Hale got home.
He looked at Ivy and said, "I'm exhausted. Don't wake me."
Then headed straight to his room.
Behind him, unnoticed, Gyroson stood in the background with a slow smile. Like he'd been waiting for this night. This exact moment.
All night, Hale sat in front of the sketch.
The room was dim. Quiet.
He thought about ALP's words, about the mark, the prophecy he apparently wrote himself.
He considered taping the sketch to the mirror again. Just like before.
"If 3:12 is when the real me shows up," he muttered, "then what am I at 3:13?"
No music. No movement.
Just the faint hum of something in the walls. Something he couldn't name.
The air didn't feel like night.
It didn't even feel like now.
Something was wrong with it—not how it smelled, but how it waited.
Like the room already knew what was coming.
Like it had been built after the moment it was made to hold.
Every step Hale took felt like he was walking through an echo. A version of himself had already walked this path.
Maybe he survived.
Maybe he didn't.
He looked at the sketch again.
Then the clock.
3:11 A.M.
The minute hand didn't move.
But the second hand did.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Time wasn't counting down.
It was holding its breath.
And Hale could feel it.
Not as fear. Not anxiety.
Just... pressure.
In his chest.
In his mark.
In the room itself.
Like the walls had stopped pretending they didn't know what he was about to do.
Then—
3:12 A.M.
The second hand kept ticking.
But the minute hand wouldn't follow.
The time said 3:12, but it didn't feel like 3:12.
It felt like the world stopped just before becoming real.
He looked back at the sketch. Then the clock. Then the mirror.
No more thinking.
No more waiting.
He stepped forward, heart pounding—not fast, just deep. Like each beat echoed across timelines.
He pressed the sketch to the glass.
Silence.
Then something shifted.
Not in the room.
In the mirror.
The air thickened—like trying to breathe through water.
His chest tightened.
Then—
Eyes.
Not reflections.
Not his.
Eyes that didn't blink.
Eyes that weren't human.
ALP.
Not standing. Not looming.
Just watching.
"You've made it permanent now."
The words didn't echo.
They settled.
Right into Hale's bones.
And then—
The mirror shattered.
Not loudly. No sound.
Just—splintered.
A dozen fragments scattered across the floor.
He didn't hear it break.
He felt it.
A world collapsing, not a mirror.
He stumbled back. His heart was pounding.
Blood trailed down his hand—he hadn't realized he touched the shards.
But he had.
And they cut.
Quietly. Like punishment.
A warning for seeing a truth he hadn't earned.
He looked around.
The clock kept ticking.
Still 3:12.
Seconds moved. But time didn't.
The sketch?
Still in his hand.
But the only mirror left now...
Was the glass face of the clock.
Cracked.
Sharp.
Watching.
He didn't know how long he stood there.
The mirror was gone.
The world didn't breathe.
Only the tick-tick of the clock told him time was still trying to exist.
He stepped forward.
Glass cracked beneath his foot.
He lifted the sketch again.
Pressed it—carefully—to the clock's face.
His fingers trembled as he lined it up.
A pulse hit his chest.
Not pain.
Not memory.
Something else.
Recognition.
The clock's reflection twisted.
It didn't show the sketch anymore.
It showed what the sketch wanted to say.
What it could never say before.
Lines formed.
Shadows moved.
Not on the paper.
But somewhere else.
And Hale saw it:
The sketch moved.
But Hale didn't.
Or maybe... he did.
Because suddenly, he wasn't watching.
He was inside.
Both of them.
The one standing—
gripping the knife so tightly blood should've run from his nails.
But there was no pain.
Only purpose.
Cold.
Absolute.
The one kneeling—
his chest burning from the mark pulsing underneath his skin.
Tears filled his eyes—not from fear.
From acceptance.
He knew what was coming.
And he accepted it.
But Hale didn't feel sadness.
He felt weight.
Meaning.
Memory.
Two bodies.
One mind.
And Hale was inside both—at the same time.
He saw the moment from two angles.
He heard two heartbeats.
Two thoughts layered over each other.
Like echoes slightly out of sync.
"They were never supposed to remember."
"You made them remember."
"I kept her alive."
"You trapped her."
"We broke time."
"No... we rewrote it."
"We were the cure."
"We are the consequence."
The thoughts didn't blend.
They fought.
Looped.
Doubled back.
They bled into each other like a memory on repeat with two narrators screaming over it.
And then—
He was back.
Staring at the sketch.
His body trembling.
His head aching.
But something was wrong.
There were thoughts in his mind that weren't his.
Beliefs he never believed.
Memories he never lived—
But remembered.
Like he'd lived two lives.
And neither belonged to him.
His nose bled.
His fingertips shook.
In the background, the clock still ticked.
But the time?
Still 3:12.
The room didn't breathe.
It waited.
His pulse steadied.
Not from calm.
From surrender.
He stood there.
Not even sure if he was the one holding the sketch anymore.
Not sure which version of himself was even breathing.
He blinked—
And in that split second, he saw both of them again.
The kneeling Hale.
The one with the knife.
Both of them.
All of him.
Too many times.
"You think seeing the truth changes it?"
"That's adorable."
ALP's voice again.
But this time, it didn't sound like someone else.
It sounded like Hale himself had always been the one saying it.
And then—
Tick.
The minute hand moved.
3:13.
Just like that—
The sketch slipped from his hand.
The pressure in the air vanished.
The humming behind the walls stopped.
And the world pretended like nothing ever happened.
But Hale didn't move.
Because somewhere deep down, he knew:
This wasn't time continuing.
It was just time...
waiting
for him
to play his part.
And before anything else could happen
His body gave out.
Like his mind and soul finally demanded silence.
And he collapsed.