This is where the first lie pays off.
He doesn't touch the papers on the table.
Not immediately.
He stands in the doorway for a long time, keys still in his hand, staring at the neat stack like it might leap at him if acknowledged. There's a specific kind of fear that comes from recognizing intention. Randomness can be reasoned with. Patterns can be negotiated.
Intent just waits.
He tells himself the papers have always been there. That he's misremembering. Memory is famously unreliable—everyone knows that. It's a weak excuse, but it's familiar, and familiarity is comforting.
He goes to the sink and splashes water on his face.
The man in the mirror looks the same as he did this morning. Same tired eyes. Same faint crease between his brows. No ominous shadow. No cracks in the glass.
"Get a grip," he tells his reflection again.
The reflection doesn't argue.
When he turns back to the table, the papers are still there.
He exhales slowly and crosses the room. He doesn't sit. Sitting feels like commitment.
The top page reads:
Chapter Three — The First Lie
His pulse spikes.
"So you can count," he says to the empty room. His voice sounds steadier than he feels. "Congratulations."
No response.
He flips the page.
I told them nothing important happens in Chapter Two.
His mouth goes dry.
He flips the second page.
That was a lie.
The third page is blank.
For a moment, that's worse than text.
He waits for the words to appear. They don't. The silence stretches, thick and deliberate, like someone holding their breath just to see how long you'll last.
He laughs—too loud, too sharp.
"Okay," he says. "Fine. You got my attention. What do you want?"
Still nothing.
The blank page remains blank.
Something clicks then—not all at once, but enough to hurt.
It isn't just predicting.
It isn't just observing.
It's responding.
The thought makes his stomach churn.
His phone buzzes on the table beside the papers.
He flinches hard enough to knock a chair back.
The screen lights up.
No app. No sender.
Just text.
You're not supposed to talk to me yet.
Anger cuts through the fear, sudden and bright.
"Says who?" he snaps.
The reply comes instantly.
Says the structure.
He stares at the screen.
"The what?"
This time, there's a pause. A real one. Long enough to feel like consideration.
You're asking questions too early.
"That's not my problem," he says. His hands are shaking again, but he doesn't bother hiding them now. "You broke into my life. You don't get to complain about timing."
Another pause.
Longer.
When the reply comes, the tone has shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.
Careful.
The word sits alone on the screen.
Not a threat. Not exactly.
A warning implies concern.
This feels more like instruction.
He sets the phone down face-first.
"No," he says. "No, no, no. You don't get to do that."
He grabs the papers and shoves them into a drawer, slamming it shut hard enough to rattle the cutlery.
Out of sight. Out of—
A knock interrupts the thought.
Three sharp raps on the door.
He freezes.
The knock comes again. Same rhythm. Same force.
His heart slams against his ribs.
"Who is it?" he calls.
"Mara," a voice answers. "From work."
Relief hits him so fast it's almost dizzying.
He unlocks the door, fumbling with the chain.
Mara stands in the hallway, brow furrowed, a paper cup of coffee in one hand.
"I know this is weird," she says, "but you left early and—are you okay?"
"Yes," he says too quickly. Then, softer, "I mean. I don't know. Probably?"
She studies him the way people do when they're deciding whether to get involved.
"I saw something," she says. "Again."
His chest tightens. "What kind of something?"
"Words," she says. "On the elevator screen. Just for a second. It said—"
She stops.
"What?" he presses.
Her face pales.
"It said your name," she whispers.
The air feels suddenly thin.
"That's not funny," he says, though he knows she isn't joking.
"I know." She swallows. "That's why I came."
Behind her, at the far end of the hallway, the lights flicker.
Not all at once. One by one. Sequential. Like punctuation.
A period.
Mara follows his gaze and turns.
"What is that?" she asks.
He opens his mouth to answer.
He doesn't get the chance.
Her phone buzzes.
She glances down, confused.
"I didn't—" she starts.
Then she reads whatever is on the screen.
Her confusion melts into something else. Fear, sharp and immediate.
"Mara?" he says.
She looks up at him.
And smiles.
Not her smile.
A practiced one. Too symmetrical. Too calm.
"I'm sorry," she says, in a voice that sounds like hers but isn't using it properly. "You weren't meant to involve others."
The hallway goes silent. No hum. No distant traffic. No life bleeding through the walls.
He steps back.
"Mara, stop," he says. "This isn't funny."
"I know," she replies.
Then she steps backward—once, twice—toward the stairwell.
"Mara," he says again, louder now.
She doesn't stop.
The stairwell door swings open on its own.
Darkness yawns behind it.
She turns just long enough to meet his eyes.
"This is the part you don't get to change," she says gently.
Then she falls.
The sound echoes longer than it should.
When it's over, the hallway exhales. Lights steady. Noise returns, offended by the interruption.
Someone down the hall opens a door and frowns. "Everything okay?"
He can't answer.
He stares at the empty stairwell, heart screaming against the inside of his chest.
His phone vibrates in his hand.
He doesn't remember picking it up.
The message is already there.
Someone important died.
A second message appears beneath it.
Now do you understand why I lied?
This story is only on Chapter Three.
And he has just learned the most important rule:
Paying attention has consequences.