Chapter 2: Surveillance, Sirens, and the Truth

Back in front of the freezer, I opened my eyes again. No fear this time. Only resolve.

I sat up straighter, rolling my shoulders. The fear was still there, but it was different now—sharper, more focused. I was done being a victim.

I had a plan now. A direction.

The pieces were starting to come together. I could feel it.

At 2:37 a.m., I headed straight for the security room and pulled up the camera feeds.

I’d forgotten about the cameras, too focused on survival. But maybe they held the key I’d been missing.

I’d overlooked it before—the store had six cameras. Maybe they’d catch something I’d missed.

The monitors were old, the footage grainy, but it was better than nothing. I squinted at the screens, searching for anything out of place.

The security room was tiny. One old monitor, split into six grainy screens. But it would do.

It smelled like stale coffee and burnt popcorn, the kind of place no one ever wanted to spend time in. But tonight, it felt like a sanctuary.

I fast-forwarded through last night’s footage. Found something strange.

My fingers trembled as I scrubbed through the timeline. I watched myself die, over and over, from every angle. It was surreal, like watching a horror movie where I was both the victim and the audience.

Starting at 2 a.m., the video would flicker with static, like the signal was jammed.

The static crawled across the screen, obscuring the killer’s face just when I needed to see it most. It was almost like someone—or something—didn’t want me to know the truth.

Stranger still, at 2:40 a.m.—the moment the killer entered—all six cameras went black for a full second.

I counted the seconds, heart pounding. The blackout was too perfect, too precise. It sent a chill down my spine.

That couldn’t be a coincidence. No way.

I muttered the words under my breath, just to hear them out loud. The universe was trying to tell me something.

I switched to the live feed. It was already 2:39.

My hands flew over the controls, adrenaline surging. I couldn’t afford to miss a thing.

The back door camera caught a shadow pacing outside. He was here.

I watched the shape move back and forth, restless, like a wolf circling its prey. My mouth went dry.

I grabbed the security room phone and dialed 911. Hands shaking.

My fingers shook as I punched in the numbers. I pressed the receiver to my ear, praying for a connection.

"Hello, Speedway on South Avenue—there’s a man breaking in. Please, send someone, now!"

My voice came out high and tight, almost breaking. I tried to keep the panic out, but I could hear it anyway.

There was a second of silence. Then a calm woman’s voice: “Can you give me your exact address?”

Her voice was cool, professional. It almost calmed me down—almost.

I rattled off the address, eyes locked on the monitors.

The numbers spilled out of me, automatic. I barely noticed my hands were white-knuckled on the desk.

The man in black was already at the back door, prying it open, slipping inside.

He moved like a pro, quick and quiet. I watched him disappear into the shadows, heart hammering in my chest.

"Officers will arrive within five minutes. Please stay safe."

Five minutes? I didn’t have five minutes.

I stared at the clock, cursing under my breath. Five minutes might as well have been five years.

Watching the killer approach on the monitor, I remembered—the security room had an emergency button.

It was a big red button, dusty and ignored. I’d never thought I’d actually use it.

I slammed the red button. A piercing alarm blared through the whole store.

The sound was deafening, echoing down every aisle. I hoped it would scare him off, but deep down, I knew better.

On the monitors, the killer flinched, but instead of running, he sped up.

He moved faster, almost frantic. The alarm had rattled him, but it hadn’t stopped him.

He knew. He was running out of time.

For the first time, I realized he was on a deadline too. Whatever he wanted, he needed to get it done before the cops arrived.

I grabbed the baton from the security room and hid behind the door. Heart pounding.

It was heavy, solid. I gripped it tight, knuckles aching. My breath came in short, sharp bursts.

The second he burst in, I swung. Everything I had.

The door crashed open. I didn’t think—I just reacted. The baton connected with a sickening thud.

Wham. The sound echoed.

He staggered back, surprised for the first time.

The baton cracked into his shoulder. He stumbled two steps.

He grunted, pain flashing across his face. It was the first crack in his armor I’d ever seen.

For the first time in all these loops—I had the upper hand.

I felt a surge of hope, wild and reckless. Maybe I could end this—maybe I could win.

While he was off balance, I swung again. Hit his head.

He ducked, but I caught him on the side. The hood slipped, revealing a shock of gray-white hair.

Gray-white hair. My hair.

My breath caught in my throat. The world seemed to slow down, every detail sharp and bright.

My heart pounded. I was finally about to see his face—the executioner who’d tormented me for thirty loops.

I could feel the moment building, the tension stretching like a wire about to snap.

Seizing the moment, I lunged and yanked off his hood.

The fabric came away in my hands. I stared, not daring to blink.

It was a face I knew all too well. Mine. Just older—by more than a decade.

It was like looking in a cracked mirror. Every line, every scar, every haunted shadow was mine—and not mine.

Sunken eyes. Weary gaze. A scar on the forehead. Even the mole on the chin—it was all me.

He looked broken. Like he’d run out of hope, but kept going anyway.

His eyes were resolute. “Get out of the way, Evan!”

The words were sharp, desperate. I could hear the strain in his voice, the pain behind the anger.

His voice was hoarse, but it was mine. Just rougher, older.

There was something else there, too—a pleading, a warning. Like he wanted to save me, even as he tried to end me.

I staggered back, stunned. "You... you’re me? Why are you trying to kill me?"

My own voice sounded small, lost. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The world spun.

"Our daughter has a rare blood disease. If we don’t get the money, Riley... she won’t make it!" Daughter? Riley?

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Daughter? Riley? My mind reeled, trying to make sense of it.

Daughter? I didn’t even have a girlfriend.

I shook my head, confusion and fear warring in my chest. This had to be a mistake. Or a nightmare. Or both.

Before I could ask more, my future self raised the knife, eyes full of grim determination.

His grip tightened. I could see the desperation in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched. He’d made up his mind.

The only way. For her.

His voice cracked, just a little. For a second, I saw the man I could become—a father, willing to do anything for his child.

As the blade plunged into my chest, my mind reeled.

The pain was almost secondary. The real agony was the realization—the fear of what I might become.

My future self. The killer.

The words echoed in my mind, louder than the alarm, louder than my own screams.