Thursday — 11:42 a.m.
12 hours until dinner.
Ethan's apartment was silent, save for the quiet hum of his monitor and the low tick of his minimalist desk clock. He was mid-focus—brows furrowed, jaw loose, fingers dancing over the keyboard as the code flowed. His mind was clear. His spine upright. No distractions.
He'd already knocked out his 6 a.m. lift, finished a cold shower, and downed a nootropic stack. The day was humming with purpose.
Then—
Ping.
A single notification popped up on-screen. Social app. Direct message.
The name made his eyes freeze.
Blake Kerrigan.
He stared for a second.
Then two.
His hand moved slowly to the mouse.
Click.
---
Message from Blake Kerrigan
"Hey man, kinda weird to DM like this, but thought I'd reach out."
"Sienna mentioned you two were reconnecting. Wasn't expecting that, but hey—life's weird, right?"
"No bad vibes. Just figured it's better to keep things clear. She's… complicated. Always has been."
"Beautiful, intense, emotionally scattered sometimes. But you probably know that."
"Anyway, if things get messy, no hard feelings. I've been there."
"All the best." ✌️
---
Silence.
Ethan didn't blink.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard, unmoving. Not because he didn't know what to say—but because he knew exactly what not to say.
Blake's words were friendly on the surface. Casual. Measured.
But underneath?
A surgical strike.
It wasn't a message.
It was a claim.
She's always been mine. She never really changes. You're just the next echo.
Ethan leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him.
His breath came slow, deliberate.
(Don't react. Observe.)
He reread the message once more, this time analyzing every inflection. The emojis. The tone.
Blake wasn't trying to start a fight.
He was trying to plant doubt.
A clever move. A soft war.
But Ethan wasn't the same boy from the past. He'd learned something critical in this second life:
(Real power is never loud. It watches. Waits. And decides.
You're not here to compete. You're here to choose if she's even worth the competition.)
He closed the tab.
Didn't reply.
Didn't even screenshot it.
This was no longer about Blake.
This was about Sienna.
And tonight would tell him everything he needed to know.
---
1:17 p.m. – Gym (Basement Level, Private Corner)
Ethan wasn't training for aesthetics today. He wasn't chasing a pump or symmetry.
This was for clarity.
Steel. Sweat. Rhythm.
Heavy bag.
Every strike was surgical. Focused. Clean.
BOOM.
(He thinks you're just another guy in line.
BOOM.
He thinks her confusion is your weakness.
BOOM.
Let him.
BOOM—pause.
Because if she flinches tonight... she's his. Not yours.)
---
2:46 p.m. – Apartment, Shower Steam
The water was blistering hot. Ethan stood beneath it with both palms against the tiles, head bowed.
He was calm.
But beneath the stillness, a fire simmered.
Not rage.
Resolve.
"You're not here to win her. You're here to see if she's already lost."
He stepped out without looking in the mirror.
No need.
Tonight, the reflection wouldn't matter.
---
4:12 p.m. – Notebook: Psychological Entry
DAY 7: PRE-EVENT OBSERVATION – DINNER NIGHT
Status: Composed. Controlled.
Threats:
Blake: passive-assertive presence, manipulative optimism, nostalgia warfare.
Sienna: emotionally responsive, pattern-inclined, unreliable narrator of her own heart.
Response Protocol:
Ask without asking.
Watch micro-reactions.
Stay detached unless she proves present-day integrity.
Final filter: If she lies about the message, she's already chosen.
---
4:27 p.m. – Phone check.
Still no follow-up from her.
No confirmation.
No "see you soon."
But he didn't care.
(She should be the one unsure tonight. Not you.)
He locked the screen.
Dinner was coming.
So was truth.