《Echo Point》


 1. Time out of Mind

    For eighteen years, clocks had always betrayed Lance Weaver. His mother''s ancient wristwatch lost exactly two minutes each day. The microwave at home ran forty seconds fast. The dashboard clock in her minivan hadn¡¯t been right since daylight savings in 2019. Now, as the same minivan wound its way through the late August morning, carrying him away from everything familiar, he couldn¡¯t stop glancing at those mocking green digits.


    8:47 AM. Or 8:32 AM if you believed his phone. They were either comfortably early or dangerously late for move-in day at Greylock University. Lance ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled dark hair, a nervous habit he couldn¡¯t break.


    The countryside rolled past in waves of golden cornfields and patches of dense forest, touched by the first hints of autumn. Lance pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching his breath create expanding circles of fog. Meridian City had long disappeared in the rearview mirror, replaced by rural emptiness that made his stomach flutter with excitement and dread. The radio''s faint crackle of pop songs merged with the distant hum of early morning traffic.


    "Did you remember to pack your winter coat?" his mom asked, both hands gripping the steering wheel. Her silver watch glinted in the morning sun, its face two minutes behind the rest of the world. The watch, a graduation gift from Lance''s father before he left twelve years ago, still adorned her wrist daily.


    "Yeah, Mom. It''s in one of the boxes in back," he replied, gesturing toward the tetris puzzle of cardboard boxes and plastic bins filling the minivan''s cargo space. He had packed his entire life into weatherproof containers labeled with his mother''s neat handwriting.


    "Are you sure? Because the winters up here can be brutal, and¡ª"


    "Mom," Lance interrupted gently, "you already asked me about the coat five minutes ago." The words felt strange, like d¨¦j¨¤ vu but stronger.


    She laughed, tucking a strand of graying hair behind her ear, a nervous habit he''d recognized since childhood. The morning sun caught the silver threads in her dark hair, making them shimmer subtly. "Did I? Sorry, honey. I guess I''m more anxious about this than I thought."


    Lance frowned, something nagging at the edges of his memory. Hadn''t she tucked her hair back just a moment ago? And hadn''t they just passed that distinctive red barn with the fading Mail Pouch Tobacco advertisement? The weathered wood flickered in his peripheral vision, peeling paint shimmering like a skipping DVD.


    He shook his head, blaming it on lack of sleep making time feel sticky and strange. He¡¯d barely closed his eyes last night, too busy triple-checking packing lists and scrolling through Greylock University''s orientation materials for the hundredth time. His laptop''s screen had burned afterimages into his vision until well past midnight.


    "You''re going to do great," his mom said softly, as if reading his thoughts. "You earned this, Lance. The scholarship, the acceptance¡ªall of it." Her voice carried the weight of countless late nights at the hospital, brown-bag lunches, postponed vacations, and everything she''d sacrificed to get him here.


    He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The scholarship was only partial, and he knew exactly how many extra shifts she''d picked up to make up the difference. Every mile marker they passed seemed to echo the hours she¡¯d spent juggling work and his needs. He''d caught fragments of her conversation with the credit card company the previous week, a discussion she''d kept to herself.


    The GPS chimed its directive, and Lance''s pulse quickened as Greylock''s iconic clock tower emerged against the distant skyline. The Gothic spire soared above the treeline like a sentinel from another era, its four clock faces gleaming in the morning light. As they drew closer, the rest of the campus revealed itself: red brick buildings draped in ivy, pristine lawns dotted with ancient oaks, and the ultra-modern glass facade of the Morrison Media Center reflecting sunlight like a digital artwork.


    "Oh, wow," his mom breathed, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the steering wheel, echoing her watch''s steady pulse.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Lance nodded, but something about the view made his head swim. He could have sworn they¡¯d just crested this hill and seen this first glimpse of the tower. The sensation passed quickly, replaced by the flutter of butterflies in his stomach as they turned onto University Drive.


    The campus buzzed with move-in day chaos. Parents'' cars lined the curved driveways, hazard lights blinking in synchronized Morse code. Upperclassmen in matching navy blue T-shirts directed traffic with the authority of air traffic controllers, their "Welcome to Greylock!" enthusiasm almost aggressively cheerful. Lance spotted his destination¡ªBlackwood Hall¡ªrising like a medieval castle complete with gargoyles perched along its gutters, their stone faces worn smooth by decades of rain and snow.


    "Remember your room number?" his mom asked, navigating the maze of vehicles and dodging students wheeling overloaded dollies across the parking lot.


    "317," Lance replied automatically. "Third floor, north wing." He¡¯d memorized every detail of the housing assignment email, right down to his roommate''s name: Reid Sawyer, from the Lake View neighborhood of Meridian City. He wondered if Reid was already here, if he¡¯d claimed the better desk or the bed farther from the radiator.


    They found a spot to park, and Lance stepped into the crisp morning air carrying hints of cut grass and autumn leaves. The clock tower loomed overhead, its shadow stretching across the quad like a sundial. 9:00 AM exactly, according to its faces. His phone still insisted it was 8:55. The discrepancy made his skin prickle uncomfortably.


    The next hour blurred as he carried boxes up three flights of stairs¡ªthe elevator was predictably overwhelmed. He met his eerily cheerful RA named Sophie, who spoke entirely in exclamation points, and tried to arrange his half of room 317 into something resembling organized chaos. His mom made his bed with hospital corners despite his protests, arranged his desk supplies with surgical precision, and only cried twice¡ªboth times quickly wiped away when she thought he wasn¡¯t looking.


    The room was exactly what he¡¯d expected from a century-old dormitory: high ceilings, thick wooden moldings around the windows, and radiators that clanked ominously. Reid hadn¡¯t arrived yet, so Lance had first choice of everything. He took the bed near the window, hoping the morning sun would help him wake up for his early classes. On his desk, a sketchpad lay neatly placed, a gift from his mother, filled with his digital art designs waiting to be digitized.


    Finally, they stood in the parking lot next to her minivan, neither quite ready for goodbye. The morning sun had grown stronger, casting sharp shadows across the pavement. Nearby, families enacted their parting ceremonies, soft murmurs of affection and last-minute reminders drifting through the air, mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby vendor.


    "Drop a line once you''re all set," she murmured, wrapping him in an embrace that carried the soft, lingering scent of her lavender shampoo. "And don''t forget to eat actual vegetables sometimes. And¡ª"


    "Mom," Lance laughed, hugging her back tightly, trying to memorize the moment. "I''ll be fine. I promise."


    She brushed away tears with the heel of her palm, giving a slight nod. "I know you will. I''m so proud of you, honey."


    Then she was in the car, waving as she pulled away. Lance stood on the steps of Blackwood Hall, watching the minivan disappear down University Drive. Then he watched her pull away again. And again. Each time, the massive clock tower above him struck 10:00 AM with perfect, impossible precision, its bells resonating through his bones.


    The bells rippled through him, making his vision blur at the edges. He caught his mother tucking her hair back, waving farewell, the minivan turning away¡ªthe scene repeating as if caught in a glitching frame. The fleeting moment passed quickly, yet it unmoored him completely, his perception splintering like a kaleidoscope¡¯s shifting pattern.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, chalking it up to weary nerves and emotional depletion. Everyone gets weird when saying goodbye to their parents at college, right? That¡¯s all this was¡ªstress and anxiety playing tricks on his tired mind.


    A cool breeze rustled the quad''s oak trees, carrying the sounds of families saying their goodbyes, car doors slamming, and wheels crunching on pavement. Lance turned back toward Blackwood Hall, its ancient stones both welcoming and imposing. Above the carved wooden doors, a stone raven watched with gleaming eyes, its beak worn smooth by generations of students seeking luck.


    His phone buzzed¡ªa text from his mom saying she already missed him, complete with three heart emojis. The message showed 10:15 AM. The clock tower insisted it was still exactly 10:00, its hands frozen like they were holding their breath, waiting for something to begin.


    Lance shoved his phone into his pocket and headed inside, ignoring the feeling that time itself was watching him through the tower''s four identical faces. He had unpacking to do, a roommate to meet, and a new life to begin. Whatever strange tricks his anxiety was playing on him could wait.


    As he ascended to the third floor, a haunting familiarity gripped him¡ªas if this moment were both remembered and yet to come. The clock tower struck 10:00 AM once more, its bells echoing through empty corridors, counting out the beats of a moment that refused to end.

 2. Echoes in Empty Rooms

    Lance stood in the doorway of Room 317, watching dust motes dance in the sunbeam that sliced through the tall window. The room felt both empty and full¡ªdevoid of life yet cluttered with cardboard boxes holding his possessions. The ancient radiator beneath the window clicked steadily, marking time in perfect thirty-second intervals that didn¡¯t quite match his phone''s digital seconds counter. Each click echoed through the room''s worn hardwood floors, a mechanical heartbeat that made Lance''s skin crawl with unease.


    He glanced around, the silence amplifying the emptiness. Her absence echoed beyond emotion, carving a palpable emptiness through the landscape of his thoughts. The vacant chair near the window caught his eye, a silent reminder of her morning ritual¡ªnewspaper spread out, teacup in hand. Her favorite mug still sat on the side table, untouched and gathering dust.


    Lance moved to unpack his first box but found himself drawn to the window instead. From the third floor, he could see most of the quad, still bustling with move-in day activity. Parents and students scurried about like ants, their voices carrying up as indistinct murmurs. The clock tower dominated the view, its shadow sweeping across the grass like the hand of a giant sundial. The faces read 10:15 AM, though he had heard it strike ten multiple times in the parking lot. He felt a brief surge of frustration, rubbing his temples as the mismatch nagged at him.


    The memory of his mother''s departure rippled through his mind, a stone dropped in still water, breaking the moment into recursive echoes. He¡¯d watched her drive away countless times¡ªthe silver watch on her wrist catching the sunlight, a strand of hair tucked behind her ear, the minivan''s taillights disappearing down University Drive. The scene replayed like a broken record, each iteration more distorted than the last, leaving him feeling trapped in an endless loop.


    Lance shook his head, forcing himself to focus on unpacking. He had chosen the bed by the window, hoping the morning light would help combat his tendency to sleep through alarms. The mattress squeaked as he sat down, springs protesting with the voice of decades of student use. He began arranging his modest collection of books on the shelf above the desk, aiming for an intentionally sparse look. His battered copy of *The Time Machine* sat next to his high school physics textbook, which he¡¯d kept instead of returning, fascinated by the chapters on relativity.


    The tower bells chimed the quarter-hour, their resonance vibrating through the building''s bones. Lance checked his phone: 10:13 AM. The discrepancy made his temple throb. He¡¯d always been sensitive to time''s inconsistencies, but something about Greylock¡¯s temporal landscape felt particularly unsettling today. His watch briefly froze at 10:14, then jerked forward two minutes, making him jump and glance around nervously.


    Halfway through organizing his clothes into the narrow closet, a knock at the open door made him turn. A tall guy with an easy smile stood in the doorway, one hand raised in greeting. He wore a navy polo shirt that looked effortlessly pressed, khaki shorts, and boat shoes without socks¡ªthe uniform of comfortable wealth. His dark blonde hair was perfectly styled in that intentionally casual way that probably cost more than Lance''s entire wardrobe. As he stepped inside, Reid¡¯s heel caught on the rug, sending him stumbling slightly before he regained his composure and chuckled awkwardly.


    "Hey! You must be Lance," the newcomer said, stepping into the room with the confidence of someone who had never doubted their welcome anywhere. "I''m Reid Sawyer." His handshake was firm but not aggressive, exactly what you''d expect from someone accustomed to networking.


    "Yeah, hey," Lance replied, suddenly self-conscious of his wrinkled t-shirt and worn jeans. A small hole near the hem caught his eye, making him wish he''d thought to change after moving boxes. "I, uh, took the window side. Hope that''s okay?"


    "Totally fine," Reid assured him, though his shoes had snagged again, slightly misaligning his step. His family followed¡ªparents who radiated professional success and a younger sister who immediately started documenting everything with her phone. His father wore a blazer despite the August heat, his mother''s sundress likely cost more than Lance''s laptop, and even his sister''s casual outfit screamed "boutique."


    "Reid, honey, let''s get your boxes up here before the elevator gets too crowded," his mother suggested, every syllable polished by an expensive education. Her pearl earrings caught the sunlight as she turned, and Lance thought of his own mother''s silver watch, eternally two minutes behind.


    The next hour became a whirlwind of activity. Lance found himself naturally pulled into helping, part of a well-orchestrated moving operation that spoke of experience with household staff. Reid''s father insisted on assembling both desk chairs himself, his rolled-up sleeves revealing a luxury watch that gleamed with the precision of money Lance could barely fathom. The man hummed a classical piece as he worked, a tune that made the tower bells chime off-key, deepening the room¡¯s uneasy atmosphere.


    "You''re from Meridian City too, right?" Reid asked as they maneuvered a mini-fridge into place¡ªstainless steel, with a separate freezer compartment and built-in USB ports. "Lake View area?"


    "Other side of town," Lance replied, not wanting to specify exactly how far his neighborhood was from Lake View''s manicured lawns and gated communities. "Near Memorial Hospital." He thought of his mother heading to another night shift, her scrubs faded from too many industrial washings.


    "Oh, my aunt had surgery there last year," Reid''s sister chimed in, finally looking up from her phone. "They have that weird old clock in the lobby that never shows the right time. It''s kind of creepy."


    Lance''s head snapped up. "Yeah, it''s always exactly six minutes slow," he said without thinking. "Has been since they installed it in 2017." The memory was clear¡ªhe¡¯d watched them mount it on the wall and immediately noticed how it lagged behind even his mother''s watch.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Reid gave him an odd look, pausing in the middle of arranging his impressive collection of tennis trophies. "You spend a lot of time there?"


    "My mom''s a nurse," Lance explained, turning back to organizing cables for his electronics. The cords seemed to twist into knots as soon as he looked away. "I used to do homework in the break room sometimes when she worked doubles." He didn¡¯t mention the vending machine dinners or the nights spent sleeping on waiting room chairs, where time moved differently after midnight. His voice held a tightness, betraying the anxiety he tried to mask.


    Something in his tone must have conveyed "don''t push it," because Reid smoothly changed the subject to their class schedules. Lance relaxed as they discovered they shared an intro to economics course, though Reid''s schedule was packed with business prerequisites while Lance focused on digital media and an intriguing physics seminar on temporal mechanics. The course description had mentioned the observer effect, which had called to him like a siren song.


    After Reid''s family finally departed¡ªwith considerably more hugs and photos than Lance''s goodbye¡ªReid suggested they grab lunch before the dining hall got crowded. The contrast between their farewells weighed on Lance''s stomach: his mother''s quiet dignity versus this family''s production of affection.


    "The tower bells just struck eleven," Reid said, checking his phone. "Should be perfect timing."


    Lance frowned. He hadn¡¯t heard the bells, and his phone showed 10:47 AM. The time displacement made his vision blur at the edges, but his stomach growled, overriding his temporal concerns. He felt a spike of anxiety, his heart racing as the room seemed to tilt slightly.


    The walk to the dining hall gave Lance his first real tour of campus. Reid seemed to already know his way around, probably from multiple college visits and legacy tours. He pointed out shortcuts through the academic buildings, naming each with the ease of someone who''d grown up expecting to attend university. His running commentary included historical facts and student legends, clearly rehearsed during campus tours but delivered with genuine enthusiasm.


    "And that''s Morrison Media Center," Reid gestured to the gleaming glass structure that looked like it had been transported from fifty years in the future. "That''s where most of your classes will be, right?"


    Lance nodded, but his attention was caught by a strange ripple in the building''s reflective surface¡ªlike a stone dropped in a mirror-smooth pond, sending concentric circles of distortion across the glass. For a moment, he saw multiple versions of himself reflected, each moving slightly out of sync. He blinked, and it was gone, leaving him dizzy and uncertain. His watch flickered, stopping briefly before resuming, adding to his disorientation.


    The dining hall occupied the ground floor of a limestone building that resembled a medieval feast hall more than a cafeteria. They joined the growing lunch line, Reid chatting easily about his tennis plans and startup ideas while Lance tried to focus on selecting food instead of watching the wall clock tick backward every few seconds. The digital display above the salad bar flickered between numbers seemingly at random. He had always noticed these discrepancies, but they seemed much worse today. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the grilled chicken, his anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.


    "Did we just order?" Lance asked suddenly, staring at the full trays in their hands as they searched for a table. He had no memory of going through the line, though he must have¡ªhis plate held exactly what he would have chosen: grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, and an apple that gleamed too perfectly under the fluorescent lights.


    Reid gave him another odd look. "Yeah, like two minutes ago. You feeling okay? Move-in day can be pretty overwhelming."


    "Yeah, just tired," Lance mumbled, following Reid to an empty table near a window. His legs felt heavy, and his mind buzzed with fragmented thoughts.


    They fell into easy conversation as they ate. Reid did most of the talking while Lance tried to ignore the strange feelings brewing inside him. Reid, he discovered, collected vintage tennis rackets and had strong opinions about the evolution of string technology. His enthusiasm made the subject endearing rather than pretentious, his eyes lighting up as he described the perfect sweet spot on a 1960s Wilson.


    "You should come hit some balls around sometime," Reid offered, gesturing with his fork. "The courts here are amazing. All-weather surfaces and lights for night games."


    "I''ve never played," Lance admitted. "Sports weren''t really... we didn''t..." He thought of the tennis courts in Lake View, private clubs where his father probably cleaned the locker rooms. His voice trailed off, embarrassment flickering in his eyes.


    "I''ll teach you," Reid said easily, somehow knowing not to push. "No pressure. Just might be fun." His smile was genuine, without a trace of pity or condescension.


    The afternoon passed in a blur of unpacking and orientation activities. Reid seemed to know everyone already, introducing Lance to a steady stream of people whose names immediately evaporated from his memory. The tower bells rang at irregular intervals, each chime sending shivers down Lance''s spine and making the world shift slightly sideways. At one point, his watch stopped again, the hands frozen at 10:50, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him.


    By evening, their room had transformed from an empty shell to a lived-in space. Reid''s half featured tennis posters and family photos in matching frames, a cork board filled with social invitations and club meeting times. Lance''s side remained more sparse¡ªa few video game posters and his prized second-hand drawing tablet mounted on the desk, its scratched surface a testament to its previous owner.


    Lance lay in bed that night, listening to Reid''s steady breathing from across the room. The radiator clicked its mechanical heartbeat, marking time in its own peculiar rhythm. Through the window, the clock tower''s illuminated faces glowed like four moons, each showing a slightly different time. The hands moved in ways that defied physics, sometimes spinning backward, sometimes stopping altogether. A tingling crept along his nape, signaling that something was deeply amiss.


    Tomorrow would bring the first day of classes, including the physics seminar that had drawn him to Greylock despite the financial strain. The course description mentioned something about temporal mechanics and observer effect theory. Maybe it would help explain why time felt so slippery lately, why moments seemed to overlap and repeat like a skipping record. Beyond that, he was incredibly excited about the Media Center and all he could learn there.


    The tower bells struck midnight three times in succession, each chime reverberating through him like a warning, rattling his teeth and his sense of reality. Reid slept peacefully through it all, his breathing even and undisturbed, while Lance stared at the ceiling and wondered if anyone else noticed how wrong time felt at Greylock University. The shadows in the room shifted like hour hands, marking time''s passage in ways his phone''s digital display couldn''t capture.


    His phone showed 11:43 PM when he finally drifted off, the tower faces still gleaming outside his window, their hands spinning backward in his dreams, counting down to something he couldn¡¯t quite grasp.

 3. Digital Shadows and Quantum Questions

    The morning sun filtered through the old oaks lining University Drive as Lance made his way to breakfast, his tablet bag slung over one shoulder. The dining hall buzzed with early activity¡ªthe clink of plates, soft conversations, and the rich aroma of coffee. He had arrived early deliberately, aiming to bypass the main rush and give himself time to settle into the day.


    The digital display above the serving line flickered between 7:42 and 7:39 as Lance collected his breakfast: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and an apple that was unnaturally red. He chose a quiet corner table near a window, watching other students trickle in while reviewing his class schedule.


    His first class was Digital Art Foundations in the Morrison Media Center. During orientation, the gleaming glass building had caught his eye. Its modern architecture stood in stark contrast to Greylock''s predominantly Gothic style. Lance pulled out his tablet¡ªa refurbished Wacom he had saved up for by freelancing logo designs throughout high school. The screen bore a few scratches, and the pressure sensitivity was imperfect, but it embodied everything he hoped to achieve here.


    Since he was twelve, Lance had immersed himself in digital art, starting with simple MS Paint doodles and advancing to more sophisticated programs. Creating worlds from nothing but pixels and imagination felt magical to him. His mother had supported this passion, even when money was tight, recognizing how it helped him navigate the world''s strange inconsistencies.


    The dining hall gradually filled with students. Lance checked his phone¡ª8:17 AM¡ªthough the wall clock read 8:23. He gathered his things, aiming to arrive early for his first college class. As he crossed the quad, the Morrison Media Center loomed ahead, its glass surfaces reflecting the morning light in intricate patterns. The reflections twisted and turned, creating a kaleidoscope effect that made his head spin.


    Inside, the building thrummed with technology. Multiple computer labs lined the corridors, each door marked with detailed scheduling information. Lance found Room 204 with ease¡ªa spacious studio classroom with individual workstations arranged in a semicircle. Each desk featured a high-end monitor and tablet setup that made his own equipment seem outdated by comparison.


    Other students began to filter in as Lance chose a seat near the middle¡ªneither too eager at the front nor too hidden in the back. He noticed a girl with electric blue streaks in her dark hair setting up two stations away. Something about her seemed familiar, though he was certain they hadn''t met. She caught his glance and offered a quick half-smile before returning to her setup.


    Professor Elena Mendez entered the room precisely at 9:00, her entrance marked by the jingle of bangles and the swish of a paint-splattered smock over her professional attire. "Welcome to Digital Art Foundations!" she announced, her enthusiasm filling the space. "I''m Dr. Mendez, and this term we''ll delve into how classical art techniques converge with emerging digital technologies."


    As she spoke, her hands swept through the air with animated vigor. Paint-splattered fingers betrayed her artistry, a stylus perched behind her ear like a painter''s trusted tool. Lance found himself leaning forward, captivated by her passion as she outlined the course structure and expectations.


    "Art isn''t just about making pretty pictures," she explained, pulling up examples on the main screen. "It''s about processing reality, questioning perception, and expressing truth as you see it. Digital tools give us unprecedented freedom to explore these concepts."


    Her words resonated deeply with Lance. He had always used his art to make sense of the world''s temporal oddities. His sketchbooks were filled with attempts to capture how time seemed to stutter and skip around him.


    During a brief pause, Lance glanced over to Maya, the blue-haired girl, and asked, "Have you ever tried to visualize time itself?"


    Maya looked up, her eyes meeting his briefly before she returned to her work. "All the time. It''s like trying to paint shadows," she replied softly.


    As Dr. Mendez guided them through their first exercise¡ªexploring brush dynamics and pressure sensitivity¡ªLance noticed Maya creating fascinating patterns that folded in on themselves. Her work had an almost hypnotic quality that consistently drew his attention.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The class passed quickly, leaving Lance both excited and slightly overwhelmed by the possibilities Dr. Mendez had presented. She had assigned their first project: a series of digital studies exploring the concept of time¡ªa topic that felt almost too direct given his experiences.


    With forty minutes until his physics seminar, Lance decided to explore the building. The corridors were adorned with student artwork, ranging from traditional digital paintings to interactive installations. He paused before a piece depicting a figure caught in multiple overlapping moments, uncomfortably reminiscent of his own temporal experiences.


    Blackwood Hall, the physics building, stood in stark contrast to Morrison¡¯s modern aesthetics. Its Gothic architecture loomed against the late morning sky, gargoyles perched ominously above. Lance climbed the worn stone steps, their edges smoothed by generations of students, and entered a high-ceilinged corridor where the air felt heavy, saturated with history.


    Room 342 was a traditional lecture hall with tiered seating. Lance chose a spot about halfway up, unpacking his notebook as other students arrived. The clock above the chalkboard read 10:13, though his phone displayed 10:07. The discrepancy made his temple throb.


    Dr. Marcus Whitlock entered precisely as the tower bells chimed the quarter-hour. Younger than Lance expected, perhaps in his early forties, he had prematurely silver hair and intense eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He moved with deliberate precision, each step measured.


    "Welcome to Introduction to Temporal Mechanics," he began, his voice carrying easily to the back row. "This course will challenge your understanding of time''s fundamental nature. Is it truly linear? Is your experience of time objective or subjective? Can the past be changed, or is it immutable?"


    Lance''s hand tightened around his pen. The questions struck too close to home, especially after yesterday¡¯s move-in day loops. As Dr. Whitlock discussed the observer effect and quantum mechanics, Lance felt a strange resonance building in his chest.


    "Time," Dr. Whitlock continued, "is not the rigid framework we imagine. Einstein showed us it''s flexible, relative to the observer. But what if it''s even more complex? What if our consciousness itself influences temporal flow?"


    The fluorescent lights flickered briefly, and Lance experienced a moment of severe d¨¦j¨¤ vu. He could have sworn he had just heard these exact words and seen this exact pattern of light and shadow. Suddenly, everything seemed to rewind¡ªthe clock hands shifted backward in sync, and a chunk of time vanished. The sensation was so strong he missed the next few minutes of the lecture, only tuning back in when Dr. Whitlock began discussing their first assignment.


    As students packed up their things, Lance noticed the clock had somehow lost fifteen minutes during the lecture. His phone showed the correct time, but the wall clock stubbornly resisted temporal reality. He gathered his materials slowly, watching Dr. Whitlock erase the chalkboard with methodical strokes and momentarily glance in his direction.


    Outside Blackwood Hall, Lance paused to look up at the clock tower. Its four faces displayed slightly different times, as if reality itself couldn¡¯t quite agree on the moment. The stone raven above the entrance seemed to watch him with unusual intensity, its worn features expressing a knowing depth.


    That evening, Lance sat at his desk, trying to focus on Dr. Mendez¡¯s assignment while Reid practiced serves against the wall with a tennis ball. The repetitive thump-thump-thump marked moments like a metronome, grounding him in the present.


    "How were your classes?" Reid asked, catching the ball and dropping onto his bed.


    "Good," Lance replied, sketching loose shapes on his tablet. "Interesting. The physics one, especially¡ªit''s about time and perception and stuff."


    "Heavy topics for the first day," Reid commented. "Hey, want to grab dinner? Sophie mentioned they''re doing make-your-own stir-fry tonight."


    The dining hall was less crowded than breakfast but still bustling. As they waited in line, Lance spotted Maya from his digital art class sitting alone with her laptop, clearly absorbed in her screen. She glanced up briefly, meeting his eyes with a look of recognition before returning to her work.


    "You should join the tennis club," Reid was saying as they found a table. "No experience needed. Plus, it''s a great way to meet people."


    Lance nodded absently, his attention caught by the cafeteria¡¯s various clocks¡ªanalog on the wall, digital above the serving line, and the timestamp on the TV showing campus announcements. None of them quite agreed on the current moment.


    That night, lying in bed, Lance thought about Dr. Whitlock¡¯s questions regarding time¡¯s true nature. The radiator clicked steadily, marking seconds that didn¡¯t quite match his phone¡¯s display. Through the window, the clock tower¡¯s illuminated faces cast an otherworldly glow, their hands moving in ways that seemed to defy physical laws.


    Tomorrow would bring more classes and more chances to understand what was happening at Greylock. Maybe Dr. Whitlock¡¯s theories would help explain the temporal anomalies he had always noticed, now seemingly amplified on campus. Or perhaps Dr. Mendez¡¯s artistic approach would aid him in processing these experiences.


    As sleep approached, Lance¡¯s last conscious thought was of the stone raven above Blackwood Hall¡¯s entrance, its weathered eyes holding secrets about time¡¯s true nature. The tower bells struck midnight¡ªonce, twice, three times¡ªeach chime resonating through his dreams like ripples in a temporal pond.

 4. Design and Repeat

    Lance¡¯s second morning at Greylock University dawned in a way that almost convinced him yesterday¡¯s strangeness was just nerves and exhaustion. Sunlight filtered through the worn curtains of Room 317, casting beams where dust motes drifted lazily. The radiator clicked and hissed in its familiar rhythm. For the first time since arriving, nothing seemed out of place.


    Reid had already left for early tennis practice, leaving his side of the room impeccably ordered. In contrast, Lance¡¯s corner was already more lived-in¡ªcluttered cables, a spare hoodie slung over his chair, and his tablet charging on the desk. He ran his hand over the refurbished Wacom¡¯s surface, noticing a faint scratch. Was it new? He shook off the thought, feeling on edge due to clock discrepancies and unsettling d¨¦j¨¤ vu. Today, he decided, would be normal¡ªjust another day of classes without strange repeats or illusions.


    The walk across campus felt ordinary. The morning air was crisp with the scent of freshly trimmed grass and distant coffee shops. The gargoyles atop Blackwood Hall appeared to rest in the early sun, and the clock tower¡ªthough he avoided staring too long¡ªacted normally. His phone¡¯s time and the tower bells aligned closely, within a margin likely due to human error.


    By the time he reached the Morrison Media Center, Lance began to believe things were improving. The building¡¯s glass facade caught the morning light, scattering it into geometric prisms without the usual ripples or distortions. The sleek automatic doors whooshed open, and he entered Room 204.


    Inside, the atmosphere was relaxed yet focused. The low hum of workstations blended with the tapping of styluses on tablets, creating a creative buzz. Lance chose his seat from the day before, noticing that no one else seemed bothered by temporal oddities. Most classmates were absorbed in setting up their tools, offering only a few nodding greetings.


    A hint of blue caught his eye¡ªMaya, the girl from yesterday¡¯s class, sat a couple of stations away. Today, thin silver headphones hung around her neck. She focused on calibrating her tablet¡¯s stylus, her hair partly obscuring her face until she glanced up. Meeting his eyes, she smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment that they were both here, ready to begin.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Lance said, leaning slightly toward her.


    ¡°Morning,¡± Maya replied warmly. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡±


    ¡°Better, I think. Hoping for a smoother day,¡± he responded, offering a confident grin. She nodded understandingly, providing a quiet comfort¡ªno drama, no demands. Just a shared space.


    As he was about to speak again, Dr. Mendez entered, her timing impeccable. She wore a smock splashed with cobalt and magenta, her heavy bracelets jingling with every expressive gesture.


    ¡°Good morning, my talented creators!¡± Dr. Mendez announced. ¡°I trust you¡¯re all settling into campus life. Today, we¡¯ll do something different¡ªa chance to understand each other¡¯s artistic backgrounds and influences.¡±


    She tapped the large screen at the front. ¡°Art emerges within a broader context, shaped by cultural and social dynamics. Within us reside fragments of past moments, landscapes, individuals, and encounters that mold the lens through which we perceive the world. Today¡¯s challenge: create a digital piece reflecting an influential memory or environment that made you the artist you are. It could be your hometown, a family tradition, a significant event, even a book or game that sparked your creativity. The medium is up to you¡ªdigital painting, collage, vector illustration, whatever. No need for perfection¡ªthis is about authenticity.¡±


    Lance exhaled, relieved. This felt less direct than drawing ¡°time.¡± The concept was still personal, but it wouldn¡¯t force him to confront the looping moments directly. He could channel something else¡ªmaybe home, his mother¡¯s steady influence.


    Before he could start, the door clicked open again. A latecomer strolled in with measured arrogance. Tall and slim, he wore designer sneakers, tailored chinos, and a casual blazer over a vintage band tee. Dropping into the empty seat between Lance and Maya, he flipped his stylus like a baton. His presence brought subtle tension. Lance didn¡¯t know him, but he could guess: this guy had never struggled to fit in.


    ¡°Ah, Cade, you made it,¡± Dr. Mendez greeted him. ¡°We¡¯re just getting started. Follow the assignment instructions on the board.¡±


    Cade Westbrook¡ªa name Lance had heard mentioned yesterday¡ªsmirked, pushing his sandy-brown hair back. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t miss it,¡± he replied, confidence evident in his voice. He set up a state-of-the-art tablet that made Lance¡¯s look outdated by comparison. Casting a brief, dismissive glance at Maya¡¯s and Lance¡¯s screens, he seemed to judge their work before it began.


    Lance tried to ignore him. This morning felt normal¡ªno time loops, no strange deja vu. He wasn¡¯t about to let some snob ruin it. Rolling his shoulders, he focused on his work.


    For several minutes, the room was filled with the quiet sounds of creation. Lance considered what to depict. Home? His mother? The hospital where she worked tirelessly to fund his education? He sketched a rough composition: the silhouette of a familiar street in Meridian City, the shape of his old apartment building, and a window with lamplight glowing inside. From that window, he¡¯d watched his mother leave for countless late shifts, her watch always trailing a few minutes behind the world. In the foreground, he suggested the soft glow of her bedside lamp and the ever-present stack of medical journals.


    As he worked, Maya¡¯s gentle hum of concentration and the soft swish of her stylus piqued his curiosity. He didn¡¯t look¡ªhe wanted to respect her space. Cade, on the other hand, tapped aggressively, muttering under his breath and occasionally glancing around as if to ensure he remained the center of his own universe.


    After about half an hour, Dr. Mendez clapped her hands. ¡°All right, everyone. Let¡¯s pause and share. This will help us get to know each other and understand the diverse voices in this class.¡± She scrolled through the class roster on her tablet. ¡°Who¡¯s feeling brave? Show us what you¡¯ve created and tell us about its significance.¡±


    A couple of students volunteered. One girl displayed a digital collage of her grandmother¡¯s quilt patterns overlaid on modern cityscapes. Another presented a stylized painting of his childhood soccer field. The atmosphere was supportive and curious.


    Dr. Mendez then called on Maya. Maya projected her screen, revealing a piece that depicted a quiet backyard garden lit by fireflies. Over a fence, city lights twinkled. The colors transitioned from muted pastels to vibrant neon specks. ¡°This is where I grew up¡ªon the edge of a city. At night, my backyard felt like a meeting place between nature and civilization. It taught me to see beauty in contrasts, to look for brightness in dark corners,¡± she explained thoughtfully.


    Her classmates murmured their appreciation. Lance found himself genuinely moved by her work¡ªit felt both peaceful and searching, qualities he admired.


    Dr. Mendez beamed. ¡°Lovely, Maya. That sense of quiet wonder is very strong.¡±


    Next, she turned her attention to him. ¡°Lance, how about you?¡±


    Lance¡¯s heart pounded. He took a deep breath and projected his canvas. His drawing featured his old apartment¡¯s window as a focal point, a soft glow inside suggesting warmth and care, and the faint silhouette of his mother¡¯s watch on a side table, subtly off-kilter to imply its slowness. With measured calm, he began, ¡°This is my old home in Meridian City. My mom worked a lot, and I spent a lot of time alone, drawing. The lamp and the watch represent how I learned to observe details. Quiet moments mattered. Art was my way of making sense of it all.¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Mid-sentence, Cade snorted. ¡°Huh. So basically you drew a window and a lamp. Groundbreaking.¡±


    A few students chuckled awkwardly. Lance¡¯s words caught in his throat. He tried to continue, ¡°It¡¯s more about the atmosphere and the feeling than¡ª¡±


    Cade interrupted mockingly. ¡°Oh, sorry, didn¡¯t realize we were grading on feelings here. I guess any random doodle counts as deep if you say it¡¯s about your childhood.¡±


    The room grew tense. Lance¡¯s ears burned as he glanced at Maya, who gave him a sympathetic look, her brow knit in annoyance. Dr. Mendez stepped in, raising her eyebrows. ¡°Cade, we respect all interpretations here.¡±


    Lance struggled to recover, stumbling through the rest of his explanation. He felt exposed and foolish. The class ended shortly after. As he packed up, humiliated, he suddenly¡ª


    ¡ªfound himself back at the start of class, staring at his blank screen.


    He froze, heart pounding. Dr. Mendez was just beginning to outline the day¡¯s assignment. Students were settling in as if it were the first time. He turned his head: Maya was plugging in her headphones, and Cade was arriving late again, taking his seat with the same casual arrogance. It was identical to before.


    Lance¡¯s mind raced. Had he imagined the entire presentation and humiliation? He touched his desk¡¯s edge. Solid and real. His piece was gone, of course¡ªhe hadn¡¯t drawn it yet this time. He glanced at his watch. The class time matched what it had been at the start. This wasn¡¯t memory; it was a reset.


    As Dr. Mendez gave the instructions again, he barely listened. Something was happening¡ªtime was repeating just like during move-in day, but more contained. He decided to test it. This time, he took a different approach to his drawing. Instead of the subtle window scene, he portrayed a portrait of his mother¡¯s hands holding a coffee mug, the contours of their small kitchen table behind them. More personal, more literal. Perhaps clearer communication would leave Cade with less to mock.


    When presentations came again, events unfolded eerily the same. Maya¡¯s backyard scene appeared again, just as beautiful. Lance realized she was consistent¡ªher work didn¡¯t vary, or he couldn¡¯t tell. Her presentation again drew admiration. He approached after her, showed his more literal piece, and tried to speak with confidence. But his words tangled. His nerves got the better of him.


    ¡°Is this supposed to impress us?¡± Cade remarked, his tone condescending. ¡°I¡¯m just not seeing anything that stands out.¡±


    Lance¡¯s heart sank. The sting was as sharp as before. As class ended, he gripped his pen, frustrated and confused¡ªand then¡ª


    ¡ªhe was back at the blank canvas once more.


    This repetition continued. Each loop reinforced his suspicion of being trapped in a bizarre cycle. He began to notice tiny details: a flicker in the fluorescent lights exactly seven minutes in, the slight sway of Dr. Mendez¡¯s bracelets as she paced, Maya tapping her stylus twice before starting, and the precise second Cade arrived with his smug glance.


    After several loops, Lance regained his composure enough to experiment. On the fifth loop, he created a digital collage mixing old family photos with stylized sketches of Meridian City¡¯s skyline. On the fourth, he studied Maya¡¯s technique, noting her layered colors and ethereal glow. He incorporated some of that approach into his own work, blending warm yellows of lamplight with cooler city hues to create mood rather than a literal scene.


    Cade¡¯s remarks varied slightly each cycle but always stung. Lance realized Cade was lashing out at vulnerability. If he presented more confidently, maybe Cade¡¯s barbs would soften. He also noticed Maya folding her arms and glaring at Cade after his comments, silently defending him.


    By the seventh loop, Lance was prepared. He created a piece balancing personal meaning with stronger visual storytelling. He drew the small kitchen table again, this time placing symbolic objects on it: a half-filled mug representing his mother¡¯s endless shifts, a sketchbook with half-finished doodles reflecting his younger self¡¯s practice, and a partially open door symbolizing the opportunities Greylock offered. He refined his line work, improved his composition, and used bolder contrasts, inspired by Maya¡¯s technique of highlighting focal points with gentle illumination. The result was more cohesive and visually engaging.


    When presentations rolled around, Lance paid close attention to how others spoke. He noted phrases that elicited positive reactions and admired Maya¡¯s unwavering grace¡ªhow she led the viewer into her piece without overexplaining. He decided to be concise and confident¡ªno rambling, no apologizing for his work.


    Maya went right before him as usual, presenting the same lovely backyard scene. Lance now saw that her piece wasn¡¯t just a pretty illustration¡ªshe was showcasing a philosophical perspective: finding beauty in transitional spaces. The class murmured their appreciation, just as before.


    Now it was Lance¡¯s turn. He took a steadying breath and explained his piece calmly. ¡°This is my old kitchen table back home. It¡¯s where I learned to be patient, to observe details, to see the ordinary as a source of inspiration. The open door represents where I am now, at Greylock, turning that quiet observation into something new. I wanted to show the environment that shaped me into who I am as an artist.¡±


    For a split second, silence hung in the air. Lance thought he saw Maya give him a subtle nod of approval. A few classmates leaned in, interested rather than dismissive.


    Cade cleared his throat. ¡°Interesting,¡± he said, his tone less mocking this time. ¡°I guess I can see some thought went into it.¡± His voice still carried a hint of superiority but was less cutting¡ªperhaps Lance¡¯s newfound confidence had thrown him off balance.


    Dr. Mendez smiled warmly. ¡°Nicely articulated, Lance. There¡¯s a clarity that really helps me feel the connection between your past and your present.¡±


    Lance felt a sigh of relief. He had broken the cycle of fumbling presentations and crushing embarrassment. But would the class repeat again? He held his breath as Dr. Mendez wrapped up class. Students began packing their tablets and styluses. The familiar dizziness didn¡¯t come. No sudden jolt back to the start. Instead, the classroom remained firmly rooted in the present.


    As he slid his tablet into his bag, Maya walked over. The faint scent of her floral shampoo reached him before she spoke. ¡°Your piece really came together,¡± she said softly. ¡°I really liked it.¡±


    He swallowed, thinking of a response that wouldn¡¯t expose his secret. ¡°Yeah, I¡­ guess I found a better way to express what I meant,¡± he replied carefully, forcing a smile. ¡°It helped that your piece was so inspiring. I liked how you used contrasts to guide the viewer¡¯s eye.¡±


    Maya tilted her head, intrigued. ¡°Thanks. It¡¯s funny, I feel like we¡¯ve done this before.¡± Her voice had a light, teasing quality, but Lance glimpsed a serious undertone. Did she suspect something? ¡°Anyway, I¡¯m glad you stuck with it. Sharing personal stuff in a new environment can be tough.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about it,¡± Lance responded, relieved to keep the conversation casual. He noticed Cade hovering near the exit, glancing their way but not daring to interrupt this time. Perhaps he¡¯d lost some power over them.


    As they left the Morrison Media Center together, Lance dared to check his phone. The time matched the building¡¯s lobby clock within a minute¡ªclose enough not to trigger alarm bells. The clock tower¡¯s distant chime drifted through the windows. He resisted the urge to stare too hard at the tower¡¯s faces.


    Stepping outside, the day continued without any sign of repetition. Students crossed the quad, laughing and talking, each moment flowing into the next. Lance savored the normalcy yet couldn¡¯t ignore the sense that he had passed a test of some kind. He had been forced to refine his perspective, his art, and his confidence through multiple attempts. He had adapted, improved, and grown more assertive in defending his artistic identity. Perhaps that was the lesson hidden in those loops¡ªif you fail, time would give you another chance until you get it right.


    Maya offered a small wave as she headed to her next class. ¡°See you tomorrow, Lance.¡±


    ¡°See you,¡± he replied, his voice steady, grateful that something constructive had emerged from this strange ordeal. He watched her leave, then turned toward his own destination, his mind still buzzing with the impossible morning he¡¯d lived multiple times.


    Now he carried a new secret: Greylock¡¯s mysterious time anomalies weren¡¯t going away. If anything, they were becoming more targeted, more instructive, as though the university¡ªor something within it¡ªwas pushing him to learn. Learn what, though? How to adapt, how to communicate more effectively, how to refine himself under pressure?


    He didn¡¯t have answers yet, only questions. But as he moved on to his next class, Lance felt steadier. He could handle the uncertainty. After all, he¡¯d faced the same moment repeatedly and emerged better prepared each cycle. That had to count for something.


    This time, the rest of the day proceeded uninterrupted. No sudden resets, no vanishing minutes. Just the quiet thrill of having succeeded at something that yesterday would have seemed impossible. He had navigated the loops, grown closer to Maya¡ªif only slightly¡ªand dulled the sting of Cade¡¯s barbs.


    As he made his way toward his next class, Lance allowed himself a small, private smile.

 5. Theories and Theorems

    Lance gazed down at his notebook in Physics 201, Dr. Whitlock''s lecture fading into a distant murmur as he retraced the familiar diagram for the third time. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed steadily, their rhythm subtly matching the relentless sweep of the wall clock''s second hand. All morning, his thoughts had been trapped in a spiral, endlessly following the contours of yesterday''s art class.


    A few rows ahead, Cade Westbrook sat alone, scrolling through articles on campus news, not being a nuisance for once.


    Dr. Whitlock''s chalk scratched across the board, bringing Lance''s attention back to the present. "The observer effect fundamentally alters what we measure. By observing a system, we inevitably interact with it," the professor explained. His silver hair caught the morning light as he turned, glasses glinting. "In quantum mechanics, this principle becomes even more intriguing when applied to temporal mechanics."


    Lance''s pen halted. The words resonated with his recent experiences, stirring a familiar unease. He leaned forward, suddenly alert, as Dr. Whitlock continued.


    "Consider this: what if consciousness itself influences temporal flow? What if, by observing time, we actually affect its behavior?" The professor''s intense gaze swept over the lecture hall, pausing briefly on Lance before moving on.


    The fluorescent bulb overhead sputtered.


    Lance felt a jolt. The chalk seemed to hover in mid-air, suspended as dust danced motionlessly in the golden light. His vision blurred, and the sounds around him muted. He felt disconnected, as if out of sync with time itself.


    Reality snapped back.


    "Consider this: what if consciousness itself influences temporal flow?" Dr. Whitlock repeated, his voice unchanged. The chalk made the same mark on the board as before.


    Lance¡¯s heart hammered. His hands trembled as he gripped his pen tighter. Not here. Not now. He steadied his breath, each inhale measured against his frantic pulse. The repeat lasted mere seconds but left him disoriented and uneasy.


    As Dr. Whitlock moved on to discuss relativistic time dilation, Lance''s notes became increasingly detailed. He documented everything that might explain his experiences: observer effect, quantum entanglement, temporal mechanics principles. His normally neat handwriting grew rushed and cramped as he filled page after page.


    "Time isn''t rigid," Dr. Whitlock continued, pacing before the chalkboard. "Einstein showed us it''s malleable, relative to the observer''s frame of reference. But what if there''s more? What if our understanding of causality itself is fundamentally flawed?"


    A student two rows ahead raised her hand. "But wouldn''t that violate causality? Cause has to precede effect."


    "Does it?" Dr. Whitlock smiled, an expression that hinted he knew far more than he was sharing. "That''s our classical understanding, yes. But quantum mechanics has revealed a universe far stranger than we imagined. Time may not be the arrow we''ve always assumed it to be."


    Lance''s pen moved frantically, capturing every word. The theory aligned too perfectly with his experiences to be a coincidence. As he wrote, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen: a text from Chris Walker. *"Hey Lance! Haven''t talked in a few days with all the moving and stuff. Let¡¯s play some games online soon! ¨C Chris"*. A small smile touched his lips before he refocused on the lecture. He already missed his best friend dearly.


    His noticed his phone showed 1:47, but the wall clock read 1:52. The discrepancy made his temple throb.


    When class ended, Lance lingered, gathering his materials slowly as other students filed out. Dr. Whitlock erased the board with methodical precision, each stroke eliminating equations that might hold answers to Lance''s questions.


    As he approached the front, Lance noticed Cade lingering outside near the door, watching Dr. Whitlock intently. Cade glanced at Lance, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.


    "Professor?" Lance called, clutching his notebook. "I had some questions about the observer effect and its relationship to temporal mechanics."


    Dr. Whitlock turned, studying Lance with that same intense gaze. "Ah, Mr. Weaver. I noticed you taking particularly detailed notes today." He set down the eraser, chalk dust coating his fingers. "What''s on your mind?"The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Lance hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You mentioned consciousness affecting temporal flow. Could that manifest in observable ways? Like experiencing moments multiple times or noticing inconsistencies in how time passes?"


    The professor''s expression shifted subtly, interest flickering behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Fascinating question. Are you speaking theoretically or from personal observation?"


    Before Lance could respond, the classroom door opened. Cade strode in, his presence immediately filling the space with tension. "Dr. Whitlock, about the research assistant position¡ª" He stopped short, seeing Lance. "Oh. Didn''t realize you were busy."


    Lance felt the familiar pressure building behind his eyes, the sensation that preceded a temporal shift, but nothing happened. Time continued its steady march forward, leaving him trapped in the awkward silence.


    "Mr. Westbrook, perfect timing," Dr. Whitlock said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Mr. Weaver and I were just discussing some intriguing theories about temporal mechanics. Perhaps you''d like to join the conversation?"


    Cade''s expression soured slightly. "Actually, I wanted to discuss the RA position. My father mentioned he spoke with you at last month''s physics conference?"


    Lance took the hint, gathering his things. "Thanks, Professor. I''ll email you my questions instead." He headed for the door, feeling Cade''s dismissive gaze on his back.


    The hallway outside felt cooler, the chatter muted as Lance checked his phone¡ª2:03 PM. His watch still read 1:47, frozen in its own moment. Through the Gothic windows, the clock tower''s faces showed different times, as if reality couldn''t agree on the present.


    Crossing the quad toward his next class, Lance spotted Reid striding over from the direction of the tennis courts, still in his practice gear. Reid had slowed to a brisk walk, his gaze flicking down to a sports highlight reel playing on his phone. The video occasionally skipped or repeated frames, mirroring Lance''s own temporal disturbances.


    "Hey!" Reid called out, falling into step beside him. "How was physics?"


    "Interesting," Lance replied carefully. He felt a pang of longing for the normalcy Reid represented. "We covered some complex stuff about time and observation."


    Reid studied him for a moment, concern crossing his features. "You okay? You seem kind of off. More than just new-school stress."


    Lance forced a laugh that sounded hollow. "Just adjusting, I guess. Everything feels a bit... unstable sometimes." He immediately regretted the word choice, feeling the weight of his hidden turmoil.


    "Unstable how?" Reid pressed, his natural enthusiasm dampened by genuine worry.


    Before Lance could formulate a response, he saw Maya crossing their path, her blue-streaked hair catching the sunlight. Their eyes met briefly, and he saw recognition there¡ªnot just of him, but of something deeper. Had she experienced something too?


    "Lance?" Reid''s voice pulled him back.


    "Sorry, just..." Lance gestured vaguely. "There''s a lot to process here. The classes are intense, and some of the concepts we''re covering hit pretty close to home."


    Reid nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn''t entirely convinced. "Well, hey, if you need to talk or just want to hit some tennis balls to clear your head, let me know. Sometimes physical activity helps ground you, you know?"


    The word "ground" struck Lance ironically. He did feel ungrounded, adrift in time''s uncertain current. "Thanks, Reid. I might take you up on that."


    They parted ways at the student center, Reid heading to his economics class while Lance found a quiet corner to review his physics notes. The diagrams and equations stared back at him, both revealing and concealing the truth he sought to understand.


    As he settled into the quiet of the library, his phone buzzed again. Another text from Chris: "Game night tonight? Let me know when you''re free! ¨C Chris". Lance typed a quick reply: "Sounds good. Might need a break from all this." He put the phone aside, a small sense of normalcy amidst the chaos.


    The rest of the day passed without incident, though Lance remained hyper-aware of every clock he encountered, every temporal discrepancy flickering at the edge of his perception. By evening, his notebook was filled with observations, theories, and questions, each page an attempt to make sense of his increasingly unstable reality.


    Back in their room, Lance sat at his desk while Reid played a racing game, the digital cars occasionally glitching or reversing, reflecting the time distortions Lance was experiencing. The rhythmic clicking of the radiator contrasted with the chaos in his mind.


    "What is wrong with this game?" Reid said suddenly, pausing his game. "You¡¯d think a prestigious university would have better internet. I keep rubber-banding or something."


    Lance''s hand froze over his notebook. "Yeah?" he managed, trying to keep his voice casual.


    "Probably just congestion," Reid shrugged, resuming his game. "Lots of new students. But still, it''s kind of freaky, right?"


    Lance nodded, unable to trust his voice. Was he not alone in this? Were others experiencing similar phenomena but dismissing them as stress or happenstance? Was it actually just stress or happenstance?


    The clock tower chimed nine times, though Lance''s phone showed 8:43 PM. He was learning to live with these discrepancies, these temporal hiccups that seemed to define life at Greylock University. But understanding them¡ªthat was proving to be a far more complex challenge.


    As he prepared for bed that night, Lance reviewed his notes one last time. Dr. Whitlock''s words echoed in his mind: "What if our understanding of causality itself is fundamentally flawed?" The question felt less theoretical now, more like a key to a door he wasn''t sure he wanted to open.

 6. Reality Check

    The Economics lecture hall buzzed with pre-class chatter as Lance slid into an empty seat, his temples throbbing from another restless night. The room''s fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over rows of tired students clutching coffee cups and energy drinks. Professor Shepherd organized his materials at the front, his voice blending with the steady clicking of  the rustle of opening textbooks. Lance checked his phone¡ª9:47 AM¡ªand then glanced at the wall clock showing 9:52. The five-minute discrepancy made his stomach lurch, a familiar sensation of temporal vertigo.


    "Is this seat taken?"


    Lance looked up to find a lanky student hovering nearby, practically vibrating with nervous energy. The guy wore a bright orange hoodie that clashed with his lime green backpack, his dark hair sticking up in impossible directions despite obvious attempts to tame it. He fidgeted constantly¡ªfingers drumming, foot tapping, shoulders shifting.


    "No, go ahead," Lance replied, moving his bag aside on the worn lecture hall chair.


    "Thanks! I''m Jasper," the student said, dropping into the chair with barely contained enthusiasm. Papers spilled from his unzipped backpack as it hit the floor. "Jasper Lee. Fair warning¡ªI talk during class. Like, a lot. Usually about relevant stuff, mostly. Sometimes about my parents'' food truck. Have you tried the Korean-Mexican fusion place near the student center? That''s them! You look like someone who''d appreciate a good bulgogi burrito."


    Lance blinked at the rapid-fire introduction, watching as Jasper produced three different highlighters and began arranging them neatly beside his notebook. "Uh, no, I haven''t¡ª"


    "You should! The kimchi quesadillas are amazing. I helped develop the recipe. Well, mostly I just ate a lot of test versions, but that''s part of the process, right?" Jasper''s enthusiasm was infectious, his wide grin genuine despite his restless energy. "Plus, I get free food whenever I help out on weekends. Employee benefits, you know? Well, more like son benefits. Is that a thing? It should be."


    Despite his mounting anxiety about temporal anomalies, Lance found himself smiling. Jasper''s earnest energy was oddly comforting¡ªlike an anchor in the increasingly unstable reality around him. The constant motion and chatter felt predictable, normal, unlike the shifting time streams he''d been experiencing.


    Professor Shepherd called the class to order, his crisp voice cutting through the morning haze as he launched into a lecture about market equilibrium. Graphs and equations appeared on the whiteboard in neat rows. Lance tried to focus, but his attention kept drifting to the clock. Its hands seemed to stutter, jumping forward or back a few minutes at random intervals. Only he seemed to notice the anomalies, while other students dutifully took notes on supply and demand curves.


    Beside him, Jasper scribbled notes with surprising intensity, occasionally muttering economic principles under his breath. His presence felt grounding¡ªtotally normal yet completely unique, without any hint of temporal distortion. His highlighters moved in a complex choreography of color-coding that made sense only to him.


    "Psst," Jasper whispered during a lull, leaning closer. His pen had left multicolored marks on his chin. "Is it just me, or does the professor''s tie keep changing patterns?"


    Lance''s heart skipped a beat. "What?"


    "Never mind," Jasper shrugged, refocusing on his notes. "Probably just the lighting. Though I swear it was striped a minute ago, and now it''s polka dots. Maybe I need more coffee. Or less coffee. Probably less coffee."


    After class, Lance retreated to his dorm room, pulling out his laptop. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across his desk as he opened an incognito browser window and began searching: "temporal anomalies," "time loop experiences," "deja vu causes." Most results were fictional or paranoid ramblings on conspiracy theory websites, but a few caught his attention.


    A physics forum discussed the observer effect in relation to consciousness, with one thread specifically addressing temporal perception anomalies in quantum mechanics. A psychology paper explored the relationship between stress and temporal perception, suggesting that extreme anxiety could distort one''s experience of time. He found himself deep in a rabbit hole of quantum mechanics theories and testimonials from people claiming to have experienced time slips, though none quite matched his experiences at Greylock.


    His phone buzzed¡ªa message from Chris: "You''ve been quiet lately. Everything okay? Mom''s asking about you too." The concern in his best friend''s text tightened Lance''s chest with guilt.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    His gaze fixed on the display, fingers poised above the keys. How could he articulate the situation without seeming entirely unglued? "Just adjusting to college life," he typed, deleting and rewriting the words several times. "Want to game tonight?"


    "Hell yeah!" Chris replied instantly, his enthusiasm clear even through text. "9 PM? I need to show you this new strategy I found. Been practicing all week."


    The gaming session started normally enough. Lance logged into their usual voice chat, Chris''s familiar excitement filling his headphones as they loaded into their favorite strategy game. The interface and Chris''s running commentary about his classes felt wonderfully normal¡ªjust two friends playing games like they had countless times before in high school.


    Then it happened.


    "Dude, did you see that?" Chris''s voice crackled through the headset, tension breaking his usual casual tone. "The match timer just went backward like ten seconds. All my units reset positions."


    Lance froze, his character standing motionless on screen. "What?"


    "Must be server lag or something," Chris continued casually, though Lance could hear the confusion in his voice. "But it was weird. Like watching a video in reverse. Everything just... rewound."


    Lance''s hands trembled on the keyboard as pressure built behind his eyes. "Yeah, probably just lag," he managed, though his throat felt tight and dry.


    "You okay? You sound off. Like, more off than usual lately."


    "I''m fine," Lance lied, watching the game''s timer flicker between numbers. "Just tired. New schedule and everything."


    "Lance," Chris''s voice turned serious, dropping the casual gaming banter. "I''ve known you since middle school. Since that weird gaming club where you beat everyone at Street Fighter. Something''s up."


    Lance opened his mouth to confess everything¡ªthe loops, the time slips, the fear of losing his grip on reality. But the words wouldn''t come. How could he explain without sounding crazy? How could he describe watching moments repeat while everyone else remained oblivious? How could he know he wasn¡¯t crazy?


    "It''s just..." he murmured, his words dissolving as the desk lamp flickered unsteadily. The monitor''s digital display wavered unpredictably, cycling through 9:47, 9:52, and 9:45. "It''s just college stress, I guess. Everything feels a bit... unstable sometimes."


    "Unstable how?" Chris pressed, genuine concern evident in his voice.


    Before Lance could answer, a knock at his door made him jump. "Hold on," he told Chris, pulling off his headset, the plastic catching in his hair.


    Sophie Martinez, his dorm''s RA, stood in the hallway, clipboard in hand. Her professional demeanor couldn''t quite hide her exhaustion¡ªbeing responsible for an entire floor of freshmen clearly took its toll. "Hey Lance, just doing room checks. Sorry to check in so late, I think my desk clock reset and I lost track of time. Everything going okay?"


    "Yeah, fine," he said quickly, too quickly. Sophie''s eyes narrowed slightly, her psychology major instincts kicking in.


    "You sure? You seem a bit stressed. More than typical first-week jitters." She glanced past him into the room, probably checking for obvious signs of struggle or contraband.


    Lance forced a smile, trying to appear more composed than he felt. "Just adjusting. New environment and all that. You know how it is."


    Sophie studied him for a moment, her clipboard lowering slightly. "Well, my door''s always open if you need to talk. Room 301. We have resources for students feeling overwhelmed. The counseling center''s really good, actually."


    After she left, Lance returned to his desk but didn''t put his headset back on. His browser tabs still displayed various articles about temporal phenomena and stress-related symptoms. One headline caught his eye: "Time Perception Disorders: When Reality Doesn''t Match Your Clock." The clinical terminology felt both reassuring and terrifying.


    He clicked through medical websites, reading about anxiety symptoms, stress-induced temporal distortion, and various psychological conditions that could affect time perception. Was he just stressed? Having some kind of breakdown? Or was something genuinely wrong with time itself at Greylock?


    His phone lit up with another text from Chris: "You still there? Did you rage quit on me? Don''t leave me hanging, bro."


    "Sorry," Lance replied, feeling guilty for abandoning their game. "RA stopped by. Rain check?"


    He spent the next hour documenting everything in a private Google Doc¡ªevery time slip, every loop, every temporal inconsistency he''d noticed since arriving at Greylock. The pattern seemed clear, yet made no sense. The anomalies were increasing in frequency but became more focused, following some incomprehensible logic. Seeing it all written down made it feel both more real and more impossible.


    The radiator clicked steadily, marking time in its own peculiar rhythm. Through his window, the clock tower''s illuminated faces stubbornly showed different times, as if reality itself still couldn''t agree on the current moment. He noticed a snippet of conversation from two students in the hallway outside his room repeating twice within minutes.


    Later after he¡¯d settled down and Reid had returned, he lay in bed, listening to Reid''s steady breathing from across the room, and wondered how many others at Greylock were lying awake, watching time behave in ways it shouldn''t. Tomorrow would bring more classes, more moments that might or might not repeat, more chances to question his sanity or confirm his suspicions. But for now, in the quiet darkness of Room 317, Lance could only wait and watch as time continued its increasingly erratic dance around him, wondering if he was losing his mind or discovering something profound about the nature of reality itself.


    His phone showed 11:43 PM when he finally drifted off, the tower faces still gleaming outside his window, their hands spinning in patterns that defied both physics and logic, counting down to something he couldn''t quite understand but could feel approaching with every temporal hiccup and reset.

 7. Meatloaf and Maybes

    The cafeteria bustled with its usual lunchtime chaos as Lance joined the serving line, his stomach growling after a long morning of classes. The glare of fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows over metal serving trays piled with the day¡¯s offerings, their surfaces reflecting distorted silhouettes in the sneeze guards. The menu board announced "Classic Meatloaf" as the daily special, and Lance wrinkled his nose at the grey-brown slabs swimming in questionable gravy, their edges crusted from hours under the heat lamps.


    Metal chairs scraped against linoleum, voices overlapped into a dull roar, and the clatter of plates and utensils formed a familiar lunchtime soundtrack. His eyes lingered on Maya Chen, seated at a secluded corner table, laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard. A blue strand of hair caught the light as she tucked it behind her ear, consulting a thick reference tome at her elbow. Even from across the room, Lance sensed her focus¡ªcalm, intent, self-contained.


    That¡¯s when he spotted the other guy. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a letterman jacket that signaled some athletic affiliation Lance didn¡¯t recognize. His hair was meticulously styled, and he moved with a cocky stride. Lance didn¡¯t know him, but the aura of entitlement radiated from the man¡¯s every step. He approached Maya¡¯s table like it was his right, placing both hands on its edge and leaning in too close.


    ¡°Hey, come on, just give me your number,¡± the guy¡¯s voice cut through the din. ¡°We¡¯d have fun. You¡¯re always buried in that laptop¡ªI¡¯ve seen you around. Let¡¯s get you out of there.¡±


    Maya¡¯s shoulders stiffened, her eyes still on the screen but no longer typing. ¡°I¡¯m busy,¡± she said, voice steady but edged with annoyance. ¡°Please leave me alone.¡±


    Lance¡¯s heart sank. He had seen scenarios like this before: pushy, persistent, crossing lines. He gripped his empty tray, debating what to do. He wanted to help, but he had zero confidence in handling confrontation. Maybe Maya could handle it¡ªshe seemed self-assured. Or maybe stepping in would escalate things.


    The guy persisted, sliding into the chair opposite Maya with a screech of metal legs. ¡°Don¡¯t be like that. I¡¯m trying to be nice. Most girls would love the attention¡ª¡±


    Maya snapped her laptop closed. ¡°I said no,¡± she repeated, more forceful now, though a tremor in her hand betrayed nerves. She looked around, maybe hoping to catch someone¡¯s eye. Lance stepped forward, intending to intervene, but his courage faltered. The guy grasped Maya¡¯s wrist, and a hot surge of outrage flooded Lance¡¯s chest¡ª


    A familiar pressure built behind his eyes. Colors smeared together, sounds twisted, and reality yanked him backward as though hooked by a giant fishing line.


    He blinked. Back at the start of the serving line. The meatloaf waited, unchanged. Maya was safe again, focused on her laptop, unaware. The letterman-jacketed stranger hadn¡¯t entered yet. The entire confrontation reset.


    Lance steadied himself. This wasn¡¯t the first time reality had rewound, but this scenario felt more charged, more personal. Now he had a chance to intervene before it even began. After what felt like hours, though it was only about half an hour of looping, he took his meal quickly¡ªignoring the cafeteria server¡¯s chipper comment about the meatloaf¡ªand weaved between tables.


    If he reached Maya first, maybe his presence would deter the guy from approaching at all. He made it halfway there before someone crashed into him¡ªan eager freshman sprinting to greet friends. Lance¡¯s tray soared, meatloaf cartwheeling through the air before splattering on the floor. Shocked laughter rippled through nearby students. He braced for embarrassment, but before he could react, time looped again, slingshotting him back to the line.


    Again. Same meatloaf, same stale smell of gravy, same buzzing lights. He clenched his teeth, the nausea from repeated failures settling in. This time, he tried another approach. He went straight to a cafeteria staff member, a stern-looking woman in a gray uniform scanning IDs.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Lance whispered urgently, ¡°there¡¯s going to be a problem at that table¡ª¡± He pointed toward Maya¡¯s spot.


    The woman barely looked up from her phone. ¡°ID first, then food,¡± she droned, unmoved.


    Lance swiped his ID card with shaky fingers. ¡°No, you don¡¯t understand, a guy is going to harass¡ª¡±


    Too late. The letterman guy entered right on schedule. By the time the staffer bothered to look, Maya was already tense, the guy leaning in too close. Another reset.


    He tried texting Reid: ¡°Emergency in cafeteria. Guy harassing Maya. Need backup.¡± He sent it immediately after the loop began, giving Reid ample time to respond. But Reid was in class and didn¡¯t check his phone often. By the time a reply bubble appeared¡ª¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±¡ªtime folded again.


    Loop after loop, Lance tried different strategies:


    Direct Confrontation: He marched right up to the guy and told him to leave Maya alone. ¡°I won¡¯t let you harass her.¡± The result? A swift punch to Lance¡¯s jaw and a messy scuffle that ended with Maya upset and Lance sprawled on the floor. Reset.


    Pre-emptive Warning to Maya: He approached her table gently, reasoning, ¡°If I warn her early, maybe she¡¯ll believe me. Maybe I can earn her trust enough to avoid the confrontation.¡± But she eyed him warily, probably assuming his warning was some kind pf weird pick-up. She left before the guy arrived, which should have solved the problem¡ªbut as she stepped away, she bumped into the letterman guy and he persisted outside the cafeteria anyway. Reset.


    Alerting Security Directly: He tried to find the campus officer often stationed near the main entrance. But the officer was always on a break at that crucial minute. By the time Lance dragged him inside, the situation had escalated. Reset.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Drafting Allies: He tried grabbing a group of students he¡¯d seen laughing over meatloaf. He explained there was going to be trouble, begged them to help. They looked at him like he was insane¡ªwhat was he talking about? Reset.


    Each solution spawned new problems, like a temporal puzzle box that refused to yield. The meatloaf became an ironic landmark of his failures. Each loop, it appeared on his tray, a mocking constant in a world where time refused to move forward. By the eighth or ninth loop, he couldn¡¯t even look at it without feeling nauseated. He started skipping the meal altogether¡ªjust grabbing a drink and attempting to help before the confrontation began.


    But skipping the meatloaf didn¡¯t stop the loops. Nothing did.


    He tried subtle interventions: ¡°Accidentally¡± spilling water near Maya¡¯s table so they¡¯d both move; creating a distraction across the room to draw the guy¡¯s attention; slipping a note onto Maya¡¯s table warning her about the man¡¯s approach. Each tactic unraveled differently. Sometimes Maya left early, only to be harassed in the hallway. Other times the guy got suspicious and approached more aggressively. Reset.


    With each iteration, Lance cataloged new details:


    - A girl by the window dropped her fork at exactly 12:17 PM every time.


    - At 12:19 PM, the coffee machine beeped three times.


    - At 12:22 PM, someone¡¯s phone alarm played ¡°Sweet Caroline.¡±


    - At 12:15 PM, a guy in a red baseball cap declared, Meatloaf looks better than usual,¡± and Lance started mouthing the words along with him.


    He began finishing other people¡¯s sentences, predicting when someone would sneeze, reciting the day¡¯s gossip before it spilled from another student¡¯s lips. His behavior drew strange looks, which mattered little since everything would reset anyway. But it made him feel more unhinged. He was becoming a mad prophet in a sealed bubble of time, foretelling events that no one would remember once the loop ended.


    At one point, Lance tried addressing the letterman guy directly, long before he reached Maya. He intercepted him at the entrance, pretending to be part of some campus survey. The guy brushed him off, annoyed but not deterred, and still ended up at Maya¡¯s table a few minutes later. Another time, Lance tried bribing a group of jocks to intervene, offering them whatever he could think of¡ªbut they just shrugged him off as a nutcase. Reset again.


    The mental fatigue weighed heavily, even though his body reset each time. He felt a persistent ache behind his temples and a phantom pressure in his muscles from repeated confrontations. His eyes felt gritty, his thoughts sluggish. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of having lived through countless lunch hours without progress. Time had become a quagmire, and he was sinking deeper with each failed attempt. Self-doubt crept in¡ªWas he really meant to solve this problem, or was he missing something fundamental?


    He experimented with ignoring the scenario entirely. What if he just let events play out, eating his meatloaf quietly and pretending not to see? The result was a nauseating blend of guilt and frustration as Maya ended up leaving, upset and possibly frightened, and Lance¡¯s regret pounded in his ears until the reset yanked him back.


    In desperation, he tried confiding in Maya mid-loop, telling her he was trapped in a time loop and that a dangerous encounter was about to happen. Predictably, she looked at him like he¡¯d lost his mind. She fled the cafeteria, and the loop still restarted after the inevitable confrontation happened outside his line of sight. No escape.


    As the loops marched on¡ªtwenty, thirty, maybe more¡ªLance lost track. He started focusing on tiny variables: Could he approach Maya with a different tone? Offer her something that would make her stay put or leave earlier in a safer direction? Could he spill his drink on the letterman guy before he reached her? That just provoked him sooner and more violently. Could Lance get Maya to trust him enough to leave with him before trouble started? She was too guarded, suspicious of his sudden interest and odd behavior.


    He even tried humor, staging a ridiculous distraction¡ªa fake pratfall, juggling fruit stolen from the salad bar, humming loudly to draw attention away. These attempts only earned him weird looks and minor mishaps. The letterman guy remained laser-focused on Maya, as if the universe demanded this confrontation play out unless Lance found the correct key to unlock a different outcome.


    What stung most was the knowledge that someone else¡ªMaya¡ªwas at the center of this loop¡¯s crisis. While previous anomalies had been unsettling, this felt more personal. He couldn¡¯t bear watching her discomfort and fear over and over. Each time she struggled to maintain composure, each time she tried to reject the harasser with dignity, and each time Lance failed to prevent the confrontation from escalating to that awful wrist-grab and her panicked eyes.


    Eventually, he slumped at a table during one iteration, letting the minutes tick by. The plate of meatloaf sat in front of him, as always. He refused to eat it. It had become a symbol of his impotence. The gravy¡¯s sheen taunted him with its constancy. Students chatted around him, living their single timeline while he cycled through dozens, maybe hundreds, of variations. He wondered if he could lose count entirely, if he¡¯d reach a point where reality frayed and he couldn¡¯t remember what he originally wanted to do.


    Maya typed at her laptop, blissfully unaware that Lance had seen this scene a hundred times. The letterman guy would arrive soon. Lance could count down the seconds by heart. He checked his phone¡ª12:13 PM. In one minute, everything would begin again: the guy¡¯s swagger, the awkward lean, the insistence that Maya give him her number. The loop would end in regret and frustration, rewinding the clock to torment Lance with another chance to fail.


    Why? Why this scenario? Why no resolution? He had learned nothing that helped. No perfect solution revealed itself. Each attempt ended in disaster¡ªbig or small¡ªleading to another reset. Was the universe punishing him? Had he done something wrong or not learned the intended lesson?


    He felt the pressure building behind his eyes again, the warning sign of another imminent reset. The cafeteria around him shimmered at the edges, like heat haze on asphalt. The clock tower outside, he knew, would still be stuck showing different times if he bothered to look. His entire existence felt trapped in amber, and he had no chisel to break free.


    The meatloaf stared back at him, congealing under the lights. Its silent judgment weighed heavily on him. He wondered if Maya would understand if he ever got out of this. Probably not. Who could?


    Students talked, oblivious. The letterman guy was about to walk through those doors. Lance counted down in his mind: ten seconds, nine, eight... He felt a sharp ache in his side, a lingering remnant of prior confrontations, reminding him that his mind bore the toll even as his body reset. He clenched his fists, resigned to another failure. Maybe he would try something else this time¡ªyell at the top of his lungs, cause a massive scene. But would it matter?


    In three seconds, the loop¡¯s drama would begin anew. Lance sighed, closing his eyes briefly. The fatigue was bone-deep, his sense of self fraying. He wondered if he would ever escape this looping lunch hour. Or maybe this was his new forever, stuck in a cycle of meatloaf, maybes, and unending failure.


    Two seconds. He opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. The cafeteria remained the same, students laughing, Maya typing, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He was still here. Still trapped.


    One second. The doors pushed open. The letterman jacket entered Lance¡¯s peripheral vision. He swallowed hard, feeling the familiar weight of destiny pressing down on him. The loop would continue. He was certain of it.


    The second hand on his watch ticked forward, and Lance braced himself for another round, caught in the inescapable grip of time¡¯s cruel repetition.

 8. Breaking the Loop

    Lance slumped in his cafeteria chair, exhaustion pressing heavily on his shoulders. Once again, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their steady drone as relentless as the loops that trapped him. He stared at the congealing meatloaf on his tray: a grey-brown slab coated in viscous gravy that had long since lost any culinary appeal. It was the same every time, taunting him as the silent herald of another failed iteration.


    He had tried counting how many attempts he¡¯d endured¡ªtwenty, thirty, more¡ªbut the numbers blurred, each reset grinding his nerves down a little further. He hadn¡¯t thought it possible to hate a cafeteria meal with such intensity, yet here he was, despising it not for its taste but for what it represented: stagnation, failure, and an inescapable temporal trap.


    With a bitter laugh, he reached out, grabbed the slab of meatloaf in his bare hand, and hurled it across the room. It splattered against the wall with a muted thwack, sending gravy droplets spiraling onto a cluster of horrified onlookers. Gasps and snickers rose around him. He didn¡¯t care. None of them would remember this moment soon enough. The loop would rewind, and they¡¯d be back at their starting positions¡ªclean trays, intact dignity, no memory of Lance¡¯s meltdown.


    A moment later, the familiar pressure built behind his eyes, the world smeared like wet paint, and then¡ª


    He was back in line, staring at that damned meatloaf again.


    This time, he refused to pick up a tray. Instead, he burst through the double doors and ran. His sneakers slapped against the pavement as he sprinted away from Greylock¡¯s manicured lawns and Gothic buildings. He passed the old oak trees lining University Drive, the cozy coffee shops, and the corner bookstore, pushing himself harder than ever. His lungs burned, legs screamed, but he pressed on, desperate to outrun the loop¡¯s invisible perimeter.


    About a quarter mile down Winchester Road, reality snapped like a rubber band. The world twisted, and he found himself back at the cafeteria¡¯s entrance, the clock unchanged, the meal unchosen. He could almost taste the asphalt in his throat, yet his body stood still, trapped again.


    After a few more resets, darker thoughts crept into his mind. What if he just stepped in front of a car to force reality¡¯s hand? The idea sickened him. He scoured his conscience and refused to entertain it. He wasn¡¯t that desperate. Not yet. Instead, he experimented with ¡°executions¡± of the meatloaf: carving it into tiny sculptures, mashing it to pulp, flushing chunks down the toilet. No effect. Back he came.


    He tried playing hero again. Marching straight up to the letterman-jacketed harasser, Lance puffed out his chest and demanded the guy back off from Maya. The reward? A swift punch that rattled his teeth and sprawled him across sticky linoleum. Reset.


    Authority attempts followed. He once again tried to grab campus security before the incident began. He alerted a passing professor, the cafeteria manager, even Sophie the RA¡ªthough she was too perplexed by his frantic warning to act decisively. Each time, the harassment happened anyway, leaving Maya embarrassed and upset. Reset.


    He then tried subtle manipulation. Drawing on intimate details from quick conversations in failed loops, he approached Maya with carefully chosen compliments and references to her interests. She stared at him in horror. How did he know so much about her already? She packed up and left, unnerved, and the event happened outside, or time simply looped again, unimpressed by his efforts. Reset.


    As attempts piled up, Lance¡¯s sense of self began to fray. He felt like a lab rat in a twisted experiment, trying every possible combination. He began muttering to himself during resets, reciting the exact time and place where each event would occur, predicting when a girl at the window table would drop her fork (12:17 PM, every time) and when someone¡¯s phone alarm would ring with ¡°Sweet Caroline¡± (12:22 PM, no fail). He saw patterns everywhere, but none that broke the cycle.


    He sat through loops doing nothing, just observing. He let the meatloaf sit untouched and watched as the harassment unfolded like clockwork. Every detail repeated: Maya¡¯s quiet tension, the guy¡¯s entitled grin, the surrounding students too absorbed in their own conversations to intervene. With each passive iteration, Lance¡¯s eyes sharpened, and something he¡¯d overlooked finally became clear.


    Maya wasn¡¯t just alone. She was isolated. In a room full of chatter and laughter, she stood out as a single figure, separated from the warmth of community. The harasser targeted her because isolation offered no buffer, no friendly faces to shut him down. Lance remembered Dr. Whitlock¡¯s musings on observation and influence. Maybe brute force, authority, or trickery wouldn¡¯t solve this. It required a different touch¡ªsomething more fundamental, more human.


    In the next loop, he pulled out his phone and texted Jasper, the lanky economics classmate with boundless energy.


    ¡°Hey, working on some digital art stuff in the cafeteria. Want to check it out?¡±


    He sent the message as soon as the loop began, giving Jasper plenty of time to show up before the critical moment. Then Lance surveyed the room, noticing a couple of familiar faces from his Digital Art Foundations class: Ashley and Michael, who sometimes hung out together and had admired Maya¡¯s technique during critiques. In previous loops, he¡¯d ignored them in his single-minded focus, but now he saw an opportunity.


    He grabbed his tray¡ªwhy not eat this time?¡ªand hurried to claim a table near Maya¡¯s usual spot but not too close. His heart thumped, not from fear, but from anticipation. He opened his tablet and started working on a simple digital sketch, layering colors and adjusting brush settings. He poured genuine effort into it, letting himself relax for the first time in countless tries. This wasn¡¯t a performance; it was real work, something he cared about. Maybe that authenticity would draw others in.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Spotting Ashley and Michael passing by, he raised a hand. ¡°Hey! We had Mendez¡¯s class together, right? Check this out¡ªI¡¯m trying a new lighting technique I learned last night.¡± He tilted the tablet to show them. Bright, subtle highlights danced along the edges of a character¡¯s face on-screen.


    Ashley paused, intrigued. ¡°Oh, cool. That soft-glow effect¡ªdid you use the gradient mapping tool for that?¡± She motioned Michael closer.


    Michael peered over Lance¡¯s shoulder, nodding thoughtfully. ¡°Neat. I tried something similar last semester, but I could never get the shadows right.¡±


    They lingered, chatting about brush settings, Photoshop shortcuts, and the pros and cons of different styluses. Their presence formed a small cluster of conversation, friendly and open. Lance kept glancing at the door. The harasser would arrive soon, but not yet.


    His phone buzzed. Jasper: ¡°On my way! Hope you¡¯re ready for my expert critiques, haha.¡± Lance grinned. He could practically hear Jasper¡¯s hyperactive voice through the text.


    Minutes later, Jasper burst in, his orange hoodie impossible to miss. ¡°Dude!¡± he called, weaving around tables. ¡°This is what you get up to outside of econ lectures, huh? Didn¡¯t know you were into digital art.¡± He pulled up a chair¡ªnearly tipping it over with his enthusiasm¡ªand leaned in to inspect Lance¡¯s tablet. ¡°Whoa, these colors look pro. How¡¯d you learn that?¡±


    Before Lance could answer, Ashley, who had been admiring the artwork, glanced up. Her eyes landed on Maya, a few tables away. ¡°Maya! Over here!¡± she called, waving her over. ¡°You¡¯ve got to see what Lance is doing with these highlights¡ªit¡¯s right up your alley!¡±


    Lance¡¯s pulse quickened. Maya looked up from her laptop, eyebrows raised. The earlier iterations had taught him that approaching her directly felt forced. But now, Maya saw a small group of classmates¡ªfamiliar faces, shared interests¡ªforming a natural hub of conversation. She hesitated a moment, then, curiosity winning out, closed her laptop and joined them.


    ¡°Show me?¡± she asked, her voice calm but carrying the quiet intensity Lance had come to admire in class critiques.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Lance replied casually. ¡°I¡¯ve been experimenting with low-intensity fill layers and overlay modes. You can get these subtle variations in hue without losing detail.¡±


    Maya leaned in, her blue-streaked hair falling forward, eyes scanning the screen. Ashley chimed in about color theory, Michael mentioned a recent tutorial he¡¯d watched, and Jasper contributed a nonstop flow of barely related commentary. They laughed, teased each other, traded tips and triumphs. The group formed a protective bubble of camaraderie that Lance hadn¡¯t managed to create in any prior attempt.


    Right on schedule, the letterman-jacketed guy entered, his stride just as confident as before. Lance watched carefully, heart in his throat. The man approached their cluster, but there was no natural opening now¡ªMaya wasn¡¯t isolated, not an easy target. Instead of sitting alone, she was flanked by friends, engrossed in conversation. The harasser slowed, looking for a moment to interrupt, but their body language offered no foothold. He hovered awkwardly, then shrugged and moved on, searching for an easier mark.


    Lance expected the sudden yank backward, the smear of colors, the twist of reality. But it never came. Time ticked forward, steady and true. Students finished their meals. The cafeteria buzzed normally. No reset.


    He glanced at the wall clock: 12:47 PM. They had broken past the old reset thresholds, leaving noon behind. A new future stretched before him, unwound from the vicious cycle. Relief and victory swelled in his chest, making his eyes sting. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.


    The conversation drifted to other topics¡ªcampus clubs, digital art exhibitions, music playlists to paint by. Maya shared her own methods for blending colors, describing how she layered textures to create atmosphere. She was relaxed, leaning back in her chair, tapping her stylus thoughtfully. The tension Lance had seen in previous loops¡ªher guarded posture, the wary glances¡ªwas absent now. She belonged to this social circle as naturally as anyone else.


    As the group prepared to leave for afternoon classes, Maya lingered. ¡°Hey, Lance,¡± she said softly so the others didn¡¯t notice. ¡°Those techniques you showed are great. Could I get your number? Maybe we can share references or critique each other¡¯s WIPs?¡±


    Lance swallowed, remembering the harasser¡¯s attempts to get her number. He¡¯d spent endless loops trying to protect her, never guessing he¡¯d end up with her contact info given freely and happily. The universe had a sense of irony, he supposed.


    ¡°Sure,¡± he managed, reading off his digits as she typed them into her phone. A moment later, his phone buzzed with a new message: ¡°It¡¯s Maya :)¡±


    He checked the timestamp: 1:17 PM. He¡¯d never seen this number before, not in all the failed cycles. It felt like a victory banner, proof he had finally moved forward in time rather than snapping back.


    They parted ways with easy smiles and casual waves. Lance watched Maya walk off to her next class, the sunlight catching her hair as she passed beneath the tall windows. Ashley, Michael, and Jasper dispersed too, each heading into the afternoon¡¯s routines. The world moved forward naturally, a soft current of unbroken time.


    Standing alone now at the edge of the cafeteria, Lance reflected on the lessons learned. He had tried force, authority, manipulation, and self-sacrifice. None had worked. Only by creating a welcoming space¡ªby weaving community and genuine connection¡ªhad he broken the loop. The problem hadn¡¯t required a hero in shining armor, just a group of equals enjoying each other¡¯s company, making it impossible for bullying to find a foothold.


    He wondered briefly if Maya suspected something, if some part of her sensed the gravity of what had occurred. Probably not¡ªhe doubted anyone but him retained memories of the loops. Yet the knowing look she¡¯d given him before leaving suggested she recognized some meaningful shift. Even if she didn¡¯t understand time loops, she knew this moment mattered.


    Outside, the clock tower¡¯s four faces aligned at last, each showing the same time¡ªa unified chorus after countless discordant solos. The sunlight angled through the Gothic arches, illuminating a campus that continued in its own rhythm. For once, Lance felt truly anchored in that rhythm rather than fighting it.


    He shouldered his bag and stepped out into the afternoon, savoring the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes and the rustle of wind in the oak leaves. Every sensation was fresh and meaningful. He had conquered the loop not by bending time to his will, but by understanding what time¡¯s strange lessons wanted to show him.


    With each un-looped step, he embraced the moving current of time.

 9. The Tower Room

    Lance slumped into the worn armchair of the campus coffee shop, his tablet propped next to a half-empty cup of cooling vanilla latte. The morning rush had subsided, leaving a gentler hum of conversation and the steady hiss of espresso machines. After countless cafeteria loops, he craved normalcy¡ªa quiet space to process with his art. Yesterday he had retreated to his room and slept as much as possible, but today he needed to refocus himself. As he shifted to settle more comfortably, the leather cushion squeaked softly.


    His stylus trembled above the display; creativity remained stubbornly elusive. Around him, other students hunched over laptops or whispered in hushed tones. Every few minutes, laughter broke his concentration, or a chair scraped against the hardwood floor, jangling his nerves. The grinding beans and clashing porcelain created a rhythmic backdrop. Not even the beats of his playlist, coming through headphones, could drown out the din.


    Slanting light fell through the tall windows, stretching across his workspace and glaring on the tablet''s screen. He adjusted his position again, accidentally bumping the table and causing his latte to slosh dangerously close to the rim. The vanilla scent wafted up, reminding him he¡¯d barely touched the drink since ordering it an hour ago.


    Near the counter, an older barista caught his attention. The man moved like he¡¯d worked here forever, his grey-streaked hair falling across his forehead as he steamed milk for a latte. His nametag read simply "Jack."


    Jack chatted with a student, his voice clear despite the ambient noise. His worn apron bore coffee stains arranged like abstract art.


    "...when I was a student here, there was this perfect quiet spot in the clock tower base," Jack said, gesturing with a cleaning cloth. "Nobody ever went there. Great for projects. The light in there..." He trailed off, wiping the counter with practiced strokes.


    Lance''s stylus clattered against the table. He yanked off his headphones, straining to hear more, but the conversation had shifted to drink orders and meal options.


    The clock tower. Lance had avoided looking at it closely since arriving at Greylock, given its tendency to display conflicting times. But curiosity overcame his hesitation. Tucking his tablet, stylus, charging cable, and sketchbook into his bag, he ventured out into the sharp autumn breeze.


    Autumn leaves crackled underfoot as he traversed the quad, their fiery hues blazing against the weathered stone facades. The tower loomed against the cloudless sky, its Gothic architecture more intricate up close. Gargoyles perched along the edges, their stone faces smoothed by a century of rain. Each creature seemed to watch his approach with ancient eyes.


    Lance circled the base until he found a heavy wooden door. The brass handle turned easily under his palm, as if expecting him. The metal felt unusually warm despite the cool air.


    Inside, a narrow spiral staircase wound upward, stone steps worn into shallow bowls by generations of feet. Dust danced in light filtering through arrow-slit windows. Instead of climbing, Lance noticed another door at ground level, tucked into an alcove.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    The door opened silently into a circular room that took his breath away. Light came through a high window, spotlighting an old wooden desk beneath it.


    The walls curved gracefully, and the air held a comfortable stillness, broken only by the distant ticking of clock mechanisms above. The sound was oddly soothing, like a heartbeat marking time in its unique rhythm. The temperature remained perfectly comfortable despite the autumn chill outside, as if the room maintained its own climate.


    Lance approached the desk reverently. Its surface bore marks from many students, ink stains, pencil marks, and tiny scratches. Some marks formed patterns like a secret language carved into the wood over years of use. He ran his fingers along the grain, feeling an immediate connection to this space.


    Setting up his tablet, Lance settled into the worn chair, which cradled him perfectly. The sunbeam warmed his shoulders as he opened his art program, the screen''s glow blending with natural light. For the first time since the cafeteria loops began, his mind felt clear and focused, ready to create.


    His stylus moved with purpose, translating his recent chaos into digital form. He began with abstract shapes¡ªtwisted corridors of time in deep blues and purples, overlaid with fragments of repeated moments in amber hues. Each layer built upon the last, creating depth and movement that almost seethed with life.


    The piece evolved organically, flowing from his subconscious understanding of temporal distortion. He incorporated techniques from Maya''s work, blending them with his own style to create something new. The room''s silence wrapped around him, encouraging deeper focus and experimentation.


    His hands moved with certainty, mind focused like it hadn¡¯t since arriving at Greylock. Each brushstroke felt guided, as if the room fostered his creativity. The light remained constant despite the sun''s movement outside, maintaining perfect conditions for artistic work.


    Immersed in the process, Lance''s mind wandered through memories of the loops, processing them through color and form. Frustration from repeated failures and the triumph of breaking free poured onto his screen. He infused elements from the cafeteria scene: harsh fluorescent lights transformed into stark white lines cutting through darker shapes, his isolation becoming negative space that gradually filled with warmth and connection.


    When he finally sat back, neck stiff from concentration, the piece before him took his breath away. It was unlike anything he''d created before¡ªmore mature, nuanced, showcasing technical skills he hadn''t possessed a week ago. The artwork captured something essential about his journey through Greylock''s temporal anomalies while remaining abstract enough to speak to universal experiences of time and change.


    Stretching, Lance checked his phone, expecting hours to have passed. It showed 11:47 AM¡ªbarely an hour since he''d entered the tower room. He frowned, looking at his artwork again. The detail and refinement suggested many hours of work. His tablet''s battery had drained significantly, indicating extended use. The disconnect between experienced time and clock time felt familiar yet different from his loops¡ªmore productive, more intentional.


    He gathered his supplies, taking one last look at his creation. The piece shimmered slightly on the screen, almost alive with its own energy.


    As he reached for the door handle, Lance glanced back at the shaft of sunlight. It still illuminated the desk perfectly, despite the sun''s movement in the sky.


    Outside, the autumn afternoon continued normally. Students crossed the quad, heading to late classes or early dinners. The clock tower''s faces aligned properly, showing the same time as his phone. Lance felt refreshed, centered in a way he hadn''t experienced since arriving at Greylock.


    He had found something interesting perhaps¡ªnot just a quiet place to work, but a space where time moved differently. The tower room had offered him sanctuary and understanding when he needed it most.


    His phone buzzed with a text from Reid about lunch plans, pulling him back to normal routines.


    As he walked away, the tower''s shadow stretched across the quad, a gentle reminder that some places operated by their own rules.

 10. Time’s Undertow

    Over the next few days, Lance found himself becoming more accustomed to Greylock University¡¯s bizarre temporal quirks. Most days passed without incident. He attended classes, used the tower room to study or create art, and occasionally joined Reid, Maya, and Jasper for impromptu lunches or library sessions. A handful of oddities still surfaced¡ªlike when his laptop¡¯s clock randomly skipped a few minutes or the dorm¡¯s hallway lights blinked in perfect sync with his phone¡¯s ringtone¡ªbut compared to the endless cafeteria loops, these glitches felt almost mundane.


    Almost every evening, Lance spent at least an hour in the room beneath the clock tower. The space radiated a serene energy that seemed to lengthen his available time. A two-hour study session stretched in that sunlit circle room. It felt like a leisurely afternoon. He aced his first digital art assignment¡ªDr. Mendez praised the depth and confidence in his lines, leaving Lance half-convinced the tower¡¯s stillness was as important as any of his technical skill.


    Between classes, he noticed Maya seemed more comfortable around people lately¡ªno longer the solitary figure in the cafeteria. Jasper bounced between them with unstoppable enthusiasm, rattling off stories of his parents¡¯ fusion food truck or some new campus event. Even Reid, whose world revolved around tennis practice and weekend tournaments, joined the group for quick coffee breaks or evening dinners in the dining hall.


    On Saturday morning, Lance was hunched over his desk, half-heartedly sketching a new concept for Dr. Mendez¡¯s latest project, when his phone vibrated. The caller ID flashed Mom. Relief tugged at him; he hadn¡¯t spoken to her in days. Memories of her worrying over bills tightened his stomach.


    ¡°Hi, honey! How¡¯s my college boy doing?¡± Sarah Weaver¡¯s voice bubbled through the speaker, infused with her usual warmth.


    ¡°Hey, Mom,¡± Lance said, setting down his pencil. ¡°I¡¯m okay. Just working on an art piece. How¡¯s work?¡±


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s fine. Busy, of course, with Linda retiring. I¡¯m practically living at the hospital, but it¡¯s all right.¡± She laughed a little too brightly, and Lance imagined her brushing aside exhaustion with that same determined smile she¡¯d worn all through his childhood. ¡°The overtime will help with bills. Don¡¯t you worry about a thing, just keep those grades up.¡±


    His stomach clenched as he recalled glimpsing a hefty credit card bill back home before he left for Greylock¡ªhis mom had scribbled payment plans in the margins, adding and subtracting amounts with anxious circles around the totals. ¡°Mom, I¡ªif things are tight, I can¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop,¡± she cut in gently, though her voice wavered for just a second. ¡°I¡¯m fine. Truly. Anyway, you said you were taking a physics class you were excited about? How is that going?¡±


    As she spoke, the call crackled. For a split second, Lance heard her words echo, warped as though traveling from a distant radio station. ¡°Mom? You¡¯re breaking up.¡± He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, but the static only worsened.


    ¡°¡­proud of you¡­ love you¡­ be careful¡­¡±


    And then the line went dead.


    Each attempt to redial sent him to voicemail. Lance stared at the phone¡¯s dark screen, frustration and guilt building. He hated feeling powerless¡ªunable to help his mom financially, unable to maintain even a stable phone connection.


    A text from Reid interrupted his spiral:


    **Lunch? Found this great place off campus. My treat!**


    They met in front of Blackwood Hall, where the leaves glowed gold under a bright autumn sun. Reid wore a tennis-team hoodie, hair still damp from morning practice. The energy he exuded provided an anchor for Lance¡¯s racing thoughts.


    ¡°You¡¯ll love this bistro,¡± Reid questioned, setting a brisk pace down Winchester Road. ¡°My sister insisted I try it. Now I¡¯m addicted to their grilled chicken sandwich.¡±


    They arrived at a charming little spot nestled between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. The stained-glass windows cast pools of color onto the tables, and warm wood beams made the interior feel homey. A wiry, bearded waiter took their orders with brisk efficiency¡ªReid¡¯s going for a Caesar salad, the legendary chicken sandwich for Lance.


    When their dishes arrived, Lance¡¯s hopes for normalcy evaporated. The sandwich looked disturbingly aged¡ªmold spotted the bread, brown sludge where lettuce should be, and grey, shriveled chicken. It was as though it had been experiencing months of decay. The stench made him gag.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°What the hell?¡± Reid sprang to his feet so quickly that silverware clattered. ¡°Hey!¡± he called to the waiter. ¡°Look at this! You just served this, and it¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s ancient!¡±


    The bearded waiter hurried over, equally horrified. ¡°I just carried it from the kitchen, sir. I watched them prepare it¡ªI swear it was fine.¡±


    A flurry of apologies followed. The bewildered manager appeared, dragging out the equally flabbergasted cook, who insisted his ingredients were fresh that very morning. Lance tried not to draw attention as he watched the bistro¡¯s wall clock tick backward for a few seconds, then jump forward in a frantic catch-up.


    Eventually, a perfectly normal replacement sandwich arrived¡ªno mold, no odor, just standard grilled chicken and lettuce. Reid eyed the staff suspiciously as if expecting them to conjure more rot.


    As they left, Reid kept shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, dude. I can¡¯t believe that happened. I recommended this place, and they tried to serve you a fossil.¡±


    Lance mustered a chuckle. ¡°At least it¡¯s a memorable lunch?¡±


    Reid checked his phone. ¡°It¡¯s 2:15,¡± he murmured. ¡°Took extra time for them to remake it.¡±


    Lance nodded, glancing up at the distant tower¡ªits four faces each displayed a slightly different hour. The shadows on the street were much longer than they should¡¯ve been for mid-afternoon, creeping across the sidewalk like living things.


    Back on campus, a fluttering poster taped to a bulletin board caught Lance¡¯s eye. Big, bold lettering read:


    ANNUAL GAMING TOURNAMENT ¨C $2000 GRAND PRIZE ¨C THIS SATURDAY!


    Below it, smaller text listed the featured game: Valor Strike¡ªa tactical shooter that Lance and his hometown friend Chris had sunk countless hours into.


    A spark of hope ignited within Lance. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money, especially for a college student. It could chip away at his mom¡¯s bills. He snapped a photo of the flyer, mind already racing.


    Reid noticed his interest and questioned, ¡°You thinking of entering?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Lance replied, exhaling slowly. ¡°I¡¯ve played that game for years. Chris and I used to duo-queue in high school. Maybe¡­ maybe I can win.¡±


    Reid patted him on the back. ¡°Go for it, man. You¡¯ve got a week to prepare, right? Let me know if I can help.¡±


    When Lance got back to his dorm room, he found a text from Emma Nash waiting. She was a longtime friend from Meridian City¡ªanother artist who¡¯d sometimes clashed with him over color palettes but always brought out the best in his work.


    ¡°Hey, stranger! Missing our art room debates. How¡¯s fancy college treating you? We should totally meet up next time you¡¯re in town!¡±


    A grin tugged at Lance¡¯s lips. Emma¡¯s easy confidence, her perpetual drive to create, had always grounded him. He typed back quickly:


    ¡°Miss you too! Greylock¡¯s¡­ interesting. Hard to explain. Let¡¯s definitely hang out soon.¡±


    Her reply was almost immediate:


    ¡°Interesting, huh? Sounds like you¡¯re having a rough time?¡±


    He stared at her words, his shoulders tensed at how perceptive she remained. Rough time. She had no idea how literal that was. But the idea comforted him in a way¡ªmaybe these experiences would fuel his creativity. Maybe he could make sense of them, turning chaos into art.


    Late that evening, Lance booted up his gaming laptop, found Chris online, and jumped into Discord. Their chosen battlefield: Valor Strike.


    ¡°Yo,¡± Chris¡¯s voice crackled through Lance¡¯s headset, instantly familiar. ¡°Long time, no pwnage. Ready to lose?¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± Lance smirked. ¡°We¡¯ll see who carries who.¡±


    They spent hours running drills¡ªaim routines, strategy discussions, recalling old map callouts. Chris teased him mercilessly whenever Lance¡¯s aim faltered, but he also offered serious coaching. As they played, Lance felt flickers in the screen¡¯s refresh rate, as though time itself stuttered during critical moments. Sometimes it stretched, letting him line up impossible shots; other times, it compressed, forcing him to react in a blur.


    ¡°You¡¯re playing out of your mind, man,¡± Chris said at one point. ¡°Didn¡¯t think your reflexes were this good. What¡¯s your secret?¡±


    ¡°Just¡­ focusing,¡± Lance replied, not quite ready to mention the reality-warping phenomena that threaded through his days. ¡°It¡¯s important.¡±


    Chris fell silent, then added softly, ¡°This is about your mom, right? You want that prize money.¡±


    Lance swallowed. Chris knew him too well. ¡°Yeah. She¡¯s swamped with bills, and my remaining tuition doesn¡¯t help. I need to do something.¡±


    Chris inhaled. ¡°We¡¯ll practice every night. We can scrimmage with some buds from my campus. You got this, okay?¡±


    Lance felt gratitude welling up, a warm current behind his ribcage. ¡°Thanks, Chris. I owe you one.¡±


    Outside his window, the moon rose higher, bathing the quad in silver. The tower¡¯s silhouette dominated the skyline¡ªa silent reminder that time around here had a will of its own. Lance decided to take advantage of it, harnessing these strange distortions if he could. The immediate goal was simple: win that tournament. A couple thousand dollars wouldn¡¯t solve everything, but it might give his mother some breathing room.


    By the time they logged off, Lance¡¯s muscles ached from tension, but exhilaration coursed through him. Closing his laptop, he glimpsed the reflection of the tower in the window¡ªlights glowing from each clock face at subtly different intensities.


    Emma¡¯s name lit up his phone once more:


    ¡°Still awake, I assume? Don¡¯t burn yourself out, okay? Your art was always best when you were in a good headspace. Don¡¯t forget to breathe.¡±


    He smiled. Typical Emma¡ªbossy in that caring way. He typed back:


    ¡°Thanks. I won¡¯t. Let¡¯s do a video call soon. Miss your critiques.¡±


    He waited a moment, but she didn¡¯t reply right away. Setting the phone aside, he collapsed onto his bed. Reid¡¯s side of the room was dark; quiet snores rose and fell in a comforting rhythm. Lance let himself sink into the mattress, exhaustion tugging at his thoughts.


    His mind meandered through images of moldy sandwiches, speeding clocks, and the gentle hush of the tower room. He pictured his mom, the lines of worry around her eyes, and the silver watch on her wrist. Only a week until the tournament, he reminded himself.

 11. The Practice Week

    The week before the tournament unfolded like a fever dream. Lance hunched over his laptop in the dim glow of his dorm room, the familiar sounds of gunfire and explosions from Valor Strike becoming his constant companions. Empty energy drink cans littered his desk, their neon logos reflecting the blue light from his screen. The clock tower''s illuminated faces cast shifting shadows through his window, each face displaying a slightly different time as he ground through match after match, his fingers dancing across the keyboard with increasing precision.


    "Your reaction time is insane," Chris commented during Monday night''s practice session, his voice crackling through Discord. The familiar icon bounced as he spoke, a small reminder of home. "Like, actually impossible. You''re hitting shots before people even peek corners."


    Lance gripped his mouse; a knot of guilt twisted in his gut. Droplets of perspiration gathered along his brow, incongruous with the chilled air around him. He had noticed it too¡ªinstances where time would warp unpredictably, granting him split-second advantages. Sometimes the world seemed to decelerate just enough for him to line up perfect headshots, enemy players moving sluggishly while his own movements remained sharp. Other times, his opponents appeared to hesitate in place, making them easy targets, their characters freezing mid-action like glitched NPCs in a broken game.


    "Just lucky, I guess," he muttered, though the pressure building behind his temples suggested otherwise. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, a recurring sign that time was acting up. These anomalies were becoming more frequent, more intense during his practice sessions, and harder to ignore.


    Across the room, Reid lounged on his bed, his economics textbook forgotten in his lap as he watched Lance''s gameplay with increasing fascination. The soft glow of his desk lamp created a warm bubble of light around him, contrasting with the harsh blue from Lance''s monitor. "Dude, you''re actually really good at this. Like, scary good. I''ve never seen anyone play like that."


    Jasper, who had invited himself over to watch, bounced on his heels beside Reid''s bed, his lanky frame vibrating with barely contained excitement. His orange hoodie seemed to glow in the dim room, matching his energetic personality. "Yeah, man! If you keep this up, you''ll be a legend! The Greylock Gaming God!" His enthusiasm filled the small room, momentarily drowning out Lance''s growing unease. "You''re going to destroy everyone in that tournament!"


    Tuesday brought new challenges. During an afternoon practice session, Lance found himself "blipping" forward in time. He''d start a match, then suddenly find himself three rounds in with no memory of how he got there. He still produced an astronomical kill count. The disconnect between his conscious mind and his actions grew more pronounced with each temporal skip.


    The distant ticking of the tower''s mechanisms seemed to sync with his heartbeat, creating an eerie resonance that vibrated through his bones.


    That evening, Maya stopped by their dorm room, her blue-streaked hair catching the light from Lance''s monitor. The soft scent of strawberries followed her as she moved, a calming presence in the chaos of his practice space. "I''ve got something for you," she murmured, drawing a leather-bound sketchbook from her worn messenger bag. "These are some focus exercises we use in meditation. They might help with your tournament prep."


    Lance felt warmth spread across his face at her thoughtfulness, noticing how the irregular flow of time seemed to stabilize when she was nearby, as if her presence anchored him to normalcy. They spent an hour working through breathing techniques, her quiet guidance helping him find moments of stability.


    Wednesday''s practice brought Emma into the mix via video call. Her familiar face on the screen made his heart ache with homesickness, but something was off. Her movements appeared jerky, desynchronized, like a video buffering on poor internet. The pixels of her image sometimes stretched and distorted, creating unsettling moments where she barely looked human.


    "Lance," she said quietly during a break between matches, her voice carrying the weight of genuine concern, "something''s off. It''s like watching a glitched recording. This app sucks."


    He forced a laugh, adjusting his webcam to hide his trembling hands. "Probably just the university internet acting up."


    "No," Emma insisted, leaning closer to her camera until her face filled the screen, her artist''s eye catching details others might miss. "It''s like... like you''re moving between frames sometimes. Like the camera can''t quite keep up with you."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Before he could respond, time stuttered. Emma''s worried face froze mid-sentence, then jumped forward several seconds like a skipped DVD chapter. When reality stabilized, she was staring at him with wide eyes, her face pale even through the screen''s poor color balance.


    "Was that lag?" she asked. "It looked so crazy."


    Lance ended the call, claiming poor internet connection. His hands shook as he closed his laptop, the screen''s reflection showing his own haunted expression. Emma had always been perceptive, but this was dangerous territory. He couldn''t explain what was happening when he barely understood it himself.


    Thursday''s practice sessions blurred together in a haze of temporal shifts. The tower room became both sanctuary and prison¡ªa place where he could practice for what felt like days while only minutes passed outside. The constant sunbeam never moved, creating an endless afternoon of perfect gaming conditions. Thankfully the campus Wifi reached. His laptop''s fan whirred steadily, the only consistent sound besides his own breathing.


    Chris noticed the improvement in Lance''s gameplay but seemed increasingly unsettled. During their evening session, his voice carried a mix of awe and concern through the Discord channel. "You''re pulling off things that should be physically impossible," he said during one particularly impressive round. "Like, actually impossible. It''s starting to freak me out a little."


    Lance said nothing, focusing instead on the screen where enemy players moved in predictable patterns. He could almost see their future positions, like ghostly afterimages waiting to be filled. A faint humming sound accompanied each temporal shift, a subtle vibration that resonated through his bones and made his teeth ache.


    Reid and Jasper decided to join his practice session that evening, trying to help him prepare. Jasper, though hilariously bad at the game, brought an infectious energy that lightened the room''s heavy atmosphere. His constant commentary and wild theories about game strategies provided welcome relief from the intensity of practice.


    "Watch out, Lance! Incoming virtual missiles!" Jasper shouted, gesturing so enthusiastically that he accidentally spilled an energy drink over his keyboard.


    "Jasper, not now!" Reid laughed, helping clean up the mess with practiced efficiency. "Maybe stick to cheering from a safe distance? We don''t need any equipment casualties before the big day."


    Maya arrived later with food from her favorite campus coffee, setting up shop at Lance''s desk to sketch while he practiced. The aroma of fresh coffee and pastries filled the room, creating a cozy atmosphere that felt almost normal. Her presence helped steady him, though he noticed her watching him with increasing concern when she thought he wasn''t looking. Her pencil moved across paper in smooth strokes, capturing moments between his matches in delicate graphite lines.


    Friday brought the worst temporal incident yet. During an evening practice session, Lance suddenly found himself three hours in the future. One moment he was starting a match at 7 PM, the next he was staring at his monitor showing 10 PM, with no memory of the intervening time. His match history showed dozens of great games, victories he couldn''t remember achieving. The lost time felt like a void in his mind, a black hole where memories should be.


    "Lance?" Reid''s voice cut through his panic. "You''ve been sitting there completely still for like twenty minutes. You haven''t even blinked. Are you okay?"


    Lance turned to find Reid watching him with genuine concern, the economics textbook forgotten in his lap. The room seemed to contract, its walls pulsing in rhythm with the steady, mechanical ticking of the desktop clock. "I can''t breathe," he choked out, jolting upright and sending his chair careening dangerously close to collapse as he lurched forward out of the room.


    Cool twilight winds scattered his meandering thoughts while he wandered the campus paths, autumn leaves whispering beneath his steps. The clock tower silhouetted against the starlit sky, its faces showing four different times as usual, the illuminated numbers seeming to float in the darkness. He found himself drawn to its base, seeking the comfort of the quiet room below.


    But when he tried the door, it wouldn''t budge. For the first time since discovering it, the tower room denied him entry. The handle remained cold and immovable under his grip, as if the room itself had decided he needed to face tomorrow''s tournament without its assistance.


    A vibration from his phone revealed a message from his mom: "Good luck tomorrow, honey!"


    Lance stared at the message, remembering why he''d entered the tournament in the first place. The prize money could help ease her burden, give her some breathing room with the bills. But at what cost? These anomalies were becoming more frequent, more intense. What if he lost control completely during the tournament? What if he did something that couldn''t be explained away?


    Another text arrived, this one from Emma: "Are you okay? I''m worried. Please don''t shut me out."


    He ignored both messages, shoving his phone deep into his pocket. Tomorrow would determine everything. The weight of his mother''s financial struggles pressed against his conscience, driving him forward despite his fears.


    The walk back to his dorm felt longer than usual, each step stretched by his anxiety. When he finally reached his room, Reid was already asleep, a tennis racket propped against his bed as always.


    His last thought before drifting off was of Maya''s words about painting with motion. Perhaps that''s what he was doing¡ªcreating art with time itself as his medium. He just hoped the masterpiece wouldn''t tear reality apart in the process.

 12. Game Over

    The Technology Building''s main computer lab had been transformed for the Valor Strike Championship. Normally home to programming classes and late-night coding sessions, today it hosted fifty eager participants. The institutional fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows across faces both determined and nervous. Students unpacked their gaming mice and keyboards, customizing their stations at the rows of university computers.


    Lance claimed his spot, the familiar weight of his worn gaming mouse providing small comfort. Around him, the air hummed with the sound of cooling fans and pre-game chatter. The scent of energy drinks mixed with the sterile computer lab air, creating an atmosphere thick with competition.


    "Alright, everyone! Welcome to the Valor Strike Championship!" the tournament organizer announced, his voice booming through the speakers. "Today, we kick off with an intense Battle Royale mode. The last eight standing will advance to the double-elimination 1v1 tournament. May the best gamer win!"


    Lance felt the weight of his headset tighten around his ears. Reid and Jasper had insisted on coming to support him, positioning themselves behind his assigned station with encouraging grins.


    "You''re going to crush it, Lance," Reid whispered, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.


    Jasper, a bundle of energy, bounced beside Reid. "Yeah, man! Just remember, it''s all about strategy and keeping your cool. And if you win, we''ll throw you a victory party!"


    Lance managed a faint smile. "Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it."


    A few rows back, Maya watched the preparations. "Lance, remember to breathe. Focus on one match at a time," she reminded him, her blue-streaked hair catching the ambient light.


    He nodded, taking another steadying breath. Focus. Just focus.


    The battle royale erupted into action. Fifty players dropped into the virtual arena, scrambling to secure weapons, power-ups, and strategic positions. The arena unfolded across a landscape of imposing structures, tangled wilderness, and unforgiving terrain, testing the limits of even the most seasoned players.


    Lance''s fingers danced across the keyboard with practiced ease, his gaze shifting between the glowing screen and the watchful eyes around him. Chaos reigned in the initial phase¡ªplayers sprinted, looted, and engaged in fierce firefights. He prioritized survival, sticking to the shadows and avoiding unnecessary confrontations.


    "Watch out, incoming missiles!" Jasper shouted.


    "Jasper, calm down" Reid laughed. "Maybe stick to cheering him on, buddy. We don''t need any equipment casualties before the big day."


    Jasper grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "No promises."


    Lance chuckled, appreciating the momentary relief. "Yeah, thanks for that."


    As the battle royale advanced, the virtual safe zone shrunk, forcing players into tighter spaces and heightening the intensity. Lance found himself in a few skirmishes, each encounter testing his reflexes and strategy. His temporal anomalies had been a boon in practice, granting him heightened reaction speeds and predictive abilities. But today, everything seemed normal.


    The crowd cheered as players were eliminated one by one, their avatars fading out with dramatic effects. Lance focused on staying in the game, using judiciously caution to outlast the competition. Every decision mattered¡ªengaging in a fight or avoiding confrontation could mean the difference between victory and elimination.


    Between firefights, Lance glimpsed Phantom, the tournament favorite¡ªa player renowned for uncanny precision and ruthless tactics. Phantom moved through the arena like a ghost, eliminating opponents with accuracy.


    The final moments of the battle royale blurred into a frenzy of action. As the last few players were eliminated, Lance faced Phantom in a tense standoff. The showdown was swift and brutal, both players displaying their best skills. In the end, Lance was able to take the win due to Phantom being low from his previous encounter.


    After an hour of relentless competition, only eight players remained.


    "Prepare for the transition to the double-elimination tournament. Good luck to our final eight," the organizer announced, his voice steady and commanding.


    Lance felt a surge of relief and accomplishment. He glanced around, catching the proud smiles of Reid, Jasper, and Maya. "We did it," he whispered, a mix of exhaustion and triumph in his voice.


    With the battle royale concluded, the focus shifted to the double-elimination bracket. The final eight players seated at their designated stations knew that only two losses would mean elimination.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Lance took his seat, the weight of his headset familiar but not enough to calm his racing heart. "This is it," he thought. The real test begins now.


    The tournament organizer''s voice boomed again, signaling the start of the double-elimination rounds. "Welcome, final eight! Prepare yourselves for the next phase of the Valor Strike Championship. Remember, two losses mean elimination. May the best player emerge victorious!"


    Lance''s first opponent was unfortunately Phantom, the lanky sophomore had thick glasses and a confident smirk.


    "Let''s see how you measure up when I have a full health bar," Phantom sneered, his tone laced with contempt.


    As the match loaded, Lance felt the familiar pressure building behind his eyes¡ªbut instead of slowing time, everything accelerated. The match began, and Lance immediately sensed the difference. His shots missed by milliseconds, landing just out of reach. Phantom''s smirk widened with each missed opportunity.


    "What''s happening?" Lance muttered, adjusting his mouse sensitivity between rounds. "Come on, come on..."


    This wasn''t meant to unfold like this. The time glitches should be on my side, not against me.


    Lance lost the first round badly, his shots missing by mere fractions of a second. Phantom''s confidence soared. "See, you can¡¯t beat me in a fair fight," he sneered as the scoreboard flashed his victory.


    Droplets of perspiration pearled across Lance''s brow. This wasn''t meant to unfold like this. The time glitches should be on my side, not against me.


    With one loss, Lance moved to the losers'' bracket, where the competition was just as fierce but offered a second chance to reach the finals. The pressure was immense; a second loss meant elimination.


    His next opponent was a freshman who seemed more interested in her phone than the game. Lance focused, trying to center himself like Maya had taught him. For a moment, time normalized¡ªjust long enough for him to secure a narrow victory.


    "There you go!" Jasper cheered, practically bouncing. "The comeback starts now!"


    Lance managed a strained smile. "Thanks, Jasper. I needed that."


    These anomalies are sabotaging me, he thought, desperation clawing at his chest.


    The next match in the losers'' bracket was against a veteran player known for his strategic mind and unshakeable composure. Lance tried to focus, but time refused to bend to his will. His movements were sluggish, his reactions delayed by crucial fractions of a second.


    No. I can''t lose here. Not now.


    Lance summoned every ounce of determination, every fragment of skill. His movements became more deliberate, each action a calculated brushstroke. Slowly, he began to gain ground, his shots landing more accurately.


    The veteran player conceded with a nod, impressed despite the loss. "Good game," he said, his voice carrying a hint of respect.


    Lance felt a surge of hope. I''m still in this. I can make it to the finals.


    The next match was against a rival who had given him a lot of trouble during the Battle Royale. The tension was palpable as Lance prepared, knowing that one more loss would mean elimination.


    The match was intense. Time anomalies tried to sabotage him again, but he fought through them, slowing his playstyle to be more deliberate and not overextend so he wasn¡¯t affected as badly when things accelerated.


    In a crucial moment, Lance countered with a perfectly timed move, securing a decisive victory.


    The crowd around his station erupted in applause. "You did it, Lance!" Reid exclaimed, his pride evident.


    Lance felt a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. I''m stunned I''ve actually reached the finals.


    In the end, defying expectations, he reached the finals. His opponent: Phantom.


    The lights felt too bright as they set up for the championship match. Lance''s hands shook as he adjusted his keyboard position. This is it.


    "Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer''s booming voice swept through the arena, "welcome to our championship bout!"


    From the opening exchange, Lance swiftly recognized his precarious situation. Phantom moved with terrifying efficiency, each action incredibly skilled. Lance struggled to keep up, feeling himself handicapped by how much he¡¯d come to rely on the time glitches during training. It was handicapping him know without it.


    The score quickly became lopsided: 0-3 in Phantom''s favor. Frustration welled up behind Lance''s eyes. He had come so close to helping his mom, only to fail when it mattered most. The crowd''s energy shifted from excitement to pity as they watched him falter. This isn''t happening. Why can''t I just play like I''ve been trained to?


    "Come on, Lance!" Jasper''s voice cut through his despair. "You''re not done yet! Best 2 of 3."


    Maya''s quiet presence behind him radiated support, and Reid''s steady hand remained on his shoulder. Drawing strength from their belief, Lance squared his shoulders and focused on the screen. For a brief moment, everything aligned¡ªhis timing, his aim, his game sense. He won the next round barely. Yes, I can do this, he thought, a spark of hope igniting within him.


    But it was a temporary reprieve. As the final round began, Phantom seemed to anticipate his every move, always one step ahead. The match point arrived with brutal swiftness.


    Lance watched helplessly as Phantom lined up the final shot. The world held its breath. Then everything accelerated at once, and the killing blow landed.


    GAME OVER flashed across his screen in bold red letters, burning into his retinas. The crowd erupted in cheers for Phantom''s victory, but Lance barely heard them. He sat frozen, staring at the two words as reality rippled around him.


    Then something impossible happened. The world lurched sideways, colors smearing like wet paint. When his vision cleared, he was back at the start of the final match¡ªsame bright lights, same buzzing crowd, same enigmatic opponent. The GAME OVER screen had vanished, replaced by the ominous pre-game countdown.


    A cold realization settled in his chest. It''s a loop.


    Lance''s breath caught as understanding dawned. He looked around wildly, but no one else seemed to notice the reset. Reid and Jasper still stood behind him, wearing the same encouraging expressions. Maya''s sketchbook showed the same half-finished drawing.


    Lance''s hands moved to his keyboard, muscle memory taking over even as his mind raced with implications. I have to break free. I can''t get caught in another of these.


    As Phantom''s character appeared on his screen, Lance felt time flex around him.

 13. Phantoms Echo

    The harsh glare of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Lance faced his monitor in Greylock''s computer lab. The room hummed with the sound of computers, their cooling fans creating a mechanical undertone that matched his racing pulse. His fingers hovered over the WASD keys, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead despite the aggressive air conditioning. Across the room, separated by rows of occupied stations, Phantom sat with perfect posture. Thin fingers danced across his mechanical keyboard with practiced precision. The 1v1 Valor Strike championship match was about to begin.


    "You''ve got this," Reid whispered from behind, squeezing Lance''s shoulder with steady pressure. Jasper bounced nearby, his hoodie a blur of motion as he vibrated with nervous energy. Maya watched silently from her perch on a nearby desk, her sketchbook forgotten in her lap. Her blue-streaked hair fell across her face as she leaned forward in anticipation.


    The countdown began: 3... 2... 1...


    Lance''s first attempt was hesitant, marked by cautious corner checks and conservative positioning. He played defensively, trying to feel out Phantom''s style while preserving his virtual life. It proved disastrous. Phantom aggressively pushed every angle, utility grenades forcing Lance from cover before precise bursts of gunfire eliminated him. The score mounted quickly: 0-3, 1-6. Each death felt like a personal failure, each lost round burning into his consciousness.


    GAME OVER flashed across his screen in bold red letters, the harsh font searing into his retinas.


    The world lurched sideways, reality distorting like a funhouse mirror. Colors smeared like wet paint. Suddenly, Lance was back at the start. The same fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, nervous energy crackled through the air, and the countdown timer ticked away precious seconds.


    "You''ve got this," Reid said again, exactly as before, his hand providing identical pressure on Lance''s shoulder.


    This time, Lance pushed aggressively, determined to throw Phantom off balance. He rushed corners with reckless abandon, took risky shots through smoke grenades, and tried to overwhelm his opponent with pure momentum and unpredictability. But Phantom adapted instantly, using Lance''s aggression against him. Each overextension was punished with ruthless efficiency; precise headshots ended Lance''s rushes before they could begin.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    Lance tried playing mind games, switching strategies mid-round, mixing up his timing between aggressive and passive plays. He managed to take the first round before Phantom seemed to read his soul, predicting every move with uncanny accuracy. Flash grenades appeared in Lance''s face the moment before he peeked around corners. Pre-fired bullets caught him rotating through smoke. It was as if Phantom could see through walls.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    "Your positioning is weird," Jasper commented during the fourth attempt, leaning so close his breath tickled Lance''s ear. "Maybe try holding tighter angles. You''re giving him too much space to work with."


    Lance followed the advice, playing more conservatively than ever. It was even worse than his first try. Phantom simply waited him out, then executed perfect utility usage to flush him from cover. Molotov cocktails forced him into crossfire. Smoke grenades cut off his retreat paths. He felt like a rat in a maze, every turn leading to death.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    By the eighth iteration, frustration boiled over. Lance slammed his mouse down with enough force to make the plastic crack, earning startled looks from his friends and nearby competitors. "Sorry," he muttered, but they had already reset to their original positions, the outburst erased from memory like everything else.


    The red text haunted him now, burning in his vision during every quiet moment. When he closed his eyes, GAME OVER branded itself against his eyelids like a digital ghost. Each reset felt like another failure, another reminder that he couldn''t help his mom, couldn''t overcome this obstacle, couldn''t escape this temporal prison of his own making.


    "Maybe try watching his patterns?" Maya suggested during attempt twelve, her artistic mind seeking underlying structure. "Every player has habits, tells that give away their next move."


    Lance nodded mechanically, having heard similar advice in previous loops. But she was right about patterns¡ªnot just in Phantom''s play, but in the loops themselves. Reid always squeezed his shoulder at exactly 7.3 seconds before the match started. Jasper''s bouncing followed a three-beat rhythm. Even the air conditioning cycled in predictable bursts, cold air washing over the room every 42 seconds.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    On his fifteenth attempt, Lance broke. The accumulated frustration of countless failures erupted in a moment of blind rage. He ripped off his headset and lunged across the room at Phantom, hands reaching for his opponent''s throat, wanting to feel something real instead of this endless digital defeat. Reality snapped back before he made contact, leaving him with the phantom sensation of violence in his fingers.


    "You''ve got this," Reid said again, unaware of Lance''s near-violent outburst moments¡ªor lifetimes¡ªago.


    The next loop, Lance sat paralyzed, letting the timer run out. His hands remained still on the keyboard and mouse as seconds ticked away. Automatic forfeit. Even defeat through inaction couldn''t break the cycle.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    In desperate frustration, he tabbed out between rounds and downloaded an aimbot from a sketchy website. His hands trembled as he installed it, guilt warring with desperation. The hack worked for exactly two kills before the tournament anti-cheat detected it. His screen went black¡ªa different kind of game over.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    "Your crosshair placement looks off," someone commented during attempt twenty-three. Lance couldn''t even tell who spoke anymore. The voices blurred together, an endless echo of well-meaning but useless advice bouncing around his skull like bullets in an empty room.


    He tried everything: different weapons, different positions, different timings. Nothing worked. Phantom remained unbeatable, almost omniscient in his ability to counter every strategy Lance attempted. It was like playing against a machine, or a god, or his own inadequacy given digital form.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    Around attempt thirty, Lance stopped counting. Time became meaningless, a flat circle of repeated moments. He played mechanically, going through the motions while his mind drifted through memories of better days. The fluorescent lights buzzed their eternal song. The air conditioning hummed its regular rhythm. Reid squeezed his shoulder with clockwork precision.


    "Maybe take a break?" Maya suggested during one loop, her artist''s intuition sensing his fragmenting mental state. "Clear your head?"


    Instead of playing that round, Lance opened his digital art program. He sketched while the match timer ran down, trying to capture the feeling of being trapped in time. Dark spirals and fractured clockfaces emerged under his stylus. Maya watched over his shoulder, offering quiet suggestions about color and composition. When the forfeit timer ran out, he almost welcomed the reset, having created something real in this unreal loop.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    Before the next match, Lance pulled out his phone and called his mom. His fingers shook as he dialed the familiar number. "Hey sweetie!" her voice carried warmth even through the tinny speaker. "Shouldn''t you be getting ready for your tournament?"


    "I love you, Mom," he said simply, emotion thick in his throat. "I''m going to figure this out. I promise."


    Her pause spoke volumes, maternal concern evident even across the digital divide. "Lance, honey, are you okay?"


    The loop reset before he could answer, but something had changed. The conversation centered him, reminded him why he was fighting. He studied Phantom with renewed focus, really watching this time instead of just reacting.


    Patterns emerged like constellations forming from random stars. Not just in Phantom''s gameplay, but in everything. The way light reflected off monitors, the rhythm of keystrokes, the flow of movement across the map. Lance began to see it all as one interconnected dance, a ballet where every performer followed their choreographed steps without realizing it.


    GAME OVER.


    Reset.


    But this time, the failure felt different. He understood more. Each loop added to his knowledge, building a complete picture. Phantom wasn''t unbeatable¡ªhe was predictable. Like everyone else trapped in the loops, he followed patterns, written in time instead of code.


    The next attempt, Lance moved with purpose. He threw grenades at exact angles, catching Phantom retreating through his favored routes. He timed his peeks perfectly, knowing when Phantom would reload down to the econd. The first round went to Lance, his crosshair finding its mark with precision.


    Then Phantom adapted, switching positions. But Lance was ready. He''d seen this adjustment before, dozens of loops ago. Phantom''s composure cracked slightly, visible even from across the room. His mechanical precision gave way to frustrated aggression. Lance predicted the rushes, turned Phantom''s own patterns against him.


    The second round was his too, victory achieved through prediction and targeted skill.


    Victory flashed across the screen in gold letters.


    The loop didn''t reset.


    The crowd erupted in genuine surprise and appreciation. Reid and Jasper tackled him in a celebratory hug while Maya clapped from her perch, her smile knowing somehow. Phantom stood and walked over, offering a grudging handshake, his earlier confidence replaced by confused respect.


    "How did you read me so perfectly?" Phantom asked, genuine confusion in his voice. "It was like you knew what I would do before I did it."


    Lance just smiled, too exhausted to explain the impossible truth. "Lucky guesses."


    The tournament organizer approached with the prize check, but Lance barely saw it. His phone buzzed¡ªa text from his mom: "Whatever happens, I''m proud of you." The simple message meant more than any victory.


    "Let''s get food to celebrate!" Jasper bounced excitedly, a blur of motion once again. Reid¡¯s eyes lit up, "I know this great sandwich place¡ª"


    "No!" Lance cut him off sharply, remembering all too well the ancient sandwich from previous temporal adventures. "I mean... maybe somewhere else? Anywhere else?"


    His friends laughed, not understanding his vehemence. As they walked into the evening air, Lance felt lighter than he had in countless loops. He''d learned something valuable about time, about patterns, about human nature itself. Every person followed their own rhythms, their own cycles. Understanding those patterns was the key to breaking free of them.


    The clock tower silhouetted against the darkening sky, its faces finally aligned at the correct time. Lance smiled up at it, feeling like he''d passed some crucial test. The prize money would help his mom, but the lessons learned might prove even more valuable.


    They piled into Reid''s car, debating restaurant choices with the easy familiarity of true friends. Lance leaned back in his seat, letting their friendly bickering wash over him.


    Time, he realized, was both prison and teacher. You just had to learn its lessons before it would let you move on.