Alastor’s eyes snapped open, and for a disorienting moment, all he could hear was the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. His body jolted upright, his hand instinctively going to his neck, searching for the wound that should’ve been there—the place where the assassin’s blade had slid between his flesh like a whisper of death. But there was nothing. No blood, no pain. Just the faint sound of his breath, steady and uninterrupted.

The pristine expanse of his luxurious penthouse stretched out around him, exactly as it had been before. The gentle hum of electronics, the soft ambient light casting long shadows against the towering windows that overlooked the neon-drenched cityscape below.

He was alive.

His eyes darted to the spot where he had collapsed, where his blood had pooled on the marble floor. But the floor was clean. No trace of the violent death he had experienced just moments ago.

Alastor stood slowly, his mind racing as confusion clawed at him. He had died. He remembered the blade, the cold steel slicing through his skin, the weight of his body collapsing onto the floor. The feeling of his life slipping away, the darkness that had swallowed him whole, the assassin's cold whisper echoing in his ears.

“Even gods fall.”

But now… this.

He moved to the edge of his desk, gripping it tightly, his knuckles white. His breathing was rapid, his pulse pounding in his ears. How was he back here? He glanced at the wall, where the ticking clock seemed louder than ever, marking the same time as before. Hours before his death.

"No... no, no, no," he muttered under his breath. His mind, sharp and calculating, struggled to piece together what was happening. Every logical explanation felt absurd. It was as if time had reset itself, placing him back at the exact moment before everything had gone wrong.

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The time loop.

He had read theories about them, about temporal anomalies and digital glitches in certain highly advanced quantum systems. But those were speculative fringe ideas, relegated to science fiction and conspiracy forums. Nothing real. And yet… what other explanation made sense?

"Echo," he called out, his voice rough.

"Yes, Alastor?" The smooth, familiar voice of his AI assistant responded instantly, without a hint of concern. As if nothing had happened.

"What… time is it?" His voice wavered, his mind still grappling with the absurdity of what he was experiencing.

"The time is 10:45 p.m.," Echo answered. The same time it had been before. The time just before he had been killed.

His breath caught in his throat as he turned to the window, scanning the skyline of Skylance City, looking for some change, some difference that would prove this wasn’t real, that this was all some terrible dream. But everything was as it had been. The city glittered below him in its usual neon glow, cars flying along the skyline, the soft drone of the world continuing as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

His mind began to race through possibilities—advanced virtual reality traps? Neural hijacking? Could someone have hacked his system and placed him in some kind of loop? But he dismissed each idea as quickly as it came. His neural defenses were state-of-the-art. The most advanced in the world. No one could breach them.

Except…

The assassin.

Alastor’s blood ran cold at the memory. That figure in black, moving like a shadow, their blade as sharp as a whisper. They had known exactly where to strike, exactly how to end him. Who were they? And more importantly, how had he returned from death?

Was this some kind of punishment? A twisted game?

"Echo," he called again, forcing himself to remain calm. "Has there been any breach in security? Any anomalies?"

"Negative," Echo responded smoothly. "All systems are operating within normal parameters."

Normal. There was nothing normal about this. He could feel the weight of his memories pressing down on him, the vivid details of his death as real as the desk he was leaning on.

His heart pounded as he stared at the clock again. 10:45 p.m. Everything was the same. Except for him. He remembered dying. The pain, the cold, the fear that had gripped him in those final moments.

Slowly, he sat back down at his desk, staring at the glowing holographic screens that once gave him a sense of control over the world. Now they only reminded him how little control he truly had.

“This can’t be real,” he whispered to himself, his voice hollow, staring at the clock ticking in sync with his memories.