The day began with a hush, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Hale walked through the halls of the school in a half-daze, his footsteps quiet, his eyes scanning faces like they were puzzles missing too many pieces.
Something was shifting.
Something subtle—but wrong.
Barney was back.
Laughing. Alive. As if nothing had happened. He leaned against a locker, cracking a joke about someone's haircut. It was all too normal.
But Hale watched him carefully—because there was one thing missing.
The mark.
It was gone. The glowing sigil Hale had seen burning into Barney's chest that night… nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, man. You okay?" Barney asked, nudging him. "You look like you just watched your grandma dance to death."
Hale forced a smile. "Yeah. Fine."
But he wasn't. Because last night was real.
It had to be. He had felt it.
The burn in his chest.
The time that stretched forever.
The scream.
And now? Like a reset.
3:12 had come and gone again.
And left nothing but fog.
In art class, Hale sat beside Ivy. The classroom smelled like acrylic and dusty air.
"Still doing the mark?" she asked.
He looked down.
He hadn't even noticed what he was drawing—his hand moved like it had a mind of its own.
The sketch was a twisted loop. A symbol.
Not quite like the mark on his chest, but familiar.
"Looks like mine," Ivy said.
Hale looked up sharply. "What?"
She held out her sketchpad.
An unfinished shape. Almost the same. But hers trailed off, the line broken just before it completed the loop.
Something in Hale's stomach twisted.
"Do you know what it means?" he asked.
Ivy tilted her head. "Should I?" she said, and smiled.
But her eyes didn't match the smile.
They didn't focus. Like her gaze was aimed through him.
He watched her longer than he should have.
Something had changed in her.
She'd started repeating questions they'd already answered.
Her sketches were beginning to mirror his without knowing.
It was like watching someone fade from reality—still here, but echoing.
Later, in the hallway, Hale zoned out. Just for a second.
When he came to, Ivy was in front of him again. They were talking. But the words felt off. Like someone else had been driving his mouth.
"You said it resets tonight," Ivy said, brows knit.
"What?" Hale asked.
She held up his sketchpad.
It was covered in handwriting. Not drawings. The same line, over and over:
"You weren't supposed to be here."
And just beneath the final line… a date.
Tomorrow's.
He flipped to the back of the pad, hands trembling.
There—crumpled, stuck between pages—was a drawing he didn't remember making.
It was the mark. His mark.
Carved in precise, dark strokes.
Almost angry in its execution.
Signed: H. Hale
Date: Tomorrow.
That night, Hale didn't sleep.
He didn't blink.
He stared at the ceiling as the minute hand crept toward 3:12.
Not out of fear.
Out of something else.
Expectation.
Or maybe preparation.
Something was changing.
And next time,
he wouldn't be the one reacting