Chapter 3: The Rules of the Loop
James didn't go to the café.
For the first time since the loop began, he broke the routine completely.
Rain still tapped against the window. The clock still read 7:18 a.m. Ada's message still glowed on his phone.
Ada: You're late. Don't forget our coffee.
James turned the phone face down.
"Let's see what happens when I don't show up," he murmured.
His heart pounded—not with fear, but with anticipation.
If the loop was real, then it had rules.
And if it had rules, it could be understood.
He stayed home.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
Nothing exploded.
The world didn't collapse.
Time didn't reset.
At 8:05 a.m., his phone buzzed again.
Ada: Are you okay?
James exhaled slowly.
"So you notice," he whispered.
He typed back with deliberate care.
James: Yeah. Just running late. Go to work without me.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Finally:
Ada: That's… new.
James stared at the screen.
New.
The word echoed in his mind.
This was the first crack.
He left the apartment an hour later.
The city felt wrong—too quiet, like a stage between scenes. People moved, talked, laughed… but James watched them with detached focus, cataloging patterns instead of emotions.
He tested everything.
At a crosswalk, he stepped forward before the signal changed.
A car screeched to a halt inches from him.
The driver cursed.
James didn't flinch.
He crossed anyway.
At a convenience store, he bought something different.
At work, he spoke out of turn.
At lunch, he sat with strangers.
The world resisted—but it didn't break.
"It adapts," James said under his breath.
By evening, one thing was clear:
No matter what he changed during the day, 11:47 p.m. remained fixed.
Like a nail hammered into time.
Ada met him after work, confusion written across her face.
"You've been acting strange all day," she said. "You skipped coffee, ignored three of my messages, and now you're staring at me like I'm about to disappear."
James forced himself to smile. "Sorry. Just… a weird day."
She studied him closely. "You sure you're okay?"
He wanted to tell her everything.
That she died.
That she would die again.
That he had watched her bleed twice already.
Instead, he said, "Do you trust me?"
Ada blinked. "That's a loaded question."
"Just answer."
"Yes," she said slowly. "But you're scaring me a little."
James nodded. "That's fair."
They walked in silence for a while.
Then Ada spoke again. "You know… sometimes I feel like I'm forgetting something important."
His steps faltered.
"What kind of something?" he asked carefully.
She frowned. "I don't know. It's like… déjà vu, but heavier. Like I've lived this day before and failed at something."
James stopped walking.
Ada turned to face him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You said you don't remember anything," he whispered.
"Remember what?"
James swallowed.
"Nothing," he said. "Let's just… go somewhere safe tonight."
At 11:30 p.m., James locked every door.
Closed every window.
Turned off every light except the one in the living room.
Ada sat on the couch, arms crossed. "You're officially freaking me out."
"Stay with me," James said. "Just for seventeen minutes."
"Seventeen?" she repeated. "That's oddly specific."
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
11:38 p.m.
James ignored it.
11:41 p.m.
Another vibration.
Ada sighed. "James, who keeps messaging you?"
"No one," he lied.
At 11:44, the power went out.
The apartment plunged into darkness.
Ada gasped. "Okay—now I'm not laughing."
James moved instantly, pulling her close. "Stay here."
"What's happening?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he admitted.
That was the truth—and it terrified him more than any lie.
11:46 p.m.
The silence pressed in on them, thick and suffocating.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Ada stiffened. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," James said.
The knock came again.
James didn't move.
The door rattled.
Ada grabbed his arm. "James, please tell me you didn't bring trouble here."
"I didn't," he said. "But trouble knows your address."
The door handle twisted violently.
James stepped in front of Ada without thinking.
11:47 p.m.
The wall behind them exploded inward.
The blast threw James across the room. His head slammed into the floor, stars bursting behind his eyes.
He heard Ada scream.
Then silence.
James dragged himself up, vision blurring.
Ada lay near the shattered wall, blood pooling beneath her.
Again.
Always again.
"No," James choked. "I locked everything. I stayed with you. I followed every rule—"
Ada's eyes fluttered open.
This time, she looked straight at him.
"You look… tired," she whispered.
His chest burned. "I'm sorry."
Her fingers curled weakly around his sleeve.
"This isn't the first time," she said.
James froze.
"What did you say?"
She smiled faintly, sadness and familiarity mixing in her eyes.
"Whatever you're trying to fix," she murmured…
"…it's already broken."
Her hand slipped away.
The world shattered.
James woke up gasping.
Rain.
7:18 a.m.
The clock glowed softly.
He sat up slowly.
No screaming this time.
No denial.
Just cold understanding.
"So that's it," he said quietly.
He stood, walked to the mirror, and stared at himself.
Same face.
Different eyes.
He picked up a notebook from his desk and opened it to a blank page.
At the top, he wrote:
RULES OF THE LOOP
The day always resets at 11:47 p.m.
James remembers everything.
Ada dies—no matter what he changes.
The cause of death adapts.
Ada is starting to remember.
His hand trembled as he wrote the last line.
James closed the notebook.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips.
"If the loop won't let me save her," he said softly,
"then I'll stop trying to save the day."
He looked at the clock.
7:18 a.m.
Plenty of time.
"This time," James whispered,
"I'm going to find out who built this hell."