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Max stood outside his house, shivering in the night air as he fumbled with his keys, the cool metal slipping from his grip. The wind howled around him, sending chills up his spine.
He could feel something was wrong before he even opened the door, like a shadow had passed over his soul.
"Honey, I'm home!" He called out as he stepped inside, only to be greeted by silence, the familiar warmth of his home tainted by unease. "Michelle?" His voice echoed back to him, hollow. No answer. His breath quickened. "Honey? Anybody home?"
Something was... terribly wrong.
All the furniture was knocked askew, there was a symbol tattooed on the wall in graffiti, a letter 'V' with a syringe going across it.
There was blood everywhere.
He could hear footsteps upstairs.
The phone rang.
He snatched the receiver, panic already building in his chest. "Listen! Someone's broken into my house. Call 9-1-1!"
"Is this the Payne residence?" the voice asked. Female. Familiar... but he couldn't place it.
"Yes. Someone's broken into my house, they are still here. You have to-"
"Good. I am afraid I cannot help you," said the cold, detached voice.
"Who is this?" He demanded, but he was only answered with a click. Silence. "Hello?"
The line went dead.
Max dropped the phone and raced upstairs. The gunshots came before he reached the landing, the sounds of things being knocked over and people yelling.
Rose was crying. Michelle was screaming, calling out his name, and then-
They both went silent.
His blood ran cold. His feet felt like lead, dragging him toward the inevitable. He ran towards Rose's room, gun drawn. The door flew open, and revealed a man - his pupils blown wide, obviously high on something. The first gunman fired at him, crazed, and Max dropped him with a single shot. Another ran out from Max and Michelle's room, but Max fired and took him down too.
He tore through into Rose's nursery, blood pumping in his ears, but when he reached the crib, Rose was already gone.
Dead.
Her little hand lay limp and outstretched from her bloodied blanket.
She had stopped crying.
He turned and walked into Michelle's room. Another man awaited him. He fell with a single shot.
On the bed lay Michelle.
Her front was covered in blood.
Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
She, too, was dead.
Max gathered her in his arms, and screamed.
And then-
Max stood outside his house, keys in hand.
The cool wind bit at his face, and his legs trembled.
He could hear Rose crying from inside, muffled - but there.
Not again.
He could feel the weight of what awaited inside closing in around him, the dread gnawing at his insides.
He had to change something. He had to try.
He had to save them.
Max charged into the house, moving faster than ever before.
He didn’t waste time calling out for Michelle. He bypassed the phone as it began to ring, sprinting up the stairs two at a time. The pounding of his boots echoed through the house, but the gunshots still came. The gunman burst out of Rose's room, but Max was quicker this time. He fired before the man could raise his weapon, putting him down. The man that followed met a similar fate.
He was too late to save Rose, her cries already having fallen silent.
He kicked open the door to the master bedroom.
Michelle.
She was still alive. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, relief flooding her features. "Max-"
But before she could finish, a second gunman leapt from behind the bed, firing wildly. The bullets tore through Max’s arm, sending him sprawling to the floor. He screamed as his gun clattered out of reach. The intruder fired again - two, three times - before turning his aim on Michelle.
Max reached for his gun, blood pooling beneath him, but it was too far. Too slow.
"No," he begged, "no, please! Not her..."
The gunman shot her.
Michelle collapsed onto the bed, her body jerking from the impact, not able to make even a single sound before she died.
"No!" Max’s voice was raw, broken, as he crawled toward her. His vision blurred with tears as he reached out to her lifeless hand, feeling the warmth slipping away.
She was dead.
The gunman pointed his gun to Max.
And then-
Max stood outside his house, keys in hand.
His heart pounded in his chest, every breath a sharp, ragged rasp. He gripped his side, expecting to feel the gunshot wounds, the agony - but there was nothing. Only the cold biting into his skin.
How many times had he done this? Ten? Twenty? More? He had lost count. But each time, it ended the same way.
He’d failed them.
Max’s hands shook as he unlocked the door and stormed in, blood boiling with rage. He moved through the house like a man possessed, smashing through the door to the living room, gun drawn.
The phone rang again.
He ignored it. The sound seemed to mock him now, a taunting echo of his helplessness. He wouldn’t play their game anymore.
He raced upstairs, throwing open the door to Rose's room. This time, he took both gunmen down before they even fired. His aim was deadly, precise, the product of desperation.
He barely registered the blood spattering the walls.
Rose wasn't in her crib.
He heard her crying from the master bedroom.
Michelle.
He tore into the master bedroom, but she wasn’t there. The bed was empty. Panic surged through him. Where was she?
He spun around, and there - cowering in the corner - was Michelle, clutching Rose, who was swaddled in her blanket, his wife's face pale and trembling.
"Max!" she cried, eyes wide with terror.
Before he could reach her, a third gunman appeared from the shadows, dragging her up by the hair.
Max’s heart stopped.
The man raised his gun to Michelle’s head, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.
Rose wailed.
Max fired, but his hands shook. His shot went wide. He screamed in fury, firing again, but the gunman was faster. The bullet ripped through Michelle, her body collapsing in slow motion as the world spun around Max.
A second shot.
Rose went silent.
His fourth shot.
The gunman fell.
His gun fell from his hand as he rushed to her, catching her just before she hit the floor. "Michelle, baby... Rose, no, no, no, God, no-" He cradled her, blood soaking into his clothes, his tears mixing with her blood as her breath faded.
In her arms, Rose's blanket was saturated with red.
She couldn't cry anymore.
Max screamed.
And then-
Max stood outside his house, keys in hand.
The wind cut through him, sharper than any blade. His body ached with the memory of a hundred failures. He could still feel Michelle and Rose’s blood on his hands, even though it wasn’t there. The weight of it crushed him, but still, the loop dragged him forward.
Why? He couldn’t stop himself. His feet moved toward the door, driven by some sick compulsion. I can’t do this anymore. I can't save them. I'm too late. Always too late.
But he did.
The door creaked open, and the house swallowed him whole once again.
This time, Max didn’t run. He walked slowly, every step dragging him deeper into despair.
The phone rang. He picked it up without thinking.
"I can’t help you," said the woman’s voice. And he knew who she was. It was Nicole Horne was on the other end of the line.
"I know," Max whispered, his voice dead. He hung up. "I know."
As he reached the stairs, his knees buckled.
He collapsed halfway up, sitting there, unable to go further.
Rose was crying. Michelle was calling out his name.
The weight of his failure crushed him.
He could hear the gunshots upstairs, and Rose went silent. He heard Michelle’s final scream, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t save them. He had never been able to.
What was the point?
He heard footsteps on the stairs above him.
A single gunshot.
A single moment of pain.
And then-
Max stood outside his house, keys in hand.
The cold night air wrapped around him like a shroud. His breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the air before dissipating. He couldn't feel the cold anymore. Couldn't feel anything but the crushing weight of the loop - the cycle that held him prisoner.
He couldn't do this.
He knew what awaited him inside. The cries. The screams. The blood. Always the blood.
He couldn't do this, he couldn't do this!
Just get it over with.
He reached for the door, his hand trembling.
The house stood there, like a tomb, waiting for him to step inside.
He pulled the door open, stepping into the dark hallway, the familiar smell of death and decay hitting him instantly. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now, it was all-consuming. His feet moved on their own, taking him through the house like a puppet on strings.
The phone rang.
He ignored it.
As he neared the stairs, the sound of Rose’s cries filled the air.
"No..." Max whispered, clenching his jaw. His heart pounded in his chest, but the cries wouldn’t stop. "I can't."
He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, desperate to reach her.
But maybe this time, it would be different.
Maybe if he was fast enough, if he just pushed harder, if he just tried a little bit harder - maybe he could save her.
But the cries grew louder, piercing his skull, echoing in his mind.
"Max!"
No, no, no! He reached the door, but as he pushed it open, the world seemed to slow down. The blood was already there, pooling around the tipped over crib, seeping into the carpet, staining everything. He hand was limp, outstretched upon the carpet. The gunmen were shadows now, just outlines in the nightmare, blurred and distant.
They were dead. He didn't even remember firing the shots.
All he could see was Rose.
Her tiny body was still.
Too still.
He choked back a sob as he reached for her, but his hand stopped short. He couldn’t touch her.
Couldn’t change it.
He didn't deserve to hold her. He couldn't save her.
Her cries echoed in his ears, long after they’d ceased. He could still hear them, like a phantom sound that wouldn’t leave him.
I can’t... Max thought, backing away, stumbling toward the master bedroom.
Michelle’s screams beckoned him.
He stood in the doorway, watching as Michelle struggled against the faceless gunman. Her scream - that scream - ripped through the air, clawing at his mind, tearing at his soul. His grip on his gun faltered, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
He knew how this ended.
"Max!" Her scream turned into a plea, her eyes locking onto his just as the gunman raised his weapon.
Max froze, his heart shattering. He raised his gun too late. Always too late. The gunman fired, the flash from the barrel searing into Max’s vision as Michelle’s body crumpled to the bed, as she had countless times before. Max fired too late. The gunman died too late.
Blood splattered the walls, the sheets, the floor. Him.
The blood. The blood.
It was everywhere.
He couldn't do this.
Max fell to his knees, his hands digging into his hair as he screamed. The cries, the screams, the gunshots - it all mixed together, a cacophony of horror that filled his mind, drowning out everything else.
Stop, stop, stop!
"Please..." His voice cracked, hoarse from the constant shouting, the endless begging. "Please, make it stop!"
But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.
The loop would reset, and he’d be right back at the beginning. He’d hear Rose’s cries again. He’d hear Michelle’s screams again. And it would all end the same way. Every. Single. Time.
He couldn't do this anymore.
He needed this to stop.
He had to stop this. Remove himself from this.
Max’s hands shook as he reached for his gun. His heart pounded in his ears, a frantic, panicked beat. He had tried everything. Fought, ran, begged - but there was no escape.
The cries were still there, echoing in his skull like a bullet casing clattering upon the floor.
He pressed the barrel of his gun to his own temple.
The cold steel felt like the only real thing left in this nightmare. His finger hovered over the trigger, his breath hitching in his throat.
"Maybe this will end it," Max whispered, his voice broken. "Maybe this time..."
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
And then-
Max stood outside his house, keys in hand.
The keys fell as he staggered back, clutching his head. His mind was spinning, disoriented. The weight of the gun still felt heavy in his hand, but he knew what had just happened.
He’d pulled the trigger. He’d shot himself.
But he was still here.
He turned, staring at the door of the house. It loomed before him, unchanged, the same suffocating darkness waiting behind it. The same cries, the same screams.
Max screamed, a raw, primal sound of agony, as he threw his gun to the ground, collapsing to his knees on the concrete. His hands tore at his hair, and he wanted to rip his mind apart, to tear himself free from the nightmare.
But there was no escape.
He screamed until he could scream no longer, until the door opened and the gunmen - bloodied and laughing and laughing and laughing - stepped out.
A single shot.
And then-
Max stood outside his house, keys in hand.
Again.
His mind was unraveling. There was nothing left but the endless loop, the screams, the blood. It consumed him. Every time he thought he’d found a way out, it dragged him back.
Rose’s cries echoed in his skull. Michelle’s screams haunted his every step. The blood - it never left him. His hands were stained with it, his mind drowning in it. It was an ocean of blood, an ocean of failure, and he was drowning beneath the waves.
He stumbled forward, his body moving automatically now, resigned to his fate.
He just wanted it to end.
But it wouldn’t. Not until the nightmare had wrung every last ounce of suffering from him.
He opened the door, and stepped inside.
Time blurred.
The loops became a fog of death, pain, and failure.
Max had lost track of how many times he’d failed, how many times he’d seen their faces twisted in agony, how many times he had been too late.
His skin was stained with their blood. The floors were coated in the evidence of his failure. All he could smell, all he could taste, was the sharp taste of blood and gunpowder.
He could hear their cries.
He could hear their silence.
But each time, he got back up. Each time, he opened that door.
The pain was unbearable.
He felt his body cracking under the pressure, his mind fraying at the edges. His breath was shallow, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he stood outside his house once more.
The wind swirled softly around him, mocking in its silence.
But something was different this time.
Max stepped inside, his heart pounding louder than ever before.
The familiar sense of dread consumed him as he made his way through the house, reaching for the gun at his side, ready to fight - but there was no one there.
No gunmen.
No graffiti.
The furniture was upright, the walls clean.
The house was still, cold. Still empty.
Max staggered back, confused. He stumbled through the house, up the stairs, into the bedroom. The bed was untouched. Michelle wasn’t there.
His hands flew to his head as the walls started closing in on him. The world twisted, the air thick with the scent of chemicals and blood. His vision was tinted green. It was all green. Why was it green? Why was it green?
His breath quickened. It was all wrong. All wrong.
And then, the truth hit him like a bullet.
The loop, the house, the deaths - all of this... this wasn’t real.
Max gasped, eyes flying open as reality snapped back into place. He was lying on the floor of Punchinello's Manor, curled up in a fetal position in a pool of his own vomit, the edges of his vision still tinged green as he retched.
It had all been a Valkyr-fueled nightmare.
It wasn't 1998 - it was 2001.
He wasn't in New Jersey, he was in New York.
His muscles trembled, his body drenched in sweat. Nicole Horne. Valkyr. The overdose. It had all been in his mind.
And even in his mind... he couldn't save them.