Fire again.

  Not a picture—heat. Mom shouting something he couldn’t catch. Dad wasn’t there. Then the pain at his back, sharp and mean. He woke with a small shout stuck in his throat, breath thin, hand already behind him like he could pull the ache out.

  The house was quiet.

  He lay still and listened. No spoon on a noises . No smell of sauce graine. His chest went light for a second. A new day! He’d made it.

  The lightness didn’t last though.

  The dream sat close , it felt nearer than usual. The edges weren’t fog anymore. He could feel the heat on his face, feel the way the pain had grabbed—not wide, not dull.

  He sat up and pressed his palm to the left side of his back, under the ribs. No blood. No wet. Just skin. The spot still felt wrong.

  With the dream becoming more vivid, the pain felt more specific… more precise, more intense.

  “It wasn’t as if I got punched… no, it was more like… I got pierced…?” he thought. The thought made his mouth dry.

  He looked down at his chest. “B-but… if it’s true… doesn’t it mean that…?” he whispered, touching his heart, his hand shaking.

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  A short laugh slipped out, thin and ugly. “Don’t be stupid,” he told the empty room. But the laugh didn’t fix anything.

  If that dream was right, if Kazeem really got pierced in this area … then he wasn’t just hurt. He was—

  He didn’t finish it out loud.

  Before, he would’ve called it a bad nightmare or nothing. Not now, not after the market. Not after hearing Gb? close to the ear. The loop had taught him to always pay attention to details. And besides the mask and that endless dance, this was the only dream he ever had over and over. It appeared at every loop as if someone was telling him that his suffering is far from over.

  So is it something that happened? Or something that will? If it will… when? And why?

  He breathed slow and let the rules line up in his head.

  Some scenes are heavier than others.

  Direct interaction is forbidden when the scenes start

  Act before the start

  the loop can be broken

  He put his palm on the spot again. Left back, under the ribs. Skin fine. The feel of the pain still there, thin and bright like a wire.

  Can I change this one if it comes? Or is this one the kind that ignores you?

  He stood, rinsed his face at the basin, watched the water run off his chin. He looked at himself a long time. Seventeen. Not strong, not weak. Eyes a little too bright when the hunger woke. He rolled his shoulders; nothing pulled.

  He stepped to the window slit. Morning looked ordinary, dust on the lane, a cart complaining, two kids arguing in whispers like the world might hear and laugh. Ordinary didn’t help.

  He pressed his fingers to the sill and said the pieces out loud, quiet so nobody else would catch them.

  “Left side. Under the ribs. Not a hit. A pierce.”

  “Mom shouting.”

  “Dad… not there.”

  “Fire.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to pull more out of the dark, but the rest slid away. Only those things held.

  His hands shook again. He sat on the bed and held his knees until it passed. The room turned back into just a room. That helped.

  He stood. The day was waiting.

  Still, now I know some rules to play by.

  He sighed. “Can’t I have a break?” Death’s shadow lingered. “Two keys, please be enough that day.”

  The latch clicked.

  A voice he knew, tired around the edges: “Kazeem?”

  He turned. Dad stood in the doorway.

  I got a lot of stuff to take care of these days so I have been very busy.