Chapter 4

I woke up in my own bed.

The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. My heart hammered against my ribs. For a horrifying second, I thought I was back in the water, drowning.

Then I saw the familiar crack in my ceiling. I felt the weight of my own blanket.

The door creaked open.

Alex stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the hall light. His face was a mask of practiced concern.

"Sarah? You okay? You were screaming in your sleep. Another nightmare?"

The exact words. The exact tone. I wasn't just revived. The system had sent me back. Back to the day after my eighth death. The day of the yacht party.

I had a chance.

I stared at him, my mind a whirlwind of cold fury and newfound clarity. The man I thought I knew, the man I had once loved, was a stranger. A monster who had bartered my life away without a second thought.

"I dreamed," I said, my voice flat, "about a yacht. And drowning."

I saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. Fear? Guilt? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a dismissive smile.

"Just a dream, Sarah. You've been under a lot of stress." He came closer, tried to sit on the edge of my bed. I shifted away.

"We have to go out tonight," he said, ignoring my rejection. "It's a party. For Chloe's fiancé, Mark Thompson. Big tech guy. It's important we make an appearance. For security reasons."

His lies were so transparent now, so pathetic. It wasn't about security. It was about him wanting to be near Chloe.

As he spoke, a small, translucent box appeared in the corner of my vision, visible only to me.

`SYSTEM ALERT: THREAT LEVEL INCREASED.`

`DATA CORRELATION: MARK THOMPSON. LINKED TO ANOMALIES IN DEATH_LOGS #4, #6, #7.`

`RECOMMENDATION: AVOID CONTACT.`

So, it wasn't just Death #8. Mark was involved in the others, too. He wasn't just a ruthless businessman. He was my tormentor, pulling the strings with Alex as his willing puppet.

"I'll be right by your side the whole night," Alex promised, his voice syrupy sweet. "I won't let anything happen to you."

The party was as awful as I remembered from the first time. It was on a massive yacht, glittering with lights, packed with rich people in expensive clothes. The air smelled of salt and money.

Alex kept his promise for about five minutes. Then Chloe appeared. She was wearing a silver dress that shimmered like a fish's scales. She laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, and Alex's attention snapped to her like a compass needle finding north. He was gone.

I stood alone by the railing, a glass of untouched champagne in my hand. I watched him watch her. I saw his face darken when some other man, a handsome suit with perfect teeth, made Chloe laugh. Alex's jealousy was a raw, ugly thing. He strode across the deck, grabbed Chloe's arm with a possessiveness that made her flinch, and pulled her away toward the bow of the ship. He left me standing there like a piece of luggage he'd forgotten to check.

"He's very protective, isn't he?"

The voice was smooth, cultured. I turned. Mark Thompson stood beside me, holding two glasses of whiskey. He offered one to me. I didn't take it.

His smile didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. "You must be Sarah. Alex's... friend." He said the word 'friend' like it was something distasteful. "I've heard so much about you. You and Chloe seem to share the most terrible luck. It's almost as if you're cursed."

The system flashed another alert. `WARNING: PROXIMITY TO ANTAGONIST. HIGH PROBABILITY OF REPEATED HISTORICAL EVENT.`

"I don't believe in curses," I said, my voice steady.

Mark's smile widened. "No? You should. Some are quite potent."

He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes scanning the crowd. He looked like a king surveying his domain. I knew, with absolute certainty, that this man was the architect of my pain.

Then, right on schedule, the explosion rocked the yacht.

Screams. Panic. The deck tilted violently.

This time, I was ready.