Chapter 1
One week too long
Day 1 – 7:42 AM – Paris, somewhere between dreams and Line 6.
The metro car sways gently, cradled by the screeching of metal against the rails. Sleeping faces. Bowed heads. Among them, a young man stares into the void, as though he is looking at a world only he can see.
They call him 404. Not his real name. Just a nickname. A label born from a high school joke: “404 not found.” Because he is often elsewhere, lost in the clouds, disconnected from reality. A system error on two legs. He eventually adopted it as a mask.
His notebook, open, rests on his knees. He writes. Verses. Thoughts. Fragments of soul. He dreams of a slow world. A world where silence would bother no one. A world where he would have the courage to speak to Marguerite.
Marguerite... The girl in the car across the way. Always the same train, same time, same spot. Her brown hair curls like ancient calligraphy. Her gaze is a storm held back. She reads forgotten books. She listens to sad music. She is, in his eyes, a living poem.
He has never spoken to her. He doesn’t even know if she knows he exists. But he loves her. Silently. Poetically. Madly.
That morning, he feels something. A shiver. An urgency in the air. He puts his notebook away. Pulls out his earbuds. Stands up.
He takes a step. Then a scream. A dull thud. A sudden chaos.
A man surges forward. A blade in his hand. A metallic flash. He charges straight toward Marguerite. She steps back. She stumbles. Without thinking, 404 throws himself in the way. A white flash. A burning sensation. Then... darkness.
Day 1 – 7:42 AM – Paris, somewhere between dreams and Line 6.
The car sways. Same screeching. Same faces. 404 jolts awake. He is drenched in sweat. He looks around him. He is... alive. But...
He opens his notebook again. The last page holds a poem he never wrote:
“If you die, I stay. If you live, I leave. One week. Not a day more. Protect her. 404.”
He looks up. Marguerite is there. Still. Smiling at another girl, oblivious to the danger. 404 blinks. The knife. The shock. It wasn’t a dream. It was yesterday. No. It was today. Again.
He understands. The knife. The scream. The blood that hasn’t yet been shed.
A loop. A damn time loop.
