Chapter Text
September 1992 - Mandela County
Mark made a mistake. One that's forced his hand, replacing it with knaves for what he now knows was an decade. He fell for it—so hard he may as well had slammed into concrete.
Still, he recorded the footage in vain, grumbling under his breath about how much he hated the shadows that seemed to fester in Cesar's back hallway. But he hadn't realized until too late that the danger wasn’t lurking in his imagination—it was waiting for him here, now. He twists his doorknob, pure adrenaline pumping his veins, drowning out every other sense. Mainly, his rationality. Looking back, he has to clench his fists in regret. He should have waited longer. Starving would have been a kinder fate than what came next. If only he could have postponed it, even for a moment…
The gun shot tears through the air like a wild bark, unlike anything he'd ever heard before. His arm aches with how far he straightens it, repeatedly slamming down on the heavy trigger, trying to keep the amalgamation that called itself Cesar Torres at bay. It was inevitable.
Guns couldn't be as close range as he was using it. Continuously firing a gun until it was out of ammo was suicide, though that was always an option. Not that it'd work, anyway. Guns weren't magic, people could take a lot of punishment before fully backing down. Worse yet, whose to say alternates abide by the same rules? Frustration and desperation may as well have took the trigger. It always seemed to, with him.
Everything comes in a flash. Mark can only comprehend it later down the line, when he's seen this exact moment a hundred thousand times. It sounds silly; if he knew how he died, why did he repeat it? Because even knowing how he dies, the weight of naive hope pulls him back every time. What if this time is different? What if he says the right thing, takes the right step, or simply moves faster? Mark didn't know how to stop hoping, and he can't feel anything else.
Cesar—no, he doesn't dare call that thing Cesar. It doesn't even flinch, doesn't break it's expression, maintaining a mockery of Cesar's amused look. The gashes from the bullets ripple and contort, the torn flesh rearranging itself with a sickening speed, but it doesn’t erase everything—bits of gore remain, deliberate, as if taunting Mark with its refusal to stay down.
Bullet holes doze through his door, harmlessly passing through as though the creature were made of smoke. Its expression remains unchanging, eerily blank, even as it presses a palm to the crimson spreading across its dress shirt. Mark’s stomach churns, and he instinctively backs into the bed frame, his hip connecting with it hard enough to bruise. Anger claws at him, but fear keeps him steady. He won't let this thing take him—not when he still has control, not when he still has a weapon.
His trembling hand raises the firearm, the cold barrel pressing against his temple. The creature tilts its head in silent observation, its gaze piercing into him like burning cold. Mark's finger pulls the trigger, and a sharp bang slices through the silence, deafening in sound and finality. No matter how much he repeats this, he can't ever go back to the first time. Back when dying meant relief.
His last sensation is his knees giving way, his body crumpling to the floor like a marionette with its strings severed, darkness swallowing his surroundings hole.
Loop 1 - 1992
A telephone ring sounds in the distance, shaking Mark awake, cracking through the pressure of the hazy sleep he had.
Wait… what? He's meant to be dead. He instantly reaches for his face, in search for a scab, for blood, something that confirms the nightmare happened. Shamefully, he found just a bit of dried drool at first. But then, his fingers grazed something else. Bandages. The gauze is rough and frayed, loosely fitted around his head like an afterthought. Panic bubbles in his chest as he claws underneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over the ridges of healing scabs. Was he… in the hospital? No, that couldn’t be. His surroundings were the same old, neat room he knew—no sterile walls, no beep of a heart monitor, no IV stand tucked in a corner. Nothing about this made sense.
He nearly tuned it out, but the telephone ring irritates him enough to want to answer it, but it carried a sense of doom when he remembers his… dream? He feels like the cat about to be killed by curiosity. He stands up, an ache in his shoulder. He presses the receiver to his ear, nearly knocking his answering machine away in drowsiness.
"Hey it's Cesar. I hope it's not too late." Said Cesar.
"It's… fine. What's, uh, up?" Mark stammers, a tidal wave of deja vu rooting him in place. He's done this before. "My mom's knocked out cold, and I have no idea why. I'm on my way to the ER. Could you do me a favor?" Cesar says, not a hint of human emotion in his voice. Mark nearly finds himself agreeing like a man possessed, but he stops himself. "What is it? I'm not sure if I can right now," he lies through his teeth. "I just need you to come over and turn on the cameras we have set up. You know the ones that we installed after we were robbed?" What disturbs Mark is how it knows that. His grip tightens around the phone, his heart racing as memories flood back—fear, the dull ache starving becomes, and complete, utter helplessness.
"Sorry, can't. Gotta sleep. You know, school tomorrow." Mark resolves. "C'mon. You're the only one I could ask." Cesar's voice becomes smaller, in a way Mark now knows was on purpose. The words echoing in his mind like a drumbeat. The only one I could ask. Mark wants to feel special, but dormant fear from yesterday—that nightmare? blooms within him. “I—" Mark begins, his voice hoarse, “I really don’t think I can, Cesar. I’m exhausted.”
A silence stretches across the line. Mark can hear the faint sound of breathing on the other end, and he can’t tell if it’s his own or Cesar’s. Time drags, and his thoughts race in every direction—screaming at him, don’t go, don’t fall for it. But then, just when he’s about to hang up, the voice comes back, quieter this time, almost pleading. "Please? If you don’t, I don’t know what’s gonna happen while I'm gone." The admission suspends in the air. Something about it sounds so much like Cesar, but stripped of the usual bravado, it makes his stomach twist. But he's seen what would happen. He can't take the risk, he can't, he can't.
"Sorry. I really am. Update me," he lies through his teeth. The line clicks off before Mark can say anything more. He stares at the handset, a blunt dread creeping up his spine. He tries desperately to go back to sleep, but every nerve in his body screams at him to stay awake, to be vigilant. But exhaustion overtakes him, and he falls into an uneasy slumber.
When he wakes, it’s morning again. And though he should be dead, he’s isn't. The soft rays of morning light shine through his window, a razor-sharp contrast to the bullet-pounding death he may or may not have actually experienced. It feels like a breath of fresh air, no longer having his most intrinsic fears whispered into his ear like a game of telephone, circling around and becoming more and more twisted and primal.
Well… he's alive. Hunger gnaws at him, but there's something more urgent—he needs to check on someone else. Is the real Cesar even alive? Mark jerks his head toward the alarm clock—3:23 PM. School should have ended by now. He hesitates at the door, staring at the idle car. He didn't know if he wanted to drive ever again. The memory was just too fresh.
He walks down the street, Cesar's house in the distance as bleak and lofty as ever. The front steps are cracked, uneven, leading up to a door that hangs slightly ajar. An invitation of sorts. Something had either left or entered this house. Something may or may not still be inside. He raps his knuckles on the door before entering. It's empty, as though it was just a model gone wrong. The air heavy and musky with fragrance. "Cesar? Ms. Torres?" Mark called out, the silence responding with a shut of the door. He wants to believe the wind closed it.
Mark ghosts around, as if he may awaken something. He peeks through the living room, dining room, and the study. Not even a dust mite. He feels looming despair as he sees nothing in Ms.Torres' room or the kitchen. All that's left is Cesar's room and the basement, but he'd rather die (again?) than go downstairs. He shrinks in on himself as he walks towards Cesar's room at the end of the hall, having an inner-battle with himself to not have any expectations, But hope sows in his chest, furling like delicate thorns.
With a sharp breath, he opens the door. In the process, he reaps what he sowed.
The familiar clutter of old books, half-open drawers, and a wide open closet that probably has something hiding in it. His heart slams against his rib cage as he steps further inside.
Then he sees it. His hands fly to his mouth, stifling a cry that claws its way up his throat, though he knows no one would hear it. The scene before him is one he can’t unsee, the kind that etches itself into the mind like a scar. He still remembers it, hundreds of loops later. Its the one loop he can't bring himself to tell anybody.
Cesar hangs from the ceiling fan, his body limp, swaying slightly in the stagnant air. The frayed playing rope tightens cruelly around his neck, the knot uneven but firm, as though the rope itself had intent. The rope’s fibers, once bright and child's play, now dark and knotted, matching the deep shadows stretching across the room. Cesar's legs dangle loosely, socked feet brushing the floor—his expression forever frozen in the calm of death.
Mark’s pulse roars in his ears, and his hands tighten over his mouth to stop himself from screaming. It’s pointless—nobody would hear. For a long moment, Mark stands frozen in the doorway, paralyzed by the haunting image of his friend, his hope crushed beneath reality.
He hears a snapping sound behind him, and the loop restarts.
Loop 2 - 1992
A telephone ring sounds in the distance, shaking Mark awake, cracking through the pressure of the hazy sleep he had.
No. He's done this before. He knows this sound. He knows the ache of his shoulder as he rose from bed. The dry drool. He was just there. The suffocating air of Cesar’s room, the grotesque swing of the rope, the silence. How he felt, rigid and entranced. Just watching as Cesar hung from the ceiling fan. Cesar's expression was stamped into his memory, half-lidded eyes and tranquility.
Was that real? He has an idea on what pushed Cesar to… such a way out… He feels a sick, hollow pleasure knowing that the Cesar who came to his door—pleading, stubborn, and irritable—had been a fraud, an alternate playing its game. But even that bittersweet relief is poisoned by horror—the real Cesar, his best-friend, was dead all along. The truth digs into his chest like claws. If he had been too late from the start, then what was he even fighting for? He grips his blanket tightly, knuckles whitening.
The telephone’s ring beckons him forward, too familiar for it's own good. His vision warps, disfigures, like he’s looking through a frosted window that refuses to clear. What’s there left for him? To pick up the phone and hear it all again? A part of him screams to stay where he is, to let the ringing fade into silence. But another part—the same desperate part that brought a gun to his friend—drags him forward. If he could somehow wake up earlier, go to Cesar's house before he took his life, maybe he could change something. And whatever this… is he in a time loop? That's something that belongs in movies— no, no way.
For some reason, it clicks something within him. Who woke up from a dream twice? The last loop(?) he was in was basically one to one with his death day, only changing when he did. But that didn't make sense. Someone stuck in a time loop usually repeats the same day over and over. But Mark got to see tomorrow. He got to feel it's taunting September sun, until he saw Cesar.
He reaches for his alarm clock. He hasn’t needed it in what feels like days—technically, only three have passed since he stopped going to school, though time has blurred in his head. Still, it’s his only hope. He winds it, setting the alarm in the afternoon, even though he was already awake that time during his so-called 'death-day.' Could it work? He doesn’t know. He’s out of ideas, grasping at anything that might break this outset cycle.
He reaches for the Desert Eagle in his dresser. If this really is a time loop, then pulling the trigger shouldn’t matter—he’ll wake up again. And if he doesn’t? Well, he isn’t sure he cares anymore.
Loop 3 - 1992 - 4 PM
An alarm sounds in the distance, shaking Mark awake, cracking through the pressure of the hazy sleep he had.
His eyes snap open. The sound. It’s harsh and jarring, too familiar, too close to the ring of the telephone for his comfort. For a moment, he’s disoriented, his heart hammers in his chest, unsure if he’s dead or waking up mid-REM cycle. Then it hits him. It worked. He really is in the time-loop. The realization crashes over him, bringing both relief and despair. Is this some kind of messed-up afterlife?
If this is an afterlife, it's a cruel one—trapping him in the same nightmare over and over. The idea makes him wanna take back all the times he jokingly said "I would rather die." But if it’s not… if this is real, then who—or what—inflicted it on him? Is he supposed to fix something? Or is this just punishment—an endless cycle of failure designed to break him? He swallows hard, his throat dry, as a new question twists itself into his mind: What happens if I don’t find a way out? A question he still asks.
He slides out of bed, groggy from who-knows-how-long restless hours he slept. Pajamas cling to his frame, a simple tank top and shorts, confirming he never woke for school. Okay. Next matter of business, he thinks as he reaches for his hoodie and pants on the floor. He needed to check on Cesar. Maybe if Mark was present, he could at least see what happened in the first place.
Piece it together, fix it before it spiraled out of control. His chest tightens at the thought. Something in him breaks as he adds, just in case Cesar took his life on purpose. He hates even considering it, but it lingers just above all else. He eyes his dresser. Or he could intervene. It'd be tacky—wrong, even— to just walk in there with a gun. Especially because it's not technically legal Mark owns a handgun—he was only 17, not old enough to use even a hunter's rifle.
He doesn't know what he's fighting against, but he also doesn't know what state Cesar would be in the first place. Since he's confirmed the theory he really is in a time-loop, he could probably do this over and over. No matter how crazy that sounded. He begins walking to Cesar's house, each step feeling heavier than the last.
What if Cesar had always been dead? How would Mark go to the day before his death-day? What if his presence makes it worse? The questions feel like a vacuum pull to the back of his house, but he doesn’t slow down. Even if he fails this time—fails again, and again, and again—he has to try. Because if he doesn’t, then who will? He doesn't seem to have the luxury of stopping, anyway.
Mark hovers his hand over the door, shaking just inches about the metal. Opening the door means risking that same, gut-wrenching sight that plagued his ever step forward. Until he knocks, until he opens it, he won’t know. And maybe that's worse. The thought strikes him suddenly, like a cruel joke whispered by the universe: Cesar, behind this door, is both dead and alive.. Until he acts, Cesar exists in every state. He now knows there are timelines where he is alive, where he can be saved, and others where he’s already gone, and Mark is doomed to see it all over again.
He swallows, the thought is silly, but for some reason it gleams with a light glare just behind every other possibility. Mark knocks on the door, using his palm instead of his knuckles. Just to remove any sense of familiarity. He feels a weight off his shoulder when he recognizes footsteps darting forward. From the narrow crack of the door, Mark catches a glimpse of Cesar, standing there, his expression scrutinizing. Then, realizing who it is, Cesar softens. "Where the hell were you—no, what happened to you?" Cesar asks with narrowed eyes.
A surge of relief and disbelief floods onto Mark so fast, he nearly chokes as he says; "just been busy." It was too tight to be casual though, especially once he realized Cesar was talking about the bandages. Even Mark had forgotten about them. "Can I come in?" Cesar quirks an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Busy, huh?" He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, before finally stepping aside. "Well, I’m sure my Mom won’t mind. Come on in."
Mark hesitates at the threshold. The house feels different now, even though every detail is the same: the musky fragrance, mainly. "Everything okay?" Cesar asks, already walking toward the living room. His tone is light, but there’s a hint of something else—curiosity, maybe even suspicion. "Yeah, fine," Mark lies, forcing himself to follow. But as he steps inside, the familiar space warps in his mind, each object now a reminder of what’s to come—or what’s already happened. His chest tightens as they walk further down the hall, where he knows Cesar’s room lies. Cesar lightly shuts the door behind them.
"So," Cesar says, flopping down on his bed. "You wanna tell me what’s really going on, or are we gonna play this game all night?" Mark forces a weak smile. "Just... needed to clear my head," he says whatever comes up to mind. For some reason, Mark feels the phantom of Cesar's hanging body just above him. Dead Cesar stares down back at him, looking fatigued and pale. Cesar pats the empty spot beside him. "Well, you’re here now. Sit. Let’s catch up. You clearly have to," Mark sits, his movements stiff, his mind already racing. How does he keep Cesar safe without revealing too much?
Cesar leans back, resting his arms on his knees. "I was trying not to say it, but lets quit dancing around. What's up with the bandages?" He says bluntly, but there’s no malice in his tone. "Something happen? You’re not usually this... jumpy." Mark flinches at the word but tries to mask it with a shaky laugh. "Guess I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Too much on my mind. The bandages they're uh— I hit something and blood came outta my hair, so…" Cesar bites his lip, studying him. "Oh, ouch. But… you’re not in some kind of trouble," he grins, "are you?"
"No trouble," Mark says quickly, holding up his hands. He forces himself to meet Cesar’s eyes, the familiar warmth in them twisting the knife in his chest. Mark feels the heat rise in his face and looks away, his gaze falling on the hallway again. He has to say something, anything, to steer the conversation, to keep things normal for as long as he can. "You ever think about, like… taking a break from everything? Just… getting away?" How good he was at being normal.
Cesar frowns, tilting his head. "Getting away from what? You’ve never been the ‘disappear and find myself’ type." Mark shrugs, forcing nonchalance. "I dunno. Life, maybe? School, responsibilities… this place." Cesar smiles with teeth—Mark knew that Cesar didn't really laugh, his smile just got bigger. "What, and leave me behind?" The joke stings more than it should. He opens his mouth to respond but freezes as a faint creak sounds from the hall. He knows it’s nothing. Just the house settling. But every hair on the back of his neck stands on end. "You okay?" Cesar asks, leaning forward.
"Yeah," Mark says quickly, plastering on another weak smile. "Just thought I heard something." Cesar shrugs it off, but Mark can’t shake the feeling of dread creeping in. This moment, this calm, feels like a cruel setup. He knows it won’t last. It never did. "So, what’s up with you?" Mark asks, his voice wavering just slightly. "Anything interesting happen lately?"
Cesar loses his smile at the question, clearly sensing Mark’s odd tone. "Not really. Same old. Ma’s been on my case about grades again, as if I haven’t already told her I’m passing." He rolls his eyes. "Oh, and we’ve got a new neighbor across the street. Some guy moving in with his wife. Nothing exciting." Mark nods absently, barely registering the words. His gaze keeps flicking to the clock. 4:46. "Mark, seriously, are you sure you’re okay?" Cesar’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "You’re acting weird. Don't try to hide it."
"I’m fine," Mark says automatically, his voice angrier than he intended. He winces, softening his tone. "I mean it. I’m just… tired." The clock ticks louder. 4:47. Cesar leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he studies Mark more closely. "If something’s going on, you’d tell me, right? You look like you’re about to snap." The concern in Cesar’s voice sends a pang through Mark’s chest. He looks away, staring at the carpet to avoid the weight of Cesar’s gaze. "Yeah," he murmurs. "I’d tell you. That's why nothing's wrong."
The creak down the hall comes again, louder this time, and Mark can’t ignore it. He tenses, his eyes darting toward the ceiling. Cesar notices, frowning as he follows Mark’s gaze. "You’re actually jumpy as hell today," Cesar says, his tone more serious now. He points to Mark's forehead and taps it, "What’s up there?"
"Nothing," Mark says quickly, flinching away from Cesar's touch before he can really process it. The sound of Mrs. Torres’s scream pierces through the air, sharp and full of raw panic. Mark freezes, his blood running cold, while Cesar’s expression twists into confusion and fear. "What the hell—?" Cesar starts, already moving toward the door. Mark grabs his wrist, his clench tight and unintentionally digs his fingernails into Cesar's wrist. "Wait," he says, his voice trembling. "We don’t know what’s down there."
Cesar pulls his arm free, glaring at him. "That’s my mom! I’m not just going to stand here." Mark stammers, searching for words to stop him, but none come. His heart pounds as he watches Cesar throw open the door and rush down the stairs.
The scream comes again, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor. Mark hesitates for only a second before following, his legs moving on autopilot. His mind races with every possibility, every horrific scenario, but nothing prepares him for what he sees when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.
The loop snaps, the last sight being Cesar collapsing over his mom's body to check her pulse.