Chapter 3: The Scratches on the Skin

Leo's eyes snapped open to the sound of porcelain against granite.

For a moment, he lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling he knew by heart—every subtle imperfection in the paint, every shadow cast by the recessed lighting he'd designed himself. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the exact same angle, painting the exact same geometric patterns across the hardwood floor.

No.

The denial formed in his mind before conscious thought could catch up. This couldn't be happening again. He'd lived through the confrontation, the revelation, the terrible moment when he'd—

His hand flew to his neck, fingers probing the tender skin. The scratches were there. Four parallel lines, fresh and stinging, exactly where Elara's nails had raked across his throat as he'd dragged her toward the balcony.

Physical proof. Undeniable evidence that the horror hadn't been a nightmare born of guilt and paranoia, but lived experience somehow reset, rewound, forced to begin again.

From the kitchen came the familiar sounds of their morning ritual—the whisper of steam from the kettle, the gentle clink of delicate porcelain, and underneath it all, Elara's soft humming. The same melody she'd hummed yesterday. Or today. Or whenever the hell this was supposed to be.

Leo sat up slowly, his architect's mind struggling to process structural damage to reality itself. Time wasn't supposed to bend backward. Cause and effect weren't supposed to reverse. Dead wives weren't supposed to wake up the next morning preparing poisoned tea as if nothing had happened.

"Green tea," came Elara's voice from the kitchen, honey-sweet and perfectly normal. "Your grandmother's blend."

The words hit him like a physical blow. Leo doubled over, pressing his palms against his eyes, but he couldn't unsee the memory of her body falling through the morning air, couldn't unhear the doppler shift of her final scream.

I killed her. The thought sat in his mind like a stone, cold and immovable. I murdered my wife, and somehow I'm getting a second chance.

But was it really a second chance, or something far worse? The scratches on his neck suggested otherwise. If time had truly reset, if yesterday had been erased, then why did his body still bear the evidence of their struggle?

Leo forced himself to stand, legs unsteady beneath him. He moved to the bedroom doorway and peered into the living room, watching Elara through the open sight lines of their carefully designed space. She moved with the same ethereal grace, wore the same silk robe, prepared the same deadly ritual with loving care.

Everything was identical to yesterday's morning—except for the knowledge burning in Leo's chest like acid.

"You're up early," Elara said, noticing him in the doorway. She lifted the delicate cup in offering, steam rising from the pale green liquid like incense. "Your tea is ready."

Leo's throat constricted. The casual possessive—your tea—felt like a blade between his ribs. He knew what was in that cup now. Six months of small doses, building toward a final, fatal concentration. The perfect murder, delivered with a smile and a kiss goodbye.

"I'm not drinking that," he said, his voice rougher than intended.

Elara's expression flickered—confusion, then concern, exactly as it had yesterday. The same script, the same performance, as if she were an actress who'd forgotten she'd already played this scene.

"Are you feeling alright? You look pale."

"Don't." Leo stepped into the living room, noting the distance between them with tactical precision. "Don't pretend. I know what you're doing."

"Leo, what are you—"

"The poison. The insurance money. Marcus." Each word felt like pulling a blade from his own chest. "I know everything."

The porcelain cup slipped from Elara's fingers, shattering against the hardwood in a spray of green liquid and ceramic shards. The exact same break, the exact same pattern of destruction. Leo had watched it happen yesterday, but seeing it again felt like déjà vu twisted into nightmare.

This time, though, he was ready for what came next. The mask falling away, revealing the cold calculation underneath. The casual admission of six months of planned murder. The revelation that Marcus—his best friend, his business partner—had been waiting patiently for Leo's death.

"How?" Elara asked, her voice already shifting from confused wife to caught predator.

"Does it matter?"

The conversation unfolded exactly as before, each exchange of dialogue feeling scripted, predetermined. But Leo found himself studying Elara's performance with detached fascination. How had he missed the tells? The way her eyes went flat when she dropped the loving wife act. The predatory grace that replaced her ethereal movements. The complete absence of genuine emotion when she spoke of his impending death.

"You're not exactly stimulating company," she said, stepping around the broken tea cup with practiced ease. "Marcus is different. He's alive in ways you'll never be."

Yesterday, those words had cut deep, finding every insecurity Leo carried about his own perceived inadequacy. Today, they felt hollow, the desperate justifications of someone trying to rationalize murder for money and lust.

"So you decided to kill me."

"The insurance policy was your idea," Elara said with that same casual shrug. "We just expanded on the concept."

Leo let her talk, let her explain the perfect crime with obvious pride in her own cleverness. But his attention kept drifting to the balcony, to the space beyond the glass where he knew another version of himself was trapped, watching, waiting for the horror to unfold again.

The rage built in his chest, but it felt different this time. Less like wildfire, more like ice. Yesterday, the betrayal had consumed his rational mind, turning him into something he'd never imagined he could become. Today, the knowledge sat like a weight in his stomach, heavy and inevitable.

"And Marcus?" he asked, following the script because he didn't know how else to proceed. "Your partner in more ways than one?"

"He's been very patient," Elara said, moving closer with predatory confidence. "We both have."

Leo's hands clenched into fists, muscle memory driving him toward the confrontation he knew was coming. Part of him wanted to deviate from yesterday's script, to try something different, but a larger part recognized the futility. The scratches on his neck proved that major events couldn't be changed, only experienced again and again.

"My best friend," he said, the words tasting like ash.

"Your business partner who's been carrying the firm while you hide behind your drafting table."

The insults rolled off him this time. Leo moved toward her, crossing the distance in measured steps rather than the blind rush of yesterday. His hands found her throat with mechanical precision, and Elara's eyes widened with surprise at his cold efficiency.

"You want to see something other than mediocrity?" His voice was empty of everything except bitter certainty. "Let me show you what six months of poison can create."

He dragged her toward the balcony, feeling her nails rake fresh cuts over yesterday's wounds. The sliding door stood open, morning breeze carrying the sounds of a world that continued to function normally while his reality collapsed and reformed in endless loops.

"Please," Elara gasped. "Leo, I'm sorry, I never meant—"

"You never meant to get caught."

The balcony railing pressed against his legs as he forced her toward the edge. But this time, Leo was watching for the moment when her gaze would shift from his face to something behind him, across the narrow alley that separated their building from its twin.

There. Her eyes widened with terror as she saw the impossible figure on the opposite balcony—the other Leo, yesterday's Leo, trapped behind glass and forced to witness the same tragedy play out again.

Leo followed her stare, and his grip loosened involuntarily. The other man looked exactly like him, but wrong somehow—haggard, desperate, bearing the psychological weight of having watched this scene before. The trapped Leo was already pounding on the window, mouth open in a silent scream that Leo could somehow feel in his bones.

Stop. Please, God, stop. Don't make me watch this again.

Understanding crashed over Leo like a cold wave. He wasn't getting a second chance—he was trapped in an endless loop, forced to live out the same horror over and over while some other version of himself was condemned to witness it from across the alley. They were both prisoners, both victims, caught in a cycle that fed on their trauma like some cosmic parasite.

"What is this?" Leo whispered, staring at his own reflection of agony. "What the hell is happening to us?"

The other Leo collapsed to his knees, hands pressed over his eyes as if he could block out what he knew was coming. But Leo understood now that the watching was involuntary, that his other self would be forced to see every moment of what came next.

Elara took advantage of his loosened grip, trying to pull away. "Please, Leo, I don't understand what's happening, but we can figure this out—"

"No." Leo's attention snapped back to her, and his grip tightened. "There's no figuring this out. There's only what you made me become."

He lifted her over the railing, her feet kicking frantically in empty air. Across the alley, the other Leo's screams reached a crescendo of silent agony, his fists beating uselessly against glass that separated him from a scene he was powerless to change.

"This is what you created," Leo said, and let her fall.

This time, Leo forced himself to watch. Forced himself to see Elara's body hit the concrete eight floors below, to witness the final consequence of the betrayal that had shattered his world. The guilt hit him immediately—overwhelming, nauseating waves of remorse that doubled him over the railing.

But even as he retched from the horror of what he'd done, Leo knew it wouldn't matter. The scratches on his neck were proof that this moment was somehow fixed, immutable, destined to repeat regardless of his guilt or regret.

Across the alley, the other Leo had collapsed completely, broken by the weight of watching the same murder play out twice. Tomorrow—or today, or yesterday—their positions would reverse. Leo would be the one trapped behind glass, forced to watch a newer version of himself discover the betrayal and respond with violence that felt both inevitable and unforgivable.

The world began to dissolve at the edges, reality softening as time prepared to reset itself. Leo's last coherent thought was a realization that filled him with existential dread:

If he was trapped in an endless loop of betrayal and murder, if each day brought the same horror with fresh trauma, then he wasn't getting a second chance at all.

He was getting a first-class ticket to hell, and the scratches on his neck were his boarding pass.

The morning light faded to nothing, taking his sanity with it, leaving only the taste of ash and the promise of infinite repetition.