Vincent jolted awake, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat dripping down his back. His vision was blurred, the taste of smoke still heavy in his mouth. He was alive. He shouldn't have been alive.
He had felt the fire. Felt his skin sear, his breath choke in his throat, his body crumpling to the floor of his restaurant, *La Gueule de Saturne*, as the flames devoured everything around him. The last thing he had seen was Rody's face through the haze, his green eyes wide with horror, his hand stained with blood from the broken wine bottle he'd stabbed into Vincent's neck.
Vincent swallowed hard, his throat dry. The events were vivid in his mind-the chase through the restaurant, Rody stabbing him, and then everything going up in flames. But here he was, in his bed, untouched by the fire. He looked around the room, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The moonlight streaming through the window told him it was night, but something about this night was terrifyingly familiar. It felt like the day before everything had fallen apart.
The day before he had killed Manon.
Vincent rubbed his face with trembling hands, his fingers lingering at his throat where the bottle had pierced his skin. But there was no wound. It was as if none of it had ever happened. Was this a second chance?
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his thoughts racing. He couldn't shake the feeling that time had rewound. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he knew exactly what was going to happen next.
He would kill Manon. Rody would find out. And they would spiral towards disaster, again. Was this fate? Or was there some way to change it?
He had to try. He wasn't about to let himself die again.
---
The first time Vincent tried to change the future, he stayed away from Rody.
It was simple, really. He figured that if he avoided him-kept his distance from the man he had become so obsessed with-then everything would turn out differently. No arguments, no accusations, no violence.
But the sense of impending doom weighed on him. That day, as he stood in the kitchen of his restaurant, he could feel Rody's presence in every corner, the anticipation gnawing at his nerves. The other staff noticed his unease, but Vincent barely paid attention to them.
Manon never entered the kitchen, but it didn't matter. When Vincent stepped into the freezer later that day, her locket was still there, covered in blood. His heart sank as he realized that despite everything, despite his attempts at keeping his distance, she was dead.
When Rody found out, Vincent could see the horror on his face-the betrayal. Just like before, the confrontation escalated. Rody attacked him, the wine bottle flashing in his hand. Vincent fought back, but the result was the same.
He bled out on the cold, tiled floor of the restaurant. Again.
---
The second time, Vincent killed Manon earlier, hoping to control the situation.
Perhaps if he took control of the situation and got rid of her before Rody could discover anything, he could prevent the nightmare from repeating itself. It was all about timing, he told himself. He could still make this work.
So he did it. Cold, calculated, and precise. He didn't give her time to struggle, to scream, to even know what was happening. He wiped the blood from his hands, carefully hid her body, and continued his work in the restaurant as if nothing had happened. This time, he wouldn't leave any clues for Rody to find. No locket. No evidence.
But when Rody found the bloodstain on Vincent's apron later that day, everything unraveled anyway. It was as if Rody *knew*. He always knew.
The confrontation was inevitable. Once again, Vincent found himself face to face with Rody, a broken bottle in his hand, Rody's eyes wild with confusion and rage.
