6:00 a.m. – Restart
The alarm buzzed.
Try One's eyes opened instantly.
He didn't need to stretch. He didn't need a moment to gather his thoughts. Every motion of his body was precise—rehearsed, smooth, efficient. He had lived this day over 21,000 times.
He was no longer just reliving a loop.
He was rewriting it.
As he brushed his teeth, his mind reviewed the previous reset. Alyssa had aligned with him. Jamal had deployed the seed data. The pressure points in Department 3's infrastructure had been mapped—every phone call monitored, every exit route rehearsed.
But today wasn't about information.
Today was about strategy.
Try One's greatest advantage wasn't just experience. It was his ability to predict every reaction before it happened. He knew who would hesitate. Who would obey. Who would betray.
At 6:27 a.m., he put on his gray suit—one of three tailored to signal controlled authority—and slipped the burner phone into his coat.
He whispered to himself: "Divide the core. Build the fracture. Let it rot from within."
7:10 a.m. – Department 3 Cafeteria
He walked in like a shadow passing through.
People barely noticed him, yet his presence subtly shifted the atmosphere. He stopped by Mason—one of the mid-level analysts with a gambling problem and a secret side business selling data access.
"Mason," Try said calmly, sitting across from him. "Your offshore account is $12 short. Might want to check the wire you made last night."
The color drained from Mason's face.
Try smiled. "I know a way you could clear your debts and get yourself off the radar."
Mason stared, eyes darting. "What do you want?"
"Nothing today. Just a conversation. Thursday. Basement Archives. 9:35 a.m."
Try got up and walked away, leaving behind no evidence. Just tension. And possibility.
He didn't need to force people. He just needed to show them a door—and let them believe they were the ones who opened it.
8:22 a.m. – Surveillance Wing
Try sat at his desk as agents moved about. His fingers danced across the keyboard, but his focus wasn't on the screen.
He was orchestrating a symphony of doubt—setting small fires where the loyal once stood, encouraging whispers to grow in dark corners.
He wasn't creating chaos.
He was creating cracks.
Cracks that would one day bring the entire organization down—not with an explosion, but with a whisper no one could trace back to him.
10:05 a.m. – Archives Wing, Lower Level
The lights flickered overhead, an intentional glitch he'd orchestrated a dozen tries ago. It made the atmosphere just uneasy enough. Mason entered, ten minutes earlier than instructed—a sign of either fear or eagerness.
Try One sat calmly on a rusted file cabinet, arms crossed.
"I was expecting you at 9:35," he said without looking up.
"You said Thursday," Mason stammered.
"I did," Try replied. "It's Wednesday. That's your first mistake."
Mason's lips parted slightly. He looked around the empty basement, suddenly unsure if he was safe.
Try stood and stepped forward, tone razor-sharp.
"I don't work with people who can't tell time, Mason. Or who panic."
Mason stiffened. "Wait—I'm serious. I'm in. Just tell me what to do."
Try observed him like a surgeon studying a flawed organ.
"You'll plant something. On someone. Something harmless, but loud. A false whistleblower document in Director Vance's folder. Then report it anonymously. The goal isn't damage. The goal is suspicion."
"That's it?" Mason blinked.
"That's how doubt works. A single hairline crack... and pressure does the rest."
Mason nodded, visibly calming. Try handed him a flash drive and turned away.
But as he reached the stairs, he said without looking back:
"If you tip anyone off—if you try to play both sides—I'll reset tomorrow and make sure you never existed."
11:40 a.m. – Main Office Floor
Back at his desk, Try One watched Mason vanish into the crowd. One pawn moved.
He didn't need power. He just needed leverage. A whisper here, a file there, and the illusion of control spread like a virus.
But he knew something else.
Today wasn't just about manipulation.
Today, someone else was watching him.
He could feel it in the shift of body language, in the silence behind conversations, in the extra cup of coffee placed on his desk by someone who never spoke to him.
A new variable.
Try One's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Finally," he muttered.
Then he smiled.
"Let the mirror game begin."
2:15 p.m. – Surveillance Room 3C, West Wing
The room was supposed to be unoccupied. A restricted access zone, tucked behind the old server racks. But today, someone was inside.
Try One had expected it. In fact, he'd planned for it—weeks ago.
Through dozens of tries, he had noticed inconsistencies. Paperwork shifted. Logs backdated. His name flagged, unflagged, and then tagged again in someone's private access files. Whoever was watching was skilled—very skilled. But not him.
He entered the room silently, bypassing the old fingerprint lock with a makeshift heat imprint device he'd stolen from the maintenance lab—on his 52,401st attempt.
Inside, he found her.
Short brown hair. Analyst badge. Jane Heller.
She turned too fast when she saw him, which gave her away. She wasn't supposed to be surprised if she belonged there.
Try shut the door gently behind him. "Hi, Jane."
Her hand hovered near her bag.
"Looking for this?" he said, pulling her security keycard from his pocket. "You dropped it. About thirty-two loops ago."
Her breath hitched. She realized too late: he wasn't normal.
"You've been watching me," he said, stepping closer, voice soft but dangerous. "Your reports don't go to central. You've been hoarding data. Timestamps. Camera feed loops. The pattern of my movements."
Jane didn't speak.
"You don't work for them. You're outside. Possibly freelance. Maybe not alone."
"Who are you?" she finally asked.
Try smiled, not kindly.
"I'm the man who's died more times than anyone on this planet. And I remember all of it."
He watched her stiffen, face pale. The fear in her eyes wasn't just fear of exposure—it was recognition.
She had heard rumors.
Maybe even believed them.
"Why me?" she asked finally.
Try leaned in close.
"Because," he whispered, "you're the first person who noticed I don't belong here. And that makes you valuable."
He dropped her badge into her trembling hand.
"I'm going to give you a choice soon. You'll say no. That's fine. I'll just reset and ask again."
And with that, he left.
Outside, he exhaled.
His game of pawns had just escalated. Now it wasn't just about manipulation—it was about survival. Because for the first time in 100,000 tries…
Someone was playing back.
3:00 p.m. – Downtown Café, Two Blocks from HQ
Try sat at a corner table, black coffee untouched. The street was alive with chatter, office workers passing by, and the scent of burnt espresso hanging in the air. But his eyes were fixed on the glass across from him—mirrored windows of the adjacent law firm. Just enough reflection to watch without being watched.
Jane Heller was there.
She walked fast. Nervous. Clutching her bag tighter than before.
He knew she'd try to run. But it wasn't about stopping her—it was about letting her make that move. A show of free will in a trap that had already closed.
He dialed a secure number. The voice on the other end was cautious.
"She's moving," Try said. "Activate Protocol Seven."
A brief pause. "Are you sure? You said we'd wait another—"
"I've waited 100,000 days," he said flatly. "I'm done waiting."
He hung up.
This wasn't about manipulation anymore. It was about placing the right fear in the right heart. Jane wasn't just a watcher—she was a potential rogue variable. And in Try's world, variables were assets—or threats.
3:15 p.m. – Rooftop View, Line of Sight to Café
An unseen drone hovered. Silent. Sleek. Its lens locked on Jane as she entered the alley behind the firm.
Try watched the footage from his phone in real-time.
She met with someone. Male. Older. Glasses. Wore a messenger bag, didn't look up once. Try had seen him before, twenty-eight loops ago—access level Omega, unaffiliated with the main organization.
"Freelance intelligence runner." Try muttered.
The dots connected. She wasn't just gathering on her own. She was leaking. Selling. Feeding someone outside the circle.
He zoomed in on the face.
Face matched.
Former Blackfile Operative: Cassian Roe.
Try leaned back. The smile that curled on his lips was something dark, controlled, patient.
This wasn't fear. This was opportunity.
Because now he had two new pieces on the board.
And in the next loop, he'd make both of them believe they came up with the plan themselves.