Chapter 2: The Loop

When I opened my eyes again, the blood and pain were gone.

I found myself standing in front of my door once more, hand reaching for the handle—completely unharmed.

For a moment, I stared at my hands in disbelief, then touched my stomach, half expecting to find blood or a gaping wound. But I was whole. Lines of floating comments appeared again.

[Don’t open the door. The person outside isn’t a delivery guy—he’s a killer.]

[He called to check, by the sound of your voice, if you’re a woman living alone.]

[Seriously, every horror story protagonist is so clueless. This delivery guy is obviously sketchy, and yet you’re still going to open the door?]

I yanked my hand back, clutching my chest and gasping for air.

Did I just come back to life? Was this some twisted video game? Or was I just losing my mind?

The person who sawed me in half last time is crouched at my door again, watching me.

No time.

He has a chainsaw—once he breaks in, I won’t stand a chance.

I dashed deeper into the apartment, scanned the rooms, and rushed straight into the bathroom.

The bathroom is closest to the hallway window. If I climb out, I might escape.

Once inside, I locked and braced the door, my mind racing.

From those strange floating comments, I quickly pieced it together: I’m inside a horror thriller novel.

The story revolves around the killer outside and a genius young man.

According to the comments, the story starts with my death. I’m important to the male lead—after I die, he’s heartbroken and gets drawn into the chaos, pitting his wits against the killer.

But I don’t even have a boyfriend. Who is this so-called male lead?

My phone buzzed again. I opened the bathroom window and looked down—ten stories. My head spun. Below, the city glowed in neon and headlights—an ambulance wailed somewhere in the distance, probably racing to a bar fight or a late-night accident on I-94. No fire escape, no way down but a leap.

Just then, my phone buzzed: [Why haven’t you picked up your food yet? Is there a problem? I can help you.]

Exactly the same as last time.

I knew—the killer was about to break in.

No more hesitation. I swung my leg out the window.

Floating comments scrolled by again.

[Wow, this girl is gutsy! Her time on screen may be short, but she’s fierce—climbing out the window like that.]

[But what’s the use? The girl is doomed to die in episode one, or the plot can’t continue.]

[Still, she’s really something—beautiful and brave. No wonder the guy likes her. Such a pity, beauty meets a short fate.]

[Yeah, even if she escapes the apartment, it’s useless. The main entrance downstairs is already locked by the killer.]

What do they mean—I have to die in the first episode? No matter what I do, I can’t escape?

And who exactly is this guy? So many comments talk about him, but no one ever mentions his name.

Clinging to the fire extinguisher, I reached the hallway window—

Bang!

A loud crash from next door—the chainsaw was cutting through my door.

The killer was inside!

My brain screamed at me to run. I scrambled through the hallway window, glanced at the elevator and stairs, then dashed into the elevator and pressed for the first floor—then bolted out and took the stairs instead.

The elevator is fast, but the main entrance is locked. Speed is pointless. The stairwell is dark and messy—a good place to hide.

I pressed all the elevator buttons to make it seem like I was inside, buying myself a few extra seconds.

Running, I thought through my options.

If this world is built around the killer and the genius guy, and the guy is destined to win—

Then the guy’s intelligence and abilities surpass the killer’s. He’s fated to triumph.

But as the first villain, the killer is almost as powerful, and as a fake main girl just here to kick off the plot, I can’t resist the power of the story or the character settings. I can’t escape him.

So even though I didn’t open the door last time, I still died.

This time, no matter where I hide, the killer will find me.

My only hope is to buy time—find the guy, and pull him into the game early.

Only by using the guy’s narrative power to counter the killer do I have a sliver of hope.

But who is the guy?

I made it to the next floor, about to keep running, when I heard the elevator doors closing above.

The killer fell for it.

He thought I took the elevator to the first floor and is riding down to chase me.

But he’ll soon realize he’s been tricked.

I searched for a hiding spot as I ran, finally squeezing myself into a pile of cleaning supplies and trash on the seventh floor landing.

It was filthy and stank to high heaven—but that made it the perfect hiding spot.

My nose wrinkled at the reek of old bleach, dust, and someone’s half-rotten fast food bag. My knees jammed against a crusty mop bucket. But I crouched low, letting the garbage hide me. Soon, hurried, heavy footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

The killer was here!

The steps drew closer. I held my breath, not daring to move.

[Oh man, I’m so nervous. The girl is about to be found. So sad.]

[If only the guy were here—he’d definitely protect her.]

[Sigh, I can’t bear to watch. Too cruel. I’ll wait for the satisfying revenge part when the guy appears.]

[The guy is still sleeping at home. Even though he lives in the same building, he and the girl aren’t close—how could she ask him for help?]

[Sigh, if only she messaged the guy on Facebook Messenger—he’s such a lovesick fool, he set a special alert for her. He could definitely save her.]

I latched onto the key info from the floating comments.

The guy lives in my building? And he’s my Facebook friend?

The footsteps stopped right outside.

I peered through the gap in the trash pile, heart pounding.

Luckily, he only paused a moment, then continued running downstairs.

[Wow, this girl is so smart—hiding in such disgusting filth. The killer would never guess a clean, sweet girl would hide here.]

[Ugh, I don’t want the girl to die anymore.]

No time to care what the comments thought. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my Facebook contacts for anyone who matched the guy’s profile.

I didn’t have many contacts. After filtering, only two fit:

One was Derek, who sat behind me in AP English senior year. The other was Marcus, Mr. Evans’s grandson, who had always kept to himself—quiet, a little mysterious.

I hesitated. I wasn’t close with either of them.