The photograph wouldn't leave his hand.
Hale sat under the staircase near the east exit—his usual hiding spot when things got too loud, too bright, too… fake.
But the photo felt real. Too real.
He studied it again.
Same hallway.
Same school.
Same him.
But no mark.
His shirt was pulled slightly open in the picture, revealing clear skin. Smooth. Unscarred.
That wasn't possible.
He touched the spot beneath his collarbone. The mark was still there. Cold. Tingling.
This version of him—this other Hale—looked the same… but lighter somehow. Like someone who hadn't been dragged through static and nightmares.
Ivy found him an hour later.
She didn't say anything. Just sat beside him and pulled a rubber band off her wrist, twisting it between her fingers.
He showed her the photo.
She stared for a long time.
Then:
"You said you never took this."
"I didn't."
She looked again. "But that's you."
"I know."
She held the photo up to the light. "No reflection glare. No bend. This wasn't printed off a screen. It's… developed. Like old school darkroom stuff."
Hale nodded slowly.
Then Ivy added, "I found one too."
She reached into her sketchbook and unfolded a second photo.
Another hallway.
Another version of Hale.
Same face.
But this time he looked… older. Tired. And there was writing on the wall behind him, scratched in red marker like graffiti:
He saw too much.
"I don't get it," Hale muttered. "Are these… fakes? Dreams? Projections?"
"No," Ivy said, voice low now. "They're versions. Possible ones. Some maybe real. Some maybe not anymore."
She hesitated.
"I think we're the only ones who remember the loops now."
"What loops?"
"Don't play dumb."
"I'm not—"
"You feel it too, right? The rewinds. The repeats. Every time it hits 3:12—something resets."
Hale's mouth went dry.
"I remember dying once," Ivy said softly.
Then, with a distant look:
"It felt like being erased mid-thought. Like falling through broken mirrors that kept reflecting the moment before the pain. I didn't scream. I couldn't. The air felt like glass in my throat."
She didn't cry. But something behind her eyes flickered. Something that had shattered quietly a long time ago.
That night, Hale couldn't sleep. Again.
He spread the two photos across his desk. The one of himself without the mark. The one with the red writing.
The clock read 2:59 AM.
Rain again.
Always rain.
He got up.
Stared at the mirror in the bathroom.
Nothing strange. Just his reflection.
Until—
A flicker.
Not in the mirror.
In the corner of the room behind him.
He turned fast. Nothing.
But when he looked back—
The mirror didn't show him anymore.
It showed the version from the photo.
The unmarked Hale.
That version of him was smiling.
Calm.
Confident.
Free.
Hale stepped closer.
The version in the mirror leaned in too.
And whispered something.
Not with sound. But with lips.
Hale read the words:
"You're the last one."
Then the mirror fogged up, and the image was gone.
He stumbled back into his room. Grabbed the photo again. Searched it for something—anything—new.
And this time, he saw it.
In the bottom corner. Barely visible.
Tiny, hand-written text.
This version was archived.
Date: Unknown.
Status: Unstable.
Hale stared, chest tightening.
The edges of the photo began to curl slightly, the way old paper warps in damp air.
And then the mark on his chest—
It burned.