Vincent jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat dripping down his back. His vision was blurred, the taste of smoke still heavy in his mouth. He was alive. He shouldn’t have been alive.
He had felt the fire. Felt his skin sear, his breath choke in his throat, his body crumpling to the floor of his restaurant, *La Gueule de Saturne*, as the flames devoured everything around him. The last thing he had seen was Rody’s face through the haze, his green eyes wide with horror, his hand stained with blood from the broken wine bottle he’d stabbed into Vincent’s neck.
Vincent swallowed hard, his throat dry. The events were vivid in his mind-the chase through the restaurant, Rody stabbing him, and then everything going up in flames. But here he was, in his bed, untouched by the fire. He looked around the room, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The moonlight streaming through the window told him it was night, but something about this night was terrifyingly familiar. It felt like the day before everything had fallen apart.
The day before he had killed Manon.
Vincent rubbed his face with trembling hands, his fingers lingering at his throat where the bottle had pierced his skin. But there was no wound. It was as if none of it had ever happened. Was this a second chance?
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that time had rewound. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he knew exactly what was going to happen next.
He would kill Manon. Rody would find out. And they would spiral towards disaster, again. Was this fate? Or was there some way to change it?
He had to try. He wasn’t about to let himself die again.
—
The first time Vincent tried to change the future, he stayed away from Rody.
It was simple, really. He figured that if he avoided him-kept his distance from the man he had become so obsessed with-then everything would turn out differently. No arguments, no accusations, no violence.
But the sense of impending doom weighed on him. That day, as he stood in the kitchen of his restaurant, he could feel Rody’s presence in every corner, the anticipation gnawing at his nerves. The other staff noticed his unease, but Vincent barely paid attention to them.
Manon never entered the kitchen, but it didn’t matter. When Vincent stepped into the freezer later that day, her locket was still there, covered in blood. His heart sank as he realized that despite everything, despite his attempts at keeping his distance, she was dead.
When Rody found out, Vincent could see the horror on his face-the betrayal. Just like before, the confrontation escalated. Rody attacked him, the wine bottle flashing in his hand. Vincent fought back, but the result was the same.
He bled out on the cold, tiled floor of the restaurant. Again.
—
The second time, Vincent killed Manon earlier, hoping to control the situation.
Perhaps if he took control of the situation and got rid of her before Rody could discover anything, he could prevent the nightmare from repeating itself. It was all about timing, he told himself. He could still make this work.
So he did it. Cold, calculated, and precise. He didn’t give her time to struggle, to scream, to even know what was happening. He wiped the blood from his hands, carefully hid her body, and continued his work in the restaurant as if nothing had happened. This time, he wouldn’t leave any clues for Rody to find. No locket. No evidence.
But when Rody found the bloodstain on Vincent’s apron later that day, everything unraveled anyway. It was as if Rody *knew*. He always knew.
The confrontation was inevitable. Once again, Vincent found himself face to face with Rody, a broken bottle in his hand, Rody’s eyes wild with confusion and rage.
Again, the wine bottle plunged into his throat.
Again, the fire consumed him.
—
The third time, Vincent tried to reason with Rody.
He begged. He pleaded. He confessed everything to Rody-everything he had done, the fact that he knew they were both stuck in a loop, that nothing he did would change their fate. He told Rody that he had tried to spare him, tried to fix things, but no matter what he did, they were doomed to repeat the same horror.
Rody looked at him with disbelief, his expression twisted between anger and pity.
Vincent clutched Rody’s shoulders, his voice frantic. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want this! I don’t want to hurt you, but I keep coming back, no matter what I do! You keep finding out! You keep *killing me!*”
Rody pushed him away, his brow furrowed. “You’re out of your mind, Vincent.”
And just like that, the cycle repeated. No amount of pleading, of explaining, could stop it. The night ended with Vincent’s blood on the floor once more, the flames licking at the walls of his restaurant, devouring everything.
—
Over and over, Vincent tried to break the loop. He tried killing Rody before anything could escalate. He tried leaving Rody alive, fleeing the restaurant, disappearing into the night. He even tried letting Rody kill him *willingly*, offering no resistance, hoping that if he accepted his fate, the loop would end.
But it never did.
Each time he woke up in the same bed, in the same apartment, on the same night, with the same doomed path laid out before him.
The repetition was driving him mad. Every time he died, he felt the flames scorch his skin, felt the bottle pierce his neck. The pain was real, and yet, here he was-always waking up again as if it had never happened.
By the seventh loop, Vincent was teetering on the edge of sanity. His once composed, cold demeanor was unraveling, replaced by a manic, unhinged desperation. His hands trembled as he dressed, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, none of them coherent.
Nothing worked. No matter what he did, no matter how he changed things, he always ended up dying. And so did Rody. One way or another.
—
This time, Vincent was done trying to change things. There was no point. If fate wanted him to die, if it wanted Rody to die, then he would let it happen. But he wasn’t going to die without one last indulgence, one last *claim*.
On this final loop, Vincent let Rody find the locket. He watched, silently, as Rody’s face paled, his body stiffening with realization. Rody spun around, ready to confront him, but Vincent was already there, stepping out of the shadows.
Before Rody could react, Vincent knocked him out cold. There was no hesitation in his actions anymore. The madness had taken over, every attempt to avoid this fate draining his sanity until all that was left was raw obsession.
When Rody woke, he was tied to a chair in Vincent’s apartment, a plate of grilled hanger steak sitting in front of him. Vincent stood over him, his eyes wide, almost manic, his lips curled into a twisted smile.
“Eat,” Vincent said softly, pushing the plate toward him.
Rody glared at him, his mouth dry. “What the hell is this?”
Vincent’s smile widened, his hand gripping Rody’s chin, forcing his mouth open. “*Eat.*”
Rody had no choice. Vincent shoved the fork into his mouth, the meat sliding down his throat, the taste both rich and nauseating. He gagged, but Vincent held him still, his grip unrelenting.
Vincent’s breath was hot against Rody’s ear as he whispered, “You’ve killed me so many times, Rody. Over and over. But this time, I’m going to make sure you remember.”
He pressed his lips to Rody’s neck, the touch sending a cold shiver down Rody’s spine. There was something horribly intimate about it, as if Vincent’s obsession had finally consumed him entirely. His hands slid over Rody’s body, his grip possessive, almost frantic.
They fell into bed, Vincent’s body shaking with a twisted, desperate energy. He didn’t care anymore. Whether this was the end of the loop or the beginning of another, he was beyond reason.
Rody’s grip on him was firm, much more intense than Vincent had expected. Rody’s hands dug into his skin, leaving marks, bruises. The desperation Vincent had felt in every loop was reflected in the violent way Rody took control, pushing him down roughly, making Vincent gasp as the weight of Rody’s body crushed him into the mattress.
Rody’s hands were everywhere-aggressive, punishing-as if all the frustration, the rage, the confusion of the loops were being poured into this moment. Vincent found himself moaning through the pain, lost in the feverish lust that had overtaken both of them.
But as Rody’s hand slid up to his throat, squeezing just a bit too hard, Vincent’s breath hitched. He could barely speak, barely think, as the pressure on his neck increased. His vision began to blur, his chest tightening. Panic surged through him, but he couldn’t escape the grip. Rody’s face was twisted into something dark, something unforgiving, as his fingers dug into Vincent’s throat, cutting off his air completely.
Vincent’s mind screamed as he felt the life being choked out of him. His body thrashed beneath Rody, trying to push him away, but Rody was unrelenting, his grip like iron. The manic energy that had consumed Vincent through countless loops now surged through Rody. His green eyes, usually so lively, were dead with fury and something darker-something primal.
Vincent clawed at Rody’s arms, his vision narrowing into darkness. His lungs burned, his heart pounded wildly, each beat growing weaker as his strength faded. The room seemed to shrink, the oppressive weight of inevitability pressing down on him as his mind raced.
*No… this wasn’t how it was supposed to end…*
But it was. It always was. And this time, he knew with sickening clarity that Rody wasn’t going to stop.
Vincent’s body convulsed beneath Rody’s weight as his throat tightened, the last shreds of air escaping his lips in a choked gasp. The edges of his vision blurred, swirling into a suffocating void, and for a moment-a fleeting, terrifying moment-he felt nothing but cold relief.
He was going to die.
And the loop would finally be broken.
Vincent’s eyes fluttered shut, his hands falling limp at his sides as his world slipped away into black.
—
Vincent gasped, his chest heaving, his lungs desperate for air.
His body shot upright in bed, his heart pounding against his ribs as if it were trying to escape his chest. He sucked in breaths greedily, the feeling of Rody’s hands still fresh on his throat, the ghost of the strangulation lingering on his skin.
His hand instinctively flew to his neck, expecting to find bruises, but there was nothing. No marks. No pain.
It was the same bed. The same dark apartment.
Vincent’s wide, trembling eyes darted around the room, his breath hitching in his throat. The dim moonlight streamed through the window just as it had before, casting long shadows across the floor. The sheets clung to his sweat-soaked skin, tangled around his legs.
*No. No, no, no!*
The realization hit him like a hammer to his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. It wasn’t over. The loop hadn’t been broken. He was still here.
Vincent buried his face in his hands, a low, hysterical laugh bubbling up from his throat. It was a broken, hollow sound, more a sob than a laugh, as the crushing weight of despair settled over him. He had died. He had died again, and yet here he was, alive. Awake.
The loop hadn’t ended.
It *never* ended.
“No…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “No, please…”
His eyes flicked to the other side of the bed, where Rody should have been, but it was empty. The sheets were cool, untouched, as if Rody had never been there at all. But Vincent could still feel him-feel the way Rody had held him down, his hands tight around his throat. The heat of his skin. The hatred in his eyes.
Vincent swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he clenched the sheets in his fists. He had no control anymore. He had tried everything, and nothing had worked. Every loop ended the same way, with Rody killing him in one way or another. No matter what Vincent did, no matter how hard he fought, he always died.
And now… now Rody had *wanted* it. Wanted him dead.
Vincent shuddered, his heart pounding faster as the memory of Rody’s hands on him burned in his mind. There was no escape. There was no way out. This nightmare was never going to end.
He was trapped.
And Rody was going to kill him again.
And again.
And again.
Vincent’s laugh morphed into a desperate sob as he gripped his hair, pulling at it, his body trembling with the weight of his hopelessness. The loop was never going to end. No matter what he did, he would always wake up, and Rody would always be there. Somewhere. Hunting him. Killing him.
In the back of his mind, Vincent wondered if this was his punishment. If this was the price he had to pay for what he had done-for Manon, for the restaurant, for everything. Maybe the universe had decided that he didn’t deserve an end. That he didn’t deserve peace.
Maybe this was his hell.
His body shook, and the room felt colder. But amidst the suffocating dread, something else started to bloom in Vincent’s chest-a twisted, sick hope. Maybe… just maybe, the next time, he could do it differently.
Maybe the next time, he could win.
But the loop would always continue, and somewhere deep inside, Vincent knew that no matter what he tried, he was doomed to die at Rody’s hands.
Forever.
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