Chris Cardone jerked awake with a sharp gasp, his chest tight, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. Sweat slicked his forehead and dripped down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his collarbones. His eyes fluttered open to the cruel, fluorescent glare of the clock beside his bed, its red digits bleeding into his vision: 6:30 AM. The air in the room felt heavy, like the morning itself was pressing down on him, suffocating him.

His skull throbbed with a dull, steady ache—a migraine that felt like it was gnawing at the inside of his skull, raw and jagged. Every muscle in his body screamed at him as if he'd been run over by a truck. What the hell had happened last night? He couldn't remember a damn thing. His limbs felt like dead weight, like he'd spent hours—no, days—doing something bad. Something wrong. But the memory slipped through his fingers like smoke.

He groaned, dragging a hand across his face, rubbing at his tired eyes with the heel of his palm, trying to force the fog of confusion away. The remnants of whatever he'd done last night lingered on his skin—grease, grime, and something metallic, like blood. His tongue felt thick, coated with a staleness that made him gag.

The red alarm blared at him again, relentless and unforgiving. With a snarl, he slammed a hand down on it, the plastic of the clock cracking slightly beneath his fingers.The sharp sound of the clock silenced, but the ringing in his ears didn't.

He swung his legs off the bed and planted them on the floor, his bare feet meeting the cold, stained carpet. The room smelled like mildew and something worse—something old and forgotten, a stench that clung to the walls. His apartment was a tomb. No windows. No escape.

He didn't bother to look in the mirror when he stumbled to the bathroom. Didn't need to. He knew what he'd see. The same thing as always: bloodshot eyes, skin as pale as death, bruises around his jawline that had appeared somehow and would disappear in a couple of days. He had a hunch—maybe a fight, maybe something else—but he wasn't ready to face it.

The shower was a burst of icy water, like needles against his skin, but it didn't wake him up, didn't bring clarity. It only numbed him. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the drain as water spiraled down, turning dark, swirling with the remnants of last night's mistakes. His hands gripped the edge of the tub, knuckles white, as the thoughts came rushing in—anxiety, dread, a deep, gnawing emptiness.

When he finally stepped out of the shower, the chill of the bathroom air bit into his damp skin, making him shiver. His reflection in the fogged mirror was a ghost—lean, unshaven, eyes hollow. He ran a hand through his wet hair, but it only made the mess worse, strands sticking up in every direction. He didn't care. He never did.

He grabbed the nearest shirt from the pile on the floor—a faded, stained band tee that still smelled like the stale smoke of last week's bar crawl—and pulled it over his head. The fabric scratched at his raw skin, clinging to the places where his muscles had ached for hours after whatever he'd done to himself the night before. A hole in the sleeve, a burn mark on the collar. Perfect. He wasn't in the mood to care about how he looked.

His jeans were already half-unbuttoned on the floor, a pair of cheap, ripped-up ones he'd bought on some drunk impulse. He shoved his legs into them with a grunt, wincing as the fabric dug into the bruises on his thighs. One of the buttons came off as he yanked them up, but he didn't bother to fix it.

He looked down at the floor, scanning the piles of clothes, empty bottles, and scattered papers like he was waiting for something to make sense, like he was waiting for the puzzle pieces of last night's chaos to finally come together. But there was nothing. Not even a hint. Just nothing.

Chris shook his head, trying to force the headache away. He grabbed his jacket, pulling it on without bothering to button it. The door to the apartment creaked as he stepped out into the hallway, the stench of mold and rot filling his nose again, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. It felt like the building was sinking into the ground, like it was all collapsing, and he was just waiting for the day when it would finally break apart.

As he walked to his door he saw a letter, on the floor, just there unassuming he walked slowly something itching at him at the back of his skull. It was unmarked—no stamp, no return address. Just his name scrawled on the front in sharp, jagged letters: Chris Cardone. The handwriting sent a shiver down his spine, though he couldn't say why. He flipped it over and found the flap unsealed, as if whoever left it wanted him to read it right there, on the spot.

His fingers trembled as he pulled out the paper inside, unfolding it with a sharp rustle.

The message was brief, written in the same jagged hand:

"Do you feel it yet? 6:30 AM. Again and again. It's not just you."

Chris's stomach turned. His eyes scanned the note, searching for something—anything—to explain it. The words were cryptic, but they struck something deep and raw, like they were tapping into the same unease that had been clawing at him since the moment he woke up.

What the hell..." he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

A sharp buzz in his pocket made him jump. His phone.

He pulled it out, his hands still shaking, and answered without looking at the screen.

"Chris."

It was Nick. His usual chirpy, too-normal voice. "You good, man? We've got a meeting in half an hour. Where you at?"

"I..." He trailed off, the note still clutched in his other hand. He stared at it, feeling his pulse thunder in his ears.

"Chris?" Nick prompted.

"Yeah," Chris said finally, his voice hollow. "I'm coming in."

He hung up before Nick could say anything else, stuffing the phone back in his pocket as his mind raced.

He shoved open the front door of the building and stepped into the street. The morning was damp, the air thick with the stench of rotting garbage and diesel fumes. The city hadn't changed since last night, The streets were quieter than usual, almost too quiet for a Monday at least.

Shaking the memory of the note off, he moved toward his car, the keys cold in his hand. His head pounded as he fumbled with the lock, his fingers slipping on the metal. He needed coffee, needed something to clear his head, but that wasn't going to stop the feeling that gnawed at him since getting that note.

He jumped into his car, turned on the ignition and watched as the engine sputtered to life with a rough cough, and Chris slammed the gearshift into drive. The streets blurred past him as he headed toward the office, but his mind wasn't on the road. It was still on the note. The jagged writing .

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Something was waiting. And it wasn't just a hangover.

Chris pulled his car into the parking lot of the recruitment office, the tires grinding against the cracked pavement. The building loomed before him—an old, crumbling structure, all arched windows and heavy stonework, more like a cathedral than a place where people shuffled their resumes. The kind of place where desperation clung to the walls, like dust to a forgotten Bible. He didn't know why he kept coming back, but there he was, grinding through another day of dull routine.

Chris killed the engine and stepped out, the morning slapping him in the face like an overdue bill. The city hung heavy in the air—exhaust fumes, garbage, and broken dreams marinated overnight and served cold. His boots hit the cracked concrete, loud enough to echo off the tenement walls. Loud enough to make his head throb worse than it already did.

He wasn't halfway to the door when a shadow blocked out what little sunlight was leaking through the smog. Barry. Six-four, three bills easy, the kind of guy who could use a human being as a paperweight. He had the grin of a man who thought he was everyone's best friend but wouldn't flinch at squeezing someone into a hospital bed.

"Chris," Barry said, his voice gravel and bad intentions. "Good weekend?"

Chris squinted up at him, shielding his eyes like he was trying to stare into the sun. "Best one I ever had," he lied, his voice dry enough to start a brush fire. He wanted to say something sharper, but his brain was still playing catch-up. His weekend had been anything but good. He was missing whole chunks of it, and what he could remember felt like it belonged to someone else.

Barry clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to remind Chris who the big dog was. "That's what I like to hear. You take care now, huh?" Barry flashed his teeth, a wolf pretending to be a golden retriever, and sauntered off like he owned the sidewalk.

Chris muttered something under his breath and headed inside. The building greeted him like an old enemy: dust, stale coffee, and fluorescent lights that buzzed like dying wasps. He walked past the double doors and into the reception area, where a girl sat hunched over a keyboard, typing like her life depended on it.

"Morning," Chris said, leaning on the counter and dragging the word out like a bad joke.

The girl flinched, looking up with eyes too big for her face. For a second, she looked human, like she might actually care about the world around her. Then her expression folded back into something robotic. "Oh. Hi," she said, her voice just this side of a squeak.

Chris nodded, didn't push it. She wasn't paid enough to listen to his problems. Hell, he wasn't paid enough to listen to his problems. He shuffled past her desk, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. It ticked like it had somewhere better to be.

The elevator ride felt like a bad funeral procession, and when he got to his floor, his desk greeted him with a mess of papers, coffee stains, and a pile of regret. He sat down and felt the weight of it all drop onto his shoulders, heavier than Barry's hand.

That's when it hit him. The bender. A wrecking ball of booze, self-pity, and decisions that didn't seem bad at the time but now felt like a prelude to a prison sentence. It all came flooding back—the yelling, the screaming, the phone call with Louise.

"I wanna see my goddamn kids, Louise! You can't stop me!" he'd shouted, his voice raw, his throat lined with whiskey.

"Try it, Chris. Try it, and I swear to God, I'll rip out your eyes." Her voice had the sharpness of a broken bottle, all jagged edges and the promise of pain.

Two years ago, they were making plans for a future full of grandkids and matching rocking chairs on a porch somewhere. Now? That dream had gone belly-up, bloated and stinking. All their big ideas were just drunken fantasies from a time when love was enough to patch over the cracks.

He slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples. Maybe love wasn't supposed to be easy. Maybe it was supposed to be this grind, this constant war of attrition. People stuck it out because that's what you did when you cared about someone, right?

Except Louise wasn't toughing anything out. She'd thrown in the towel, taken the kids, and slammed the door on him hard enough to knock it off the hinges. Now he was here, stuck in the office, staring at a stack of papers he didn't care about, while she got to pretend she'd won the fight.

Chris leaned back, letting out a long breath. Maybe Louise had a point. Maybe he deserved this. But one thing was for sure—he needed to figure it out, and fast. Because the way he was going, he wasn't just losing weekends. He was losing himself.

Chris stared at the paperwork on his desk, willing it to magically organize itself. It didn't. Instead, his phone buzzed like a mosquito on a mission. He ignored it. Second buzz. Third. He finally grabbed it, squinting at the screen like it was some sort of alien artifact.

Nick: "You in yet? Need to talk. NOW."

Chris sighed, shoved the phone into his pocket, and made his way down the hall. Nick always had the urgency of a man who thought every second was life or death, but half the time it was just about who took his lunch out of the breakroom fridge.

He found Nick in his office—or "the war room," as Nick liked to call it. The guy was hunched over a stack of folders, his tie loose, his hair slicked back in a way that said "I care, but not too much." Nick had the look of a guy who could charm his way out of a felony but would probably need a lawyer by the end of the week anyway.

"You look like hell," Nick said, not even glancing up.

"Good morning to you too," Chris shot back, dropping into the chair across from him. "What's the emergency? You run out of cream for your coffee?"

Nick finally looked up, his smirk as dry as Chris's humor. "Close. We've got a situation. Client's pissed. Says you didn't deliver."

Chris blinked. "What client?"

"Who knows? Some guy named Harkins. Big-shot money manager. Thinks the sun rises and sets on his spreadsheet. Claims you missed the deadline on the report he asked for."

Chris rubbed his temples. He vaguely remembered something about Harkins—an email buried under a mountain of other emails, a request he might have promised to handle. Then the bender had happened, and the rest was history.

"I'll take care of it," Chris said.

Nick leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "You better. Guy's already called twice this morning. You let him down again, and you'll be lucky to get a job licking stamps."

Chris got up, nodding toward the door. "Anything else, or can I get back to pretending I care about this place?"

Nick grinned. "That's the spirit. Go get 'em, tiger."

Back at his desk, Chris dug through the disaster zone that passed for his filing system until he found what he was looking for: the half-finished report Harkins had been nagging about. He skimmed it, his headache making the words blur together, then got to work.

The hours crawled by. Coffee came and went. Lunch was a sandwich that tasted like cardboard, washed down with a bottle of water he found rolling around the back of his desk drawer.

Every so often, he'd glance at his phone, half-expecting a message from Louise. Not that she'd reach out—not after everything—but some masochistic part of him couldn't let it go. Instead, his phone stayed silent, mocking him.

By three o'clock, the report was done, and he emailed it to Harkins with a curt note: "Attached is the completed file. Let me know if there's anything else you need." He didn't bother signing it with a "Best regards" or a "Thanks." Harkins didn't deserve that much effort.

At five, he finally logged out, the office a ghost town. The girl at reception was still typing away, her face lit up by the blue glow of her monitor. He wondered if she even knew it was quitting time or if she'd just keep typing until someone told her to stop.

Chris walked out into the twilight, the city already humming with life. Somewhere down the block, a homeless guy was playing a guitar wailing out a tune that sounded like heartbreak. It fit the mood.

He stopped at the corner, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. The nicotine hit his system like a punch to the gut, but he didn't care. His phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Nick.

He frowned, pulling the phone out. His heart stuttered when he saw the name on the screen. Louise.

A knot twisted in his stomach as he answered. "Louise? What the hell—"

The voice on the other end stopped him cold. Gruff, gravelly, but eerily calm. "You get my note this morning?"

Chris froze. The cigarette hung from his lips, forgotten. He looked down at the phone, his pulse hammering in his ears. "What the fuck is this? Who is this? Why do you have my wife's phone?"

The silence that followed stretched too long. One beat. Two beats.

Then, Louise's voice came through, trembling, panicked. "Chris."

His blood turned to ice. She sounded terrified—more afraid than he'd ever heard her in all their years together.

"Louise?" he said, the name catching in his throat. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"I don't know," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I don't know. He broke in—he tied me and the kids up. He's... he's insane, Chris. He's saying things, crazy things. About being trapped. About time repeating. I'm scared. I'm—"

Her voice cut off with a sharp yelp, followed by the unmistakable crack of a slap.

Chris saw red. "You son of a bitch!" he roared into the phone. "You touch her again, I swear to God—"

"You'll what, Chris?" The gruff voice returned, casual and dripping with malice.

Chris's breath came in ragged gasps. His mind raced, adrenaline spiking so hard he thought his chest might explode. None of this made sense. He didn't have enemies. Not like this.

"What do you want?" he spat, his voice breaking. "Is it me? You want me? Come and get me, you coward. Leave my family out of this."

The voice chuckled, low and slow. "It's not about what I want, Chris. It's about what you'll do."

Chris heard muffled sobs in the background—Louise, Amy, little Johnny—and his heart shattered. He yanked open the door of his car, barely able to see through the tears clouding his vision.

"You hear me?" he barked into the phone as he slammed the ignition on, the engine roaring to life. "You want money? Fine. You want me? Fine. Just let them go. Don't hurt them, you piece of shit!"

The car fishtailed as he tore out of the lot, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. His thoughts were a whirlwind—what did this guy mean about time repeating? Was this connected to the note? To the weird, disjointed haze he'd felt all day? He didn't have time to think. All that mattered was getting to Louise and the kids before—

"I knew you'd run," the man said, interrupting his spiral. The calmness in his tone was worse than rage. "But it won't matter. You can drive all you want, Chris. You'll still wake up at 6:30."

Chris's stomach dropped.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he hissed, but the line had already gone dead.

For a moment, the only sound was the roar of the engine and his own ragged breathing. The words echoed in his head: You'll still wake up at 6:30.

The cigarette burned out in the ashtray as Chris hurtled through the empty streets, his world unraveling one terrifying second at a time.