A Normal Start—Or So It Seems

Neo stepped into the marketplace, inhaling the warm scent of freshly baked bread.

Dawnstead was already bustling with life—merchants calling out their wares, children running through the streets, knights patrolling in pairs.

But his focus was on one stall.

A small bakery near the center of the market, tucked between two larger shops. A simple wooden sign hung overhead, but the shop itself looked closed.

There was no one at the counter.

He approached the stall and glanced behind it.

Inside, a young woman, likely in her early 20s, worked furiously.

Flour dusted her apron, her sleeves were rolled up, and she moved with precise, almost mechanical motions. Her hands kneaded the dough, adjusted the oven, rearranged ingredients—all in a pattern that looked...obsessive.

Neo cleared his throat.

"Excuse me. Is the shop open?"

No response.

The woman didn't even look up.

Her focus was entirely on the dough before her, her hands smoothing and shaping it with such intensity that she seemed to have forgotten the world around her.

Neo studied her for a moment, then repeated, "Is the shop open?"

Still, nothing.

It was as if she were trapped in her own world.

The Perfectionist's Prison

She muttered something under her breath.

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Neo sharpened his ears, catching fragments of her words.

"...too dense. Needs more flour."

"...rising too fast. Temperature's wrong."

"...almost there. Almost perfect."

He remained quiet, watching as she worked.

Every movement she made was deliberate, controlled, and precise.

Every time she almost finished shaping the dough, she frowned and started over.

Neo's gaze flickered to the trays beside her.

Rows of identical loaves lined them. Each one looked flawless—golden, evenly shaped, dusted with the perfect amount of flour.

And yet, she hadn't stopped baking.

She hadn't sold a single one.

She wasn't making bread.

She was chasing perfection.

Neo's Approach—The First Test

Neo leaned forward slightly.

"That bread looks good," he said casually.

The woman's hands froze mid-motion.

It was only for a second—but Neo caught it.

A hesitation.

Her fingers clenched the dough a little tighter before she continued kneading.

She didn't answer him.

But Neo had confirmed it.

She heard him.

He took a step closer.

"You must be a really skilled baker," he continued. "Those loaves look perfect."

Again, a slight pause.

This time, she let out a small exhale, barely audible.

"...Not perfect."

Her voice was quiet, yet firm.

"...Not yet."

Neo folded his arms, watching her closely.

He had to be careful.

If he pushed too hard, too fast—would the loop reset?

Testing the Limits

"Why does it have to be perfect?" Neo asked.

For the first time, the baker looked up.

Her eyes were sharp, tired, and filled with something Neo recognized—self-doubt, masked by determination.

She hesitated again, before answering.

"Because I only have one chance."

Neo's fingers tapped lightly against the counter.

"One chance? But she's been doing this for days."

He could see it in her exhausted expression, in the slight tremble of her hands.

How many times had she started over?

How many times had she convinced herself that today was the day she would finally get it right?

The Weight of Her Own Expectations

Neo glanced at the trays of untouched bread.

"Have you sold any yet?" he asked.

She blinked.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Neo could almost hear the gears turning in her mind.

Had she?

She couldn't remember.

Because in her world, every day was the first attempt.

Every day, she told herself she had one shot.

And every day, she failed before she could even try.

A Dangerous Realization

Neo kept his expression neutral, despite the realization forming in his mind.

"She doesn't know."

"She doesn't realize she's trapped."

For a brief moment, he let himself absorb what he was seeing.

A woman in her early 20s—young, talented, and utterly lost inside her own expectations.

She had worked herself into exhaustion, repeating the same motions endlessly, never once allowing herself to move forward.

This wasn't just about bread.

This was fear.

Fear of failure. Fear of not being enough.

His chest felt tight for a moment.

"How long has she been like this?"

"How many days? Weeks? Months?"

"And if no one had noticed... would she have ever escaped?"

Neo exhaled slightly, keeping his tone light.

"What is your goal?"

She blinked at him, slightly caught off guard.

"Why do you seek perfection?"

For the first time since he arrived, she hesitated not because of her work—but because she didn't know how to answer.

Neo stayed silent, waiting.

Would she push him away?

Would she acknowledge the loop?

Or—perhaps—was this moment she would begin to see what he already knew?