Mike sat in his room, his grip tightening around the desk's edge. The calendar on the wall mocked him, the same date staring back. Eighteen. Again.
His knuckles turned white as his nails dug into his palms. How many times had he died? How many times had he clawed his way back to this room, only to be thrown into the same nightmare?
His family's laughter rang through the house. His mother setting the plates. His father pouring drinks. His sister humming a song she always sang on his birthday. They had no idea. To them, this was a celebration. To Mike, it was a prison.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the phantom ache of his last death. His heart, torn apart by a pain that should have been final. It never was. Before that? Water in his lungs. A knife in his gut. A car crushing his ribs. It didn't matter. The world always reset.
No one else noticed. His classmates repeated the same conversations. The same teacher lectured about the same historical events. The same stray cat sat on the same fence, licking its paw at the same time every morning.
Mike's hands curled into fists.
"Lead us with utmost power."
The voice slithered through his thoughts. The same one. The same words.
His skin crawled.
Was he being watched? Was this a test?
At first, he thought it was madness. Dying so many times could break anyone. But the voice never faded. If it was just in his head, then why did it feel like something else was listening, waiting?
If it existed… then maybe, just maybe, he could find it.
And if he found it, he might finally get answers. The next night arrived before Mike was ready. Clouds swallowed the city. He stepped outside, cold air pressing against his skin. His fists stayed tight. He had wasted too many loops running, too many deaths searching without direction.
Mike walked the city streets, his hood pulled low. The crowds moved past him, their conversations blending into a dull hum. He scanned their faces, searching for something—someone—out of place.
The voice had followed him for too long. It whispered in his mind, always the same words. It wasn't just a voice anymore. It was a presence. And if something was watching him, then maybe something else knew why.
A man stood at the far end of the street, leaning against a lamppost. His coat looked too thick for the weather. His eyes, sharp and steady, locked onto Mike the moment their gazes met.
Mike stopped.
The man didn't move. Didn't blink.
A challenge.
Mike swallowed the unease rising in his throat and stepped forward. His fingers curled inside his pockets, brushing against the slip of paper he still carried. The address.
He had spent days searching for answers, but the world only gave him one lead—this stranger, the only person who had ever looked at him like they knew.
Mike stopped a few feet away.
"You're looking for a way out," the man said. His voice carried no doubt.
Mike's pulse jumped. He forced his expression to stay still. "You know something."
"I know you've died," the man said. "And I know you'll die again."
Mike's breath hitched.
The man took a step closer. "But you're not the first."
The street blurred around them. The sounds of traffic faded. The distant voices of strangers turned to nothing.
Mike clenched his fists. "Then tell me—how do I break it?"
The man exhaled, shaking his head. His gaze carried something heavy, something tired. "You don't break it," he said. "You survive it. And if you survive long enough, you might finally see what's behind it."
Mike's stomach twisted. "What's behind it?"
The man glanced at the sky. His lips pressed into a tight line, as if deciding how much to say.
"Something old," he finally muttered. "Something watching. Something waiting."
Mike's fingers twitched. The voice. The whispers. The feeling of being guided—pushed—toward something unseen.
"You don't have much time," the man continued. "The longer you last, the more they notice you."
Mike's skin prickled. "Who are they?"
The man's gaze shifted behind Mike. "They're already watching."
Mike turned—and the world went black
Mike's breath caught in his throat. A weight pressed against his chest, heavy, suffocating. He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't obey. The air around him thickened, buzzing with something unseen.
Whispers.
Not from the man. Not from inside his own head.
From everywhere.
Shapes formed in the darkness. Tall figures with hollow eyes, their bodies shifting like smoke. They loomed over him, silent, waiting.
"Lead us with utmost power."
The voice echoed through his skull, the same voice that had haunted every reset, every death. But now, it was no longer distant.
Now, it stood before him.
A hand—if it could be called that—reached for him. Fingers stretched, elongated, curling toward his face.
Mike's body screamed for movement, but fear anchored him in place.
"You need to wake up," the man's voice cut through the void.
The shadows pulsed. The figures leaned closer.
Has fate befallen the multiverse or is it something else who knows ? Might be answered from a dream .