I've chosen to participate in a death game. As long as I can escape from the murderer's killing spree in ten time loops, I'll be able to win at least 100 billion dollars.

In the first loop, I have my apartment refurbished into a bank vault. Still, the killer is able to bust down my front door.

In the second loop, I hide in the ceiling crawlspace. Yet, the killer is quick to locate me immediately, as though he knew where I was, to begin with.

In the third loop, I finally realize that something's definitely fishy…

The digital clock let out a sharp beep and flipped to midnight. The third loop had begun.

I jolted upright in bed, gasping for air. Cold sweat soaked through my pajamas. There was still a phantom sting at my neck where the blade had sliced it open last time.

That was from my memory of the previous loop. I'd hidden in the ceiling crawlspace and had gotten taken out in one clean strike.

"Calm down. I need to calm down," I muttered, forcing myself to push the fear aside. I started dissecting the reason I'd died the first two times.

The first time, I'd spent a small fortune turning my apartment into something out of a bank vault. I'd had a reinforced alloy front door installed with a 16-digit dynamic passcode. Not even a fly could've gotten in.

The result?

The killer in the clown mask had just stood at the door and let out a sneer. Then, his long fingers had flown across the keypad. With a beep, the light had turned green. He'd walked in like he owned the place, found me, and brought his axe down on my throat.

That passcode was something I'd put together by mixing my first girlfriend's birthday with a string of random characters. No one on earth could've known it but me. Even a top-tier hacker would've needed time to crack it. Yet my killer had done it in three seconds flat.

The second time, I'd learned my lesson and stopped relying on tech. Instead, I'd used my build to my advantage and squeezed into the central AC maintenance hatch in the living room ceiling.

It had been a total visual blind spot. To avoid giving myself away, I'd even taken meds to slow my heart rate, and I'd held my breath.

But when the killer had come in, he hadn't even bothered checking the bedroom or the closet. Heck, he hadn't even so much as looked around. He'd walked straight to the spot under the hatch, lifted his arm, and thrown the axe upward. The blade had ripped through the drywall and hit me dead in the heart.

The whole thing just felt so strange. It was as if my killer were working off a script, like he already knew every move I'd make.

"Something's off… This is seriously messed up," I mumbled.

I paced through the dead-silent apartment, my bare feet pattering across the ice-cold floor. If the first time was just a freak coincidence and he happened to be some master codebreaker, then what about the second time? Did he have X-ray vision? Thermal imaging?

No, that couldn't be it. I'd even wrapped myself in an emergency thermal blanket to block heat signatures.

This was my own apartment; I knew every inch of it. I was positive there were no surveillance cameras anywhere. The only explanation left was that he somehow knew my plan. It was as if he lived in my mind—he knew exactly how I thought and what I'd do.

To test that horrifying theory, I made a crazy decision. This round, I wouldn't hide.

I walked over to the coffee table in the living room and picked up the fruit knife I usually used to peel apples, flipping it into a reverse grip in my palm.

Then, I shut my eyes and deliberately constructed a plan in my head. I would hide in the kitchen freezer. I'd curl up in the freezer compartment. I'd use the thick freezer walls to block the bullets…

I repeated the thought incessantly in my mind. At the same time, I went back to the bedroom and slid under the bed.

Time crawled by, second after second. Then, heavy footsteps echoed in the stairwell, right on schedule. Each one stomped in time with my heartbeat.

The doorknob turned with a click, and the door swung open. That tall figure in the clown mask filled the doorway. He held a bloodstained fire axe, droplets of water trickling off his raincoat and dripping onto the floor.

According to my plan, if he could read my thoughts in real time, or if he had some kind of omniscience, he should've headed straight for the kitchen and put that axe right through the fridge.

But he didn't.

He just stood there at the bedroom door, those shadowed eyes behind the mask locking on me where I was hidden beneath the bed. I felt pathetic.

"You didn't go to the kitchen," I said hoarsely, staring back at him. My palms were slick with sweat. "You can't read my thoughts in real time."

The killer didn't answer. He just tilted his head, dazed for a split second. Then, in the next heartbeat, he raised the axe and charged toward me like a beast crazed for blood.

Instinct told me to roll to the right, but something made me jerk the other way instead. I twisted, threw myself left with everything I had, and barely dodged the axe as it came crashing down. The wooden floor split open in a vicious crack, and splinters flew.

The angle of that swing had completely cut off my escape route to the right. It was the direction I always favored when something went wrong. He knew my fighting instincts by heart!

If I'd rolled right on reflex, I'd be in two pieces by now.

He and I grappled in the cramped living room, trading blows in tight quarters. The longer we fought, the colder my blood ran. Despair seeped in.

He knew me too well. He knew my habit of dropping my shoulder to build power before I struck, so every time I moved, he was already there. He was faster and meaner, catching me off guard again and again.

When I forced myself to change tactics and adjust my defense on the fly, he could predict that, too. Because of that disadvantage, I slowly became overwhelmed.

Clang!

The fruit knife went spinning out of my hand. He slammed a kick into my chest. I flew backward, crashing into the wall so hard it felt like all my organs had been knocked out of place.

The pain was blinding; my vision went dark around the edges. Still, I laughed.

Because when he lifted his leg to kick me, his pant leg rode up, and I saw something just above his ankle. It was a dark red birthmark shaped like a tongue of flame. I had the exact same mark on my ankle.

"So, it's you…" I spat out a mouthful of blood and looked up at that looming clown mask. The fear in my eyes was gone, replaced by sheer disbelief and shock. "No wonder you knew the 16-digit passcode. No wonder you knew I'd hide in the ceiling crawlspace."

I laughed, blood trickling down the corner of my mouth. "Because you're me!"

The axe froze in midair. From behind the mask came a quiet sigh, heavy with resignation and bone-deep fatigue.

"Third time's the charm. You finally figured it out." The voice was hoarse and low, but it sounded exactly like mine.

With a thud and sickening squelch, the axe came down. Darkness swallowed me again.

[Third loop over. Player has died. Remaining attempts before game over: 7]

I woke up for the fourth time and jolted upright in bed. This time, there was no blind terror. There was only cold sweat that soaked my back and a heart beating so hard it hurt.

The killer was myself. Or rather, some kind of copy of "me".

That explained everything. I was playing a game against myself. He had my memories and my habits; he thought the way I did. Any perfect hiding spot I could come up with would be obvious to him, because if he were in my place, he would hide there, too.

I looked at the digital clock on the wall. It was 12:05 am. I had 55 minutes until he showed up.

If my opponent were "me", then normal tricks like hiding and fighting would be pointless. To beat him, I had to beat myself. That meant I had to act against every instinct I had.

My gaze roamed around the room and finally landed on a spare gas can sitting in the corner. If he were "me", then he knew I would try to set a trap and fight back. I'd always been terrified of dying, after all.

But there was one thing he would never see coming—this time, I wasn't running. I was going to take him down with me. Maybe if he died, the game would finally end.

I grabbed the gas can, twisted off the cap, and took a deep breath of the sharp, choking fumes. Something in my eyes shifted, turning my gaze wilder and crazier.

"Come on, then. Let's do this, other me," I thought.

…

The doorknob turned slowly, scraping out a harsh metallic sound.

I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the suffocating reek of gasoline. I didn't hide. The half-empty gas can was still in my left hand, the fluid slowly dripping onto the floor. A windproof lighter was in my right hand, which I raised high, thumb pressed against the ignition.

I stared unblinkingly at the door as it swung open.

The figure in the clown mask stepped into view. Rain slid down his raincoat and dripped onto the doormat. He lifted his foot to step inside, then stopped.

He saw the gleaming puddles on the floor and smelled the stinging gasoline in the air. Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed. "This wasn't in your plan."

He stood at the threshold, neither coming in nor backing away. What was he hesitating for?

"Are you thinking of taking me out with you?" His voice came through the mask, low and hoarse, tinged with a mocking edge. "You think that's how you win? You die, the loop resets, and I'll still be here. All you're doing is wasting your limited number of runs."

"Let's see if that's true." I didn't bother arguing. My thumb slammed down on the lighter. With a click, a blue flame jumped to life.

The killer's eyes widened. The instant the flame appeared, he jerked back, retreating without a second's hesitation and slamming the door shut.

But it was pointless. Before he came, I'd already made sure the gasoline vapor had spread through every inch of space outside the door.

I let out a cold laugh and loosened my hold on the lighter, letting it slip from my hand. The moment the flame touched the floor, the world exploded into a roaring sea of fire. Blistering heat swallowed my skin in an instant.

In my final flicker of consciousness, I saw the figure at the door get caught by the rushing flames, his whole body turning into a man made of fire.

He had to be dead this time… Right?