Morning came quietly.
Too quietly.
Sunlight slipped through the thin gap of the curtains, painting soft gold across Claire's bedroom floor. The house was peaceful, untouched by the chaos of last night — as if nothing had happened.
But her body knew otherwise.
Claire opened her eyes slowly.
For a few seconds, she didn't move.
Then the memory returned.
The knife.
The blood.
Randy's hand gripping the blade.
Her fingers instinctively curled against the blanket.
She had gone home alone last night, escorted only until the gate, insisting she was fine. Her mother had asked a few worried questions, but Claire had only said it was a small incident.
A lie.
Because nothing about it felt small.
Her phone vibrated softly on the bedside table.
Miko.
Again.
Claire stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
"…Good morning."
"You're awake," Miko said immediately, his voice unusually serious. "Are you alright?"
She sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard. "I'm home. Safe."
"That's not what I asked."
Claire let out a quiet breath.
"There was an attack," she admitted. "In front of Randy's house."
Silence fell on the other end.
Then, very carefully, Miko spoke,
"Explain."
Claire lowered her gaze to her hands.
"He came out of nowhere. A knife. I froze for a second…" her voice softened unconsciously, "…and Randy stopped him."
"He stopped the attacker?"
"Yes. He grabbed the blade."
Miko inhaled sharply. "He got injured."
"…His palm was cut. Bleeding a lot."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"So," Miko finally said, "the attack happened exactly when you were leaving his house. In a private area. With security present."
Claire frowned slightly. "You're thinking too much."
"Or not enough."
His tone was calm, but firm.
"Claire, listen carefully. Someone knew your schedule. Knew your location. Knew the exact moment you would be most vulnerable."
Her grip on the phone tightened.
"That doesn't mean Randy is involved."
"I didn't say that."
"But you implied it."
Miko exhaled quietly.
"I'm saying this could be a psychological setup."
She went silent.
"If someone saves you in a life-threatening moment," Miko continued, voice low, "your trust toward that person will increase dramatically. It's a very effective method."
"That's ridiculous," Claire whispered.
"Is it?"
"He got hurt. Real blood. Real injury."
"I know."
"Then stop suspecting him."
A pause.
Then Miko spoke again, softer but colder,
"I still don't trust Randy."
The words landed heavily.
Claire closed her eyes briefly.
Last night's image replayed again —
Randy stepping in front of her without hesitation.
The pain in his face.
The blood on the ground.
"…He protected me," she said quietly.
"And that is exactly why you should stay alert."
Silence stretched between them.
But this time—
Claire did not argue further.
"I'll be careful," she said instead. "But I won't assume he's manipulating me just because he saved my life."
Miko didn't respond immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"Just remember this, Claire. Not every rescue is purely accidental."
The call ended.
Claire lowered her phone slowly, her expression unreadable.
For a long moment, she simply sat there.
Then she looked toward the window.
Sunlight.
Calm streets.
Normal morning.
Yet her chest still felt heavy.
"…Overthinking," she murmured to herself.
Because doubting Randy felt wrong.
Because the fear last night had been real.
And so was his injury.
She stood up and walked to her desk, her thoughts still tangled — until her phone lit up again.
A message.
From Randy's father.
"Randy is stable. He was discharged this morning."
Claire's shoulders loosened slightly.
Stable.
Good.
Very good.
Yet somewhere deep inside her mind, a quieter thought remained—
Why did the attacker appear at the exact timing?
***
In another place, far from Claire's quiet home, morning light barely reached the narrow alley between tall buildings.
Diana stood there, dressed neatly as if nothing unusual had happened.
In front of her, a man with a hoodie pulled low over his face shifted nervously against the wall. His height was around 178 cm, posture tense, breathing still uneven.
"You will stay hidden for a while," Diana said calmly.
"I almost got caught yesterday," the man muttered. "Security chased me."
"And yet you escaped."
Her tone was flat.
Controlled.
"No one must find you. Not the police. Not anyone connected to that house. Lay low. Change your route. Avoid cameras."
Footsteps approached from the side.
A faint scent of smoke drifted in the air.
Tasya leaned casually against a nearby pillar, a cigarette between her fingers, eyes sharp and observant.
"Are you sure this won't leak?" Tasya asked, exhaling slowly. "Randy's father already reported it to the police. That makes this a serious case."
Diana remained silent for a second.
Then she answered,
"It won't reveal anything."
Tasya narrowed her eyes slightly. "You sound confident."
"The attacker never spoke. Never showed his face clearly. And there is no direct connection to us."
The hooded man lowered his head, saying nothing.
Tasya flicked the ash onto the ground.
"…Still," she continued, "Randy getting injured wasn't part of the plan, was it?"
For the first time, Diana's expression hardened.
"No."
Her fingers tightened subtly at her side.
"That was unexpected."
Tasya studied her carefully. "And now he looks like a hero in Claire's eyes."
Silence.
Heavy.
Intentional.
Diana's lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile.
"Perhaps," she said softly.
The morning wind passed quietly through the alley.
"And that," she added, almost in a whisper,
"may not be entirely disadvantageous."
Far away, in her peaceful bedroom, Claire stood by the window, unaware that while she tried to convince herself to ignore Miko's warning—
Others were already calculating
the consequences of last night's failed attack.
The house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Claire sat at the edge of her bed, sunlight resting softly on her hands. She closed her eyes and tried to force her memory backward — past yesterday, past the attack, past this rewritten life.
Back to the day before she was reborn.
But the memory would not come clearly.
It felt like reaching into deep water, her fingers brushing only shadows instead of solid truth.
She remembered fear.
She remembered running.
And she remembered Tasya.
Diana.
Their faces were sharp in her mind — colder than the night air, eyes filled with something merciless.
But the others around them?
Blurred.
Faceless silhouettes standing in the dark.
She tried harder, pressing her palm against her temple.
Was she stabbed that night?
Or was it something else?
The memory fractured — a flash of metal, the scent of iron, her body collapsing — but it didn't feel the same as last night.
It wasn't in front of a house.
It wasn't under porch lights.
It was darker.
Colder.
Alone.
Her breathing slowed.
No.
Last night was not the same.
Which meant—
What killed her before…
had not yet fully happened in this life.