see his shadow stretching across the linoleum, long and thin under the flickering lights. I kept my hands busy, but my mind was racing.

A shadow slipped in, right on schedule. Familiar footsteps. Familiar path.

There was something mechanical about the way he moved, like he was following a map burned into his brain. He never looked around, never hesitated.

But this time, I noticed something new—a scar on his left wrist, just visible as his sleeve slid up.

It was just a flash, a pale line against the skin. But it stood out—like a clue in a mystery I was only just starting to solve.

He was about my height and build. But he moved faster, more decisively.

It was uncanny, seeing someone so much like me, but sharper, more driven. Like I was looking at a version of myself that had been forged in fire.

When he neared the counter and saw I wasn’t in my usual spot, he paused. Just for a split second.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face—just enough for me to catch my breath. It was the first time I’d ever seen him hesitate.

Now. Do it.

I grabbed the fire extinguisher I’d stashed behind the counter and let it rip.

The hiss of the foam filled the air, thick and cold. I aimed for his face, hoping to blind him, or at least slow him down.

He hadn’t expected this—froze for a second, then twisted aside, freakishly fast, dodging most of the spray.

He moved like a cat, low and fast. But I’d bought myself a few seconds. Precious seconds.

No normal person could move like that. Not even close.

It was almost supernatural—the way he seemed to anticipate my every move. My skin prickled with fear and something else: recognition.

I could feel the hope rising in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance.

I tossed it aside, grabbed the mop by the register, and went for him.

The mop handle felt awkward in my hands, but it was better than nothing. I gritted my teeth and swung with everything I had.

For the first time, I was making the first move. Not just waiting to die.

It felt good, in a twisted way—to fight back, to refuse to just lie down and take it. I yelled, more out of fear than anger, but it gave me courage.

We wrestled in a cloud of extinguisher powder. He was strong—way stronger than any regular guy.

His grip was iron-strong. We slipped and slid across the powder-dusted floor, crashing into shelves and sending candy bars flying. The world shrank to just the two of us, locked in a deadly dance.

But I had determination. And thirty deaths’ worth of experience. And anger.

Every move he made, I recognized. I’d seen it all before. This time, I was ready.

Dodging one of his attacks, I saw his sleeve slip again—the scar was clearer now. A surgical stitch, right above the pulse point.

It looked fresh, angry. Like something I’d seen in a hospital TV show. The detail nagged at me, tugging at the edge of memory.

Why did that detail feel so familiar? Why?

It was like a puzzle piece that almost fit, but not quite. My mind raced, searching for the answer.

Before I could figure it out, he regrouped. The knife came at me again.

I barely had time to react. The blade flashed, catching the light, and I felt a burning pain in my side.

This time, my death hurt more than any before. But I was closer than ever to the truth.

As the world faded, I clung to that thought. I was getting closer. I just had to hold on a little longer.