The smell of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee was the first lie.
It drifted from the kitchen at exactly 7:00 AM, rich and earthy, promising a new day. A fresh start. But the sunlight slicing through the polarized windows of the penthouse on the 287th floor was the same photon-for-photon beam that had blinded me yesterday. And the day before.
And forty-four times before that.
I didn't open my eyes immediately. I lay still in the silk sheets, letting my heart rate stabilize. Thump. Thump. Thump. I checked my internal chronometer. Not a digital implant—those bricked the moment you entered Silver Mist City—but the mental clock I'd spent the last ten loops perfecting.
Three... two... one.
"Good morning, Mr. Mercer," my housekeeping droid, HK-9, chirped from the doorway. "Share prices for Neural-Link are up three percent. The air quality index is—"
"Cancel the morning brief," I said, my voice rasping. I sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "And pour the coffee down the sink. It's poisoned."
HK-9 froze, its servos whirring in confusion. "Sir, the probability of—"
"Cyanide derivative. Slow acting. Introduced to the water supply of this specific unit between 4:00 and 6:00 AM by a maintenance tech named Jory, who was bribed by a shell company tracing back to Concordia."
I stood up, walking past the droid without looking at it. "I killed Jory in Loop 42. It didn't stop the reset. He's a pawn. I need the player."
I walked naked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Below me, the city didn't look like a city. It looked like a wound in the world.
From the 200th floor up, the skyscrapers pierced the sky, gleaming spires of glass and steel where the elite lived in sunlight. But below... below was the Mist. A churning, silver ocean of heavy vapor that swallowed the streets. Down there, the AI networks died. Down there, the probability fields collapsed.
And down there, somewhere in the labyrinth of the Mid-Levels, was the man who knew why I couldn't die.
Loop 47, I thought, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. Objective: Locate Master Yuan. Do not engage the Triad patrols. Do not trigger the surveillance drones.
A sharp pain spiked behind my eyes. The Brain Fog.
It came whenever I analyzed the world too coldly, whenever I reduced human beings to mere variables in a calculus equation. It was the "Fatal Flaw" the ancient texts warned about—the backlash of a mind sharpened to a killing edge without the sheath of wisdom.
Focus, I commanded myself. Pragmatism, not cruelty. Use the tool, don't break it.
The pain receded, leaving a dull throb. I dressed quickly—tactical weave under a bespoke charcoal suit. I grabbed the ceramic knife taped under the vanity (placed there loop 12, never discovered), and the heavy mechanical watch from the dresser.
7:15 AM.
I stepped into the private elevator. "Ground floor," I said.
"Sir," the elevator's localized VI warned. "Mist density is at 90% in the lower sectors. Health advisory recommends—"
"Override code: Mercer-Alpha-Zero."
The doors hissed shut. The descent began.
The transition happened at the 150th floor. The sunlight vanished, replaced by a swirling grey twilight. The elevator lights flickered and died as the Mist interfered with the circuitry, leaving only the emergency chemical glows.
When the doors opened at the street level, the humidity hit me like a physical blow. It tasted metallic, like ozone and old blood.
The streets of Silver Mist City were a relic of 2020 Hong Kong, preserved in amber and rot. Neon signs buzzed with erratic electricity, casting pink and blue hazes through the fog. People moved like ghosts, their faces obscured by respirators and scarves. Here, cash was king, and information was god.
I pulled my collar up and merged into the crowd.
In Loop 45, I had tried to bribe my way to Master Yuan's teahouse. I was betrayed by the fixer.
In Loop 46, I had tried to torture the location out of a low-level thug. The Brain Fog had incapacitated me before I could finish, and a stray bullet ended the run.
This time, I was going to use Concept 3: The Invisible Hand.
I navigated the wet markets of Sham Shui Po, my movements precise. I didn't run. Running attracted predators. I walked with the weary, purposeful stride of a salaryman late for a shift.
I stopped at a fishmonger's stall. A large man with a cybernetic eye (useless now, a dead piece of glass in his socket) was chopping eel.
"Three catties of red snapper," I said, placing a stack of physical bills on the damp wood. "And the direction of the Jade Lotus."
The fishmonger paused. The cleaver hovered. "Jade Lotus doesn't serve tourists, gwailo."
"I'm not a tourist. I'm a memory." I used the phrase I'd deciphered from a scroll in Loop 30.
The man's posture shifted. Subtle. A tightening of the shoulders. Recognition.
"The Lotus blooms only for those who know the mud," he whispered, a code phrase.
"And the mud is deep today," I countered.
He nodded, gesturing with the cleaver toward a narrow alleyway barely visible through the swirling silver vapor. "Third door. Knock twice, pause, knock once. If you are lying, the door will not open. The floor will simply vanish."
"Understood."
I turned to leave, but my mind was already racing, calculating the probabilities. He gave up the info too easily. In Loop 38, this demographic resisted interrogation with 85% reliability. Why is he compliant?
I analyzed the variables. The money? No. The code phrase? Possibly. Or...
Trap.
The thought was cold, sharp, and detached. He is bait. The alley is the kill box.
The Brain Fog surged. My vision blurred at the edges, the world turning into static. I stumbled, catching myself on a crate of wet ice.
Damn it. I was overthinking again. Reducing the fishmonger to a logic gate instead of a person. I forced a breath. He is a father. I saw a child's drawing taped to the scale. He is afraid, not malicious.
The fog lifted slightly. I regained clarity.
I walked into the alley.
It was silent. Too silent. The Mist here was thick, coiling around my ankles like sentient smoke. I counted the doors. One. Two.
The third door was red, peeling paint revealing iron beneath.
I raised my hand to knock.
Click.
The sound of a hammer cocking. Mechanical. Heavy.
I didn't think. I dropped.
A high-velocity slug shattered the wood where my head had been a microsecond before. Wood splinters exploded into the Mist.
I rolled across the wet pavement, coming up in a crouch, the ceramic knife in my hand.
"Predictable," a voice echoed from the fog. Distorted. Synthesized.
A figure stepped out of the grey. Sleek, matte-black armor, no insignia. They moved with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for a human, yet the Mist precluded AI robotics. A biological augment?
"You are Alex Mercer," the figure said. "Loop count: Unknown. Threat level: High."
My blood ran cold. They know about the loops?
"Who are you?" I demanded, scanning for weaknesses. Armor joints. Neck seal. Vision slits.
"Erasure Protocol."
The figure lunged.
It was fast. Faster than the Triad enforcers in Loop 20. Faster than the corporate security in Loop 10. This was grandmaster-level speed.
I parried a strike that would have crushed my trachea, the impact jarring my bones. I redirected his momentum, using the Tai Chi deflection I'd practiced for three weeks in Loop 33.
I slashed at his femoral artery. The ceramic blade skittered off the armor.
Variable check: Armor grade IV. Projectile weaponry useless. Melee ineffective.
Option: Retreat.
Probability of success: 12%.
Option: Unconventional warfare.
I reached into my pocket and crushed the small EMP charge I'd built from scavenged parts in Loop 41. It was useless against the armor, but the Mist...
The Mist reacted to electromagnetic fluctuation.
Flash.
The silver vapor ignited with a brief, blinding phosphorescence. The assassin flinched, optical sensors overloaded for a fraction of a second.
Opportunity.
I didn't attack the armor. I lunged for the exposed environmental filter on his mask. I jammed the ceramic blade into the intake valve and twisted.
The assassin roared, a sound of pressurized gas escaping. He backhanded me.
I flew backward, slamming into the brick wall. Ribs cracked. One, two, maybe three. The pain was blinding, but I saw him stumble, tearing at his mask as the unfiltered, heavy Mist flooded his lungs.
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't cooperate.
Then, a second shadow detached itself from the wall behind me.
I hadn't calculated for a second element.
"Sloppy," a voice whispered. An old voice. Dry as parchment.
I looked up. An elderly man in a simple linen tunic stood over me. He wasn't looking at the choking assassin. He was looking at me.
"You possess the ruthlessness of a wolf, Mr. Mercer," the old man said. "But you lack the foresight of the owl."
"Master... Yuan?" I wheezed, blood bubbling on my lips.
"You found me," he nodded. "But you brought death to my doorstep. You treat this city like a puzzle to be solved, not a living thing to be understood. That is why the Fog blinds you."
The assassin on the ground had stopped moving. But the second shadow—Master Yuan—raised a hand.
"The lesson for this cycle is simple," Yuan said softly. "A king who sacrifices his pawns eventually stands alone on the board."
He touched my forehead.
"Try again."
A singular point of pressure. Then, darkness.
7:00 AM.
The smell of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee drifted from the kitchen.
I opened my eyes. Loop 48.
"Make it tea," I whispered to the empty room. "And kill the tech, Jory, but send his family the severance pay."
I sat up. The pain in my ribs was gone, but the memory of the old man's touch burned on my forehead.
A king who sacrifices his pawns stands alone.
I looked at the city below.
"Alright, old man," I murmured. "Let's play it your way."