Lester didn’t wait for orders.

  He and Franklin moved before the battle even started, slipping away from the briefing room, from the familiar march toward death.

  This time, they weren’t going to fight a war they knew was unwinnable.

  This time, they were going to find answers.

  They tracked Watts down in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the battlefield—a place untouched by the cycle, a place that felt like it didn’t belong inany version of reality. Rusted beams stretched overhead, and the air smelled of dust and something *older,* something wrong.

  Watts was waiting for them.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face. The flickering light above cast his shadow in impossible directions, as if it wasn’t bound by the same rules as everything else.

  “You’re figuring it out,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “But you’re still asking the wrong question.”

  Franklin tensed beside Lester, fingers curling into fists. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Lester didn’t wait for an answer. He lunged.

  His fist connected.

  Watts didn’t dodge. He didn’t block. He didn’t fight back.

  Instead, he disintegrated—his entire form unraveling into black ink, splattering across the walls, the floor, Lester’s hands. The air shuddered, a ripple tearing through reality itself.

  And then—

  The world reset.

  Lester gasped awake in the briefing room, his pulse hammering. The same dim lights. The same air thick with repetition.

  But this time, something was different.

  Across the table, Franklin wasn’t just awake. He wasn’t just aware.

  His hands were covered in ink.

  And he was staring at them like he finally understood.