Someone Stole My Teeth In Sleep

Each virtual storefront on the Silk Road was its own little universe.

No two were alike, each designed to lure in customers with promises and shimmering illusions.

The first to catch my eye was Echoes of Yesterday. Its sign rippled like water disturbed by unseen raindrops, the letters bending and shifting. Below, its tagline beckoned: Let us hear the footsteps that led them away.

I lingered for a moment, considering. Footstep tracking sounded useful—until I remembered the major flaw in my plan. It wouldn’t work if I didn’t even know where she had been or lived.

I moved on.

The Mirror’s Memory loomed ahead, its storefront was made entirely of floating mirrors, each reflecting a different time, a different place. Some showed sunlit courtyards; others, dim alleyways or moonlit rooftops. The store's tagline whispered as I passed: Every reflection tells a story.

Intriguing. But too limited. I needed more than glimpses—I needed certainty.

Then I saw Dreamwalker’s Haven. It hovered slightly above the ground, its entrance shrouded in thick, shifting purple mist that pulsed like a living thing. The sign flickered, letters appearing and disappearing as if they were surfacing from deep water: Find them in the realm of dreams.

I hesitated. Then stepped inside.

Even though the HyperSpace was a virtual world, the fake air inside was filled with the scent of something unplaceable—lavender, perhaps, or something older, something that smelled like forgotten memories. A woman stood behind the counter, her eyes a cosmos of shifting stars, her silver hair flowing in an invisible current. A hologram, but unnervingly lifelike.

"Welcome, sir," she said, her voice echoing as if carried across a great distance. "Are you looking for someone in the world of dreams?"

"Can you find someone just by knowing their name?" I asked, already bracing for disappointment.

She shook her head, the movement slow, almost regretful. "Dreams are intimate things. Names are not enough. We need something personal—a cherished possession, a lock of hair, even a place they frequented."

I exhaled, frustrated. I had none of those things. Without another word, I turned and walked out.Further down, Karmic Compass, golden wheels rotating, intricate Chinese characters hovering weightlessly in the air. It promised: Your destiny is intertwined with theirs. I stepped closer, scanning the description. But again, the cost was too high—birth dates, shared experiences, physical ties. I had none of that, either. Finally, I stopped in front of Digital Tracks. Its storefront was sleek and minimal, all clean lines and pulsing neon blue. Unlike the others, it didn’t deal in mysticism. Instead, it offered a more modern promise: Track their digital shadow across the network.

Hope flared for a moment—then just as quickly faded. The person I was looking for barely left a footprint, digital or otherwise.

Subsequently, Emotion’s Echo promised to follow the threads of feeling, but both side. StarChaser Securities claimed my answers were written in the stars, found by our sight, but I wasn’t looking for cosmic guidance—I needed certainty. Soul Print Seekers swore that every soul leaves a mark, but their methods required prior imprints, residual energy. I had nothing. I stopped at Pulse Echo Ventures, drawn in by floating heartbeat patterns. Inside, the air smelled sterile, tinged with something metallic, like the antiseptic hush of a hospital. The walls gleamed a cold, clinical white, and faint blue scanning grids hovered midair like digital specters.

A holographic woman in a lab coat gestured toward the floating pulses, her expression serene, scientific. “Each heartbeat is unique,” she said, her voice smooth and modulated. “Like a fingerprint written in rhythm.”

I already knew where this was going. “But you need a baseline reading, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Of course. At least thirty seconds of direct contact with the subject’s—”

I was already walking away.

The next shop stopped me in my tracks. Teardrops & Traces exuded a quiet, melancholic beauty, its walls were lined with delicate crystal vials, each holding liquid in shifting hues—sapphire sorrow, amber longing, opalescent joy. The glow of soft candlelight reflected off the glass, making it look as if the vials were pulsing with emotion itself.

The shopkeeper animated avatar, part digital construct, part ghost of ink and light—watched me with silver-streaked hair and rain-pattern tattoos that shimmered as he moved.

“Every tear holds a story,” he murmured, lifting a vial between his fingertips. The liquid inside swirled, catching the light. “And every story leads somewhere.”

“What if I don’t have their tears?”

His face fell, a shadow passing through his holographic features. “Then I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

I exhaled sharply and moved on.

Bloodline Beacons loomed ahead, its entrance framed by gothic spires and twisting wrought iron. Floating DNA helixes spun lazily in the air, their soft glow illuminating the dim shop interior. The scent of old parchment and something faintly metallic—coppery, like blood—in the air.

Behind the counter, a shopkeeper dressed like a Victorian nobleman twirled a phantom pocket watch between gloved fingers, watching me with a bemused smile.

“Blood calls to blood,” he intoned, voice rich with theatrical flair. “But the connection must be direct. Parent, child, sibling…”

I turned on my heel before he could finish. Not what I needed.

Further down the path, I came across Nanite Network. Its storefront with sleek, modern efficiency—chrome surfaces, hovering data streams. A holographic figure materialized before me, their body a smooth silver shell crisscrossed with intricate circuitry. Their voice was clipped, almost mechanical.

“Our nanites can track anyone, anywhere,” they stated.

I perked up. “Once deployed?”

“Yes. However—”

I cut in before they could finish. “But you need physical contact to deploy them first, right?”

A pause. A fractional tilt of the head. “Correct.”

By the time I reached Lasting Impressions, frustration had settled into my bones like a dull ache. The shop shimmered like flowing aurora lights, its colors shifting mesmerizingly. Inside, three translucent figures hovered weightlessly, their voices a chorus of echoes that spoke in unison.

"We read the eternal imprint of the soul upon the fabric of reality," they intoned, their words threading through the air like silk.

For a fleeting moment, hope flared in my chest.

"But we require something tangible—a personal object, a lock of hair, anything with a direct connection."

And just like that, the hope died.

I kept moving.

Time’s Reflection was housed inside a vast clockwork chamber, gears the size of buildings turning overhead, ticking in a rhythm that felt both ancient and infinite. The shopkeeper—if they could even be called that—was an ever-shifting figure, their body caught in an endless cycle of aging forward and backward, flickering between youth and frailty.

"Every person leaves ripples in time," they explained, their voice oscillating between the crispness of youth and the rasp of old age. "But without a temporal anchor point..."

I understood before they could finish. Another dead end.

By the time I reached Echoes & Empathy, my patience was razor-thin. The shop’s interior swirled with vibrant colors, an ever-changing vortex of emotion made visible. The virtual shopkeeper, a being of pure light, spoke in a harmony of chimes and whispers.

"We can track emotional resonance across vast distances," it said. "But the connection must be reciprocal. Both parties must share—"

I cut them off with a sharp wave of my hand. Of course. There was always a catch. Always something missing. Always one more thing needed. Then I saw it. Almost missed it, actually. Unlike the others, with their dazzling displays and attention-hungry holograms, this shop was quiet, subtle. A single sign hung above the entrance in elegant, understated script: Whispers of the Heart.

The door beneath it seemed to be made of flowing darkness, shifting like ink in water. Beneath the shop's name, a tagline was etched in delicate silver:

"Distance means nothing to those bound by emotion."

For the first time all day, I felt something different. Not excitement, not frustration—just a quiet, ache.

The shopkeeper was an elderly man, his avatar slightly transparent, like smoke caught in amber. He looked at me the moment I stepped inside, his gaze knowing. "You’re looking for someone," he said before I could speak. It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed. "Can you find them just with a name?" My voice was steady, "And… the feelings I have about them?"

The old man flickered slightly, his cartoonish form wavering like candlelight. "The stronger the emotion, the clearer the path," he murmured. "But such searches… they come with a price."

I leaned forward. "What kind of price?"

His gaze held mine, knowing. "To find someone through pure emotion requires opening yourself completely. Every feeling, every memory, every moment shared—I would need to see it all." His voice dipped lower. "And sometimes..." He paused, his form dimming slightly. "Sometimes what we find isn’t what we hoped for."

Opening up to a stranger, again!

I stared at the old man, my mind racing. Time to think about it? What was I even hesitating for? The day would reset at midnight anyway—everything would go back to how it was, including whatever memories or emotions I shared. The only thing that would remain was any information I managed to gather.

A slow, easy smile spread across my face. Sometimes being trapped in a time loop had its advantages. "Actually," I said, straightening my posture, "let's discuss payment first. How much?"

The old man’s form flickered again, "That depends entirely on the difficulty of the search and how much energy must be expended." His eyes studied me, their smoky depths unreadable. "First, we must determine if finding this person is even possible. Strong emotions are essential, yes, but they must be... specific. Focused."

"And if they're not?"

The old man met my gaze without hesitation. "Then we both waste our time and your credits."

He gestured, and an ornate table formed digitally from the shadowy floor. The chair beneath me materialized just as smoothly, cool and solid beneath my hands. Across the room, the door to the main shop darkened, the faint shimmer of a "Consultation in Progress" sign appearing in elegant, glowing script.

"Shall we discuss terms?"

I nodded, slipping into the seat as he remained standing, his transparent avatar more solid now—like the act of negotiating tethered him more firmly to the moment.

"Your base fee?" I asked, getting straight to business.

"Five thousand credits for the initial emotional resonance test." His tone was smooth, matter-of-fact, "If we establish a clear connection, the full tracking service starts at twenty thousand. Price increases with distance, emotional interference, and any... unusual circumstances."

I inhaled slowly, "One important thing."

The old man arched a brow. "Yes?"

"What if they're not on Earth?"

His expression barely flickered. "Other colonies are not unusual. Though it does increase the—"

"No," I cut in. "I mean... what if they're millions of light-years away? In another solar system entirely?"

For the first time, his practiced composure cracked. His avatar flickered back and forth, glitching briefly like a hologram losing its signal. Then, just as quickly, he stabilized. A slow smile—genuine, intrigued—spread across his face.

"In all my years..." he murmured, his eyes gleaming with something close to admiration. "No one has ever asked me to track someone across such vast distances."

He leaned forward, "Tell me," he said, his voice quieter now, measured. "What makes you so certain they're that far?"

"I'm not certain," I admitted. "But I need someone who can search that far if necessary."

The old man's smile widened, his interest sharpening like a blade catching light. "Then I'll make you a deal." He spread his hands wide, the motion slow, deliberate. "If your target truly is in another solar system, and if I can successfully locate them..." He let the words hang in the charged air between us. "No charge."

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I blinked. "Really?"

He nodded, his expression both amused and utterly serious. "Emotions work in inexplicable ways. Distance, time, space—these are merely physical constraints. But feelings?" He tapped his chest lightly, his voice almost reverent. "They operate on a different level entirely. Whether someone is next door or a thousand light-years away, the emotion remains unchanged. In some cases, they even deepens."

I nodded. He wasn’t wrong.

But the way he spoke about this cosmic love tracking—with that glimmer of genuine fascination—stoked a fragile ember of hope in my chest. This wasn’t just another shopkeeper looking to make a sale. No, here was someone who saw this as more than a transaction. It was a challenge. A chance to push the boundaries of his meta. Or perhaps even upgrade it to another level if he was successful. Very interesting. And if he fails, I reminded myself, everything resets at midnight anyway. The credits wouldn’t matter—they’d vanish with everything else. But the knowledge? The confirmation that this kind of search was even possible? That was something I could carry forward.

"Deal," I said firmly. "Where do we start?"

The old man touched his nose, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Down payment first. We can discuss the rest later."

Tsk. Typical.

I clicked my tongue, exhaling through my teeth. Not that I blamed him. It was just., I was a broke student, and nor I had saved up gold coins or stacks of physical credits. So, I turned to the only reliable source I had: my dear friend, occasional enabler, and nearly half of my lifeline in these endless loops.

I pulled up a screen and called Alex.

The ring chimed twice before the connection clicked open.

"Wassup?"

"Yeah, I found someone. Says they can help track the person."

"So?"

"I need money," I admitted, cutting straight to the point. "Can you lend me a few thousand hyperspace credits? I’m running low on fuel this month."

Silence.

I shifted in my seat. "I promise I’ll return them by the end of the week."

More silence. Then, in my peripheral vision, a notification blinked.

Transfer complete.

I grinned. "Let's start."

The old man barely glanced at the transaction before extending his hand. Shadows slithered across the table, deepening the air between us.

"First," he murmured, "you’ll need to open your mind completely. Every memory, every emotion tied to this person—they must flow freely." His voice softened, his tone no longer that of a merchant but something… older. Wiser. "I warn you again: this process can be… intense."

Intense didn’t matter. I needed to uncover this mystery before my brain imploded like a watermelon left in a gravity field too long.

So I did. I let go, unraveling every fragmented memory I had of her—the shattered glimpses gathered through the third cycle. Her face remained veiled in darkness, stubbornly refusing to come into focus. But I had pieces. Small, disjointed pieces. At first, I thought it wasn’t much. Maybe twenty, thirty percent of what I should remember. But as I started speaking, the details stacked. The more I talked, the more I realized how much I actually had—far more than I expected. The realization sent a ripple of unease through me. Where were the rest? Could I unlock them? Or had they been erased, forever out of reach?

A mage—I needed a mage.

But that was a problem for another time. Right now, I talked. I talked for two hours.

The old man avatar listened. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask clarifying questions. Just sat there as he absorbed every detail I spilled. Most of it was trivial—background habits, small idiosyncrasies, the way she used to tilt her head when she was lost in thought. But he seemed satisfied. Eventually, my shoulders loosened. The tension coiled tight in my chest eased, if only a little. It felt good to let everything out.

The old man went silent after I finished talking. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, his nose twitched—like he'd caught a scent. I watched, uneasy, as he began moving around me in slow, deliberate circles. Every few steps, he paused, sniffing the air. It was strange to watch.

"Hmm." He reached out, grabbing at something I couldn't see. "There's more here than I expected."

I sat still, not wanting to mess up whatever he was doing. It felt strange - he was clearly interacting with something around me, but I couldn't see what it was. Even my Likeness—my augmented perception—picked up nothing. It was as if he were plucking at invisible threads woven through the air around me.

He grabbed one of these threads near my shoulder. His eyes immediately went ink blank, his avatar freezing in place. A few seconds later, he gasped, like someone coming up for air after being underwater.

"Not this one," he muttered, already reaching for another. "Just physical traces, no emotional connection."

He tried again, this time grabbing something near my chest. The same thing happened - his eyes clouded over, his body went rigid, then he snapped back to awareness. Another dead end.

"Strange, strange" he said, frowning now. "The connections are all broken up with no end. Scattered." He kept moving, grabbing thread after thread. Each time his eyes would go distant and glassy, and each time he'd come back looking more frustrated.

I watched intently, my hands gripping the chair. The way his face twisted each time he hit a dead end told me we weren't getting anywhere.

"Someone's messed with these connections," he said, more to himself than to me. "Broke them apart on purpose. Scattered the pieces."

He reached for one more thread. This time when he came back to awareness, something in his face had changed. He looked worried.

"Your emotions," he said slowly, "Someone's turned them into a trap. Each piece leads somewhere different. Follow the wrong one..."

"Can you find her or not?" I cut in. I didn't care about the how - I already knew what was wrong with me and didn't need a confirmation from a stranger.

He stared at me for a long moment. "You know what I'm actually tracking here, right?" He tapped his chest. "It's the emotion woven around you. The stronger your feelings for her, the clearer the path becomes."

"So you can find her?"

"I can follow these threads. But we might hit some dead ends along the way. Your feelings are what guide me. The deeper the connection, the better chance we have."

Then his voice dropped to barely a whisper, and a strange smile crossed his face. "I once found a girl in hell itself, so don't think I can't do this. Distance means nothing when feelings run deep enough."

I stared at him, skeptical—not because I doubted the existence of hell. That was just another dimension, crafted by some deeply unhinged reality bander who had modeled it down to the last horrifying detail. Even its demons were real, conjured straight from that twisted vision, and now they ran amok across world, luring people with their sweet promises.

No, what I doubted was his ability to access it. That was no small feat.

Still…

His words sent a flicker of hope through me.

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Nothing existed here except the endless dark and a perfect massive sphere that hung in its center.

The prison didn't look real. It was like someone had taken a bunch of black marbles and hung them in space, connecting them with thin dark threads. But these weren't marbles—they were containment spheres. Thousands of them. Each one was about the size of a small room, perfectly round, and pitch black from the outside. You couldn't see this place from Earth's telescopes or any other observation post. It existed in its own pocket of space, built right at the edge of a massive black hole. The whole structure spun slowly, like a giant spider web caught in a breeze no one could feel. Some genius had figured out how to use the black hole's gravity to power the prison, turning each sphere into its own tiny time trap.

The spheres were arranged in sections. The outer rings contained the newer prisoners, where time moved just slow enough to keep them contained. Deeper in, where her cell was, time barely crawled. At the very center, right next to the black hole itself, time pretty much stopped completely. Those were the cells for prisoners who'd really pissed someone off.

Through the walls of the outer cells, you could see all kinds of people. There was a guy in Cell #1109 who looked like he was trying to punch his way out, his fist frozen mid-swing. Probably been stuck like that for years. In #1242, a woman floated cross-legged, like she was meditating. Smart—less you fought it, less it pulled you in. Some cells were crowded with weird equipment. Cell #1567 had what looked like half a laboratory floating around its prisoner. Others were completely empty except for their occupants. A few spheres glowed different colors—red, blue, green—marking prisoners who needed extra containment. Powers, probably. The really dangerous ones.

The maintenance bots were the only things moving at normal speed. Little black dots zipping between spheres, adjusting things, keeping the whole impossible prison running. They looked like mechanical spiders, climbing along those dark threads connecting everything.

Somewhere in the middle section. #2187.

From the outside, it looked just like all the others, but inside... She floated in the center of this impossible space, suspended in the void like a forgotten dream. Her skin held an otherworldly pallor, almost translucent against the absolute darkness. Her long dark hair drifted around her in lazy waves like she was underwater. Her face was peaceful. Like she'd accepted where she was or perhaps she wasn't aware of her situation in the first place. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was the only movement in this timeless prison, each breath taking what might be years in the outside world.

Her prison jumpsuit was standard issue, dark gray, no signs of rank or prisoner classification. Weird. Usually, they marked the dangerous ones.

The numbers running across her sphere's surface were different too. Most cells had basic containment equations. Hers looked more complicated. The patterns shifted constantly, like they were adapting to something. Every few minutes, the whole sequence would reset and start over.

Other prisoners showed what happened if you fought back. In Cell #1984, someone had almost turned themselves inside out trying to escape. Their sphere was completely black now, gravity so intense even light couldn't escape. Cell #2221 held nothing but a faint outline of someone who used to be there—like a photo left in the sun too long, slowly fading away. Some spheres had viewing stations attached, little platforms where guards or visitors could stand and watch the prisoners. Most were empty now. Nobody liked staying out here too long. Something about the place got to you after a while. Maybe it was seeing all those people frozen in time, or maybe it was the black hole itself, pulling at the edge of your mind.

----------------------------------------

The old man was on his knees, his hologram glitching bad. He looked like he'd aged a hundred years in the last few seconds.

"By all the gods," he gasped, actually gasping for air even though he was just a program. "I've never... a place like that..." He grabbed the edge of a table, trying to pull himself up.

"What exactly did you see?" I asked, watching his hologram struggle to stabilize.

He shook his head weakly. "I... I couldn't make sense of most of it. Just a black sphere, and behind it..." His form flickered again. "Darkness. But not normal darkness. It was like looking into eyes that stared back. Almost pulled me in. Never felt anything like it."

“I couldn't make any sense of it. It might even be the abyss itself.”

A sphere and darkness like abyss... I sat there, letting his words sink in. Three hundred years of memories started firing in my brain, each one adding a piece to a puzzle I wasn't sure I wanted to solve or confront again. Then, my thoughts suddenly stopped onto one notion: I'd seen black holes before—who hadn't these days? But. The way he described that darkness...

A darkness that stares back.

Something clicked. An old memory, maybe when I had just graduated from the academy. I was drinking with a retired space marine officer who'd had way too much syntax booze. He kept rambling about his final mission, about a place that "ate light and time itself." We all thought he was just drunk, mixing up sci-fi stories with reality. But the way he described the darkness...

Then there were those classified files I'd stumbled across during my early days of serving in Legion. Most of it was redacted, but I remembered one phrase clearly: "Project Singularity - Ultimate Containment Solution for Class-X Meta Threats."

“Singularity Sphere.”

I whispered back to myself.

The Singularity Sphere wasn't just a prison. It was THE PRISON. The place they sent people who could tear holes in reality like tissue paper. The kind of metas that made other meta humans look like kids playing with toy cars. It was one of the four most secured prison ever made by humanity, just behind: The Zero Point, The Null Zone, and The Paradox Engine.

Later in life, I'd read many detailed reports on the Singularity Sphere. Cell block A was for the reality warpers—people who could rewrite the laws of physics on a whim. Cell block B held the immortals who'd gone insane after a few too many centuries of life. Then there were the consciousness hijackers, the quantum manipulators, the time-benders. Metas so powerful that normal containment was like trying to hold a star in a paper bag. Hell, I'd heard stories about one prisoner who could duplicate himself infinitely, each copy with its own consciousness. Another who could possess entire populations with a single thought. They even had someone in there who could reverse entropy—imagine that kind of power in the wrong hands. These weren't just criminals; they were walking apocalypses waiting to happen.

It was built at the galaxy's center, using a supermassive black hole as both power source and eternal warden. A place where the laws of physics themselves became chains, where time could be stretched until it snapped.

A facility where they could freeze someone between moments, trap them in their own private eternity. The ultimate solution for threats that couldn't be eliminated any other way. Only a handful of people knew it existed. Even fewer knew how to reach it.

And in all its history, through all the centuries it had existed, no one had ever escaped. Not just because it was impossible, because the people who had built it had actually removed the concept of escape and freedom inside. So, those who were trapped inside never could have such daring thoughts.

My mind shook endlessly, was deeply shaken, “What the hell did she do to end up there?”

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I pulled off the HyperSpace band and tossed it onto my desk. My head was spinning with everything the old man had told me. Lying on my bed, I stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. Jade had seemed so alive in the third cycle—laughing, talking, hugging, just being herself. The girl I'd seen in those memories didn't fit with someone who belonged in the galaxy's most secure prison. Breaking into a Singularity Sphere? The idea was insane. I didn't even have the kind of power needed to attempt something like that. Yet, why did I feel a sudden urge to do something stupid. I closed my eyes, hoping for a good night sleep, but a scene of hugging me tightly kept replying before my eyes while I shifted uncomfortably in my bed.

Thunder rolled outside my window. Within minutes, rain was hammering against the glass, like the universe itself was trying to wash away my crazy ideas. The water streak down the panes, each drop catching the city lights, creating patterns that almost looked like the equations I'd seen floating across those prison spheres in the past life.

The familiar heaviness of the reset crept in. Time loop coming. Everything would start over, just like it did yesterday. Same day, same morning, same—

...

...

Pain.

My eyes snapped open to darkness. Not the usual early morning wake-up call I was expecting. Something was wrong with my face. Very wrong. The left side of my jaw felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of agony through my skull. Stumbling to the bathroom, I nearly tripped over my own feet. The light flickered on, harsh and bright, and I found myself staring at a stranger in the mirror. Well, almost a stranger. Same face, except for the left cheek that now looked like I was hiding a small melon under my skin.

I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and swung my legs over the side of the bed, nearly toppling over as I stood. My balance was off. My body felt heavier on one side, like my head was weighted down with lead. Stumbling forward, I slammed my shoulder into the doorframe, cursing under my breath as I fumbled my way to the bathroom.

Before the mirror, a stranger stared back at me.

Well—almost a stranger. The same face, the same tired eyes, the same stubborn crease between my brows. But the left side of my face…

Swollen. Massively swollen.

My cheek bulged outward like I was hiding a small melon inside my mouth, my skin, the flesh puffy and discolored. My lips were uneven from the swelling, and my left eye looked smaller, buried under the curve of my face.

What the actual hell?

With shaking fingers, I pulled back my cheek, trying to see inside. And my stomach twisted. Two half-grown wisdom teeth. That’s what I should have had. But the left one—

Gone.

Not broken. Not chipped. Not even loose. Just… gone. Like someone had surgically removed it while I slept. But there was no blood. No stitches. No sign of an incision. Nothing.

I shoved my fingers into my mouth, running my tongue and fingertips over the gap. The skin was smooth, as if the tooth had never even been there. The gum wasn’t raw or tender—it was fully healed. Like my body had skipped the entire process of extraction, healing, everything.

My fingers probed deeper, frantic now, like I was digging through a bird’s nest searching for a lost egg.

Finally, my hand shot out, gripping the sink edge so hard my knuckles turned white.

Whoever did this is going to regret it.

But then a new thought slithered in, cold and unwelcome.

Who could have done this… when the world resets every night?

The realization sent a shiver racing down my spine. The reset should have undone everything. Every injury, every event, every decision—wiped clean at midnight like it had never happened. And yet…

I huffed through clenched teeth.

Suspicious. Very suspicious. And worse, it wasn’t random. Someone had deliberately targeted me.

Another looper? Someone like me? Perhaps.

My grip on the sink tightened. My jaw ached, my mind spun, but one thing was suddenly very, very clear.

"Just you wait."