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?

Beep!

I took a sharp inhale, like someone breaking the surface after nearly drowning.

[Fourth loop over. Player has died. Remaining attempts before game over: 6]

I lay limp on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding out of control. That instant of dying had felt way too real—so real that I could still smell my own flesh, charred and burnt.

I'd gambled on the idea that even though that "killer" was a copy of me with my memories and my thought patterns, he was still a separate entity.

If he were just an NPC generated by the game, then after getting blown up, he should reset and respawn in the next loop. But what if, in this death-loop game, he was an actual independent life form? What if he were someone like me, another player bound by the same rules?

I rolled out of bed, rushed into the living room, and grabbed my phone from the corner. The whole process of my last death was recorded clearly on it.

I watched myself die. Because gasoline vapor was actually more flammable than liquid gas, he actually died before I did. And then, after he died, I was burned alive by the gasoline.

I was now on my fifth loop. It was 12:05 am. I'd already wasted four chances. Fighting head-on didn't work, and neither did hiding. Even going down together didn't count as a win.

I had to find a way to kill him and still keep myself alive. The biggest problem here was that he was "me". No matter how intricate a trap I laid, if I could think of it, so could he.

Because if our positions were reversed and he were the one guarding the apartment, he would do the exact same things. It was like playing chess with my left hand against my right—every game would end in a stalemate.

To defeat myself, I had to introduce a "variable" that even I couldn't predict. Only when I didn't know what I was going to do next would my killer be unable to anticipate me.

So, I sprinted to the study and started tearing the place apart, searching for something. At last, in the corner of a drawer, I found a deck of cards.

I took them out and shuffled them quickly a few times. Then, I grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote down several options, each one corresponding to a suit.

With spades, I would hide in the closet with a knife. With hearts, I would hide behind the door with a knife. With clubs, I would hide under the bed with a boning knife. With diamonds, I wouldn't hide at all. I'd charge out directly, grab every weapon I could, and fight him in the stairwell.

I took a deep breath when I was done writing. Now, even I had no idea which path I would choose. I closed my eyes and drew a card at random from the deck. I flipped it over to see the seven of diamonds.

I looked down at the matching option on the paper. I wouldn't hide at all. I'd charge out directly, grab every weapon I could, and fight him in the stairwell. This was definitely the last thing I would pick if I were being rational.

Honestly, in terms of weapons and gear, I was way outmatched. His axe had a much longer reach; he could hit me with it before my knife could get anywhere near him.

So, knowing myself, the smart play would be to hide somewhere and catch him off guard, hitting him when he least expected it.

But precisely because of that, the strategy tied to the seven of diamonds was the one method he would never see coming.

I snatched a folding umbrella off the entryway cabinet to use as a decoy weapon, then headed to the kitchen and grabbed a boning knife as my real kill shot.

I checked the time. 12:45 am. There were 15 minutes to go before my killer usually kicked the door down.

This round, I wasn't just leaving things to chance. I was going to scramble the timing, too. Instead of waiting until the last moment, I walked straight to the door and pulled it open.