3:33 AM

Tuesday.

Not Monday. Monday's for rookies. Tuesday at 3:33 AM. That's when the universe drops its mask and shows you its real face. All teeth and no mercy.

Sam's awake. Not waking... awake. Like a defibrillator to the brain stem. Like resurrection without consent. His heart doesn't beat, it detonates. Over and over. A demolition crew working overtime in his chest.

The sheets cling to him, soaked through with something that isn't just sweat. It's thicker. Has weight. Leaves a film on the skin like spoiled milk. Fear isn't just a feeling, it's a secretion. It has a viscosity. A refractive index.

His tongue tastes like he's been sucking on a gun barrel. Like iron filings and electrical fires. Like something died in his mouth and left its keys behind.

The clock bleeds its numbers: 3:33.

Fuck.

He closes his eyes. Counts backward from ten. Opens them.

3:33.

The numbers haven't moved. Won't move. Time's stuck like a scratched DVD, looping the same frame over and over and—

3:34.

Released.

Wednesday. Same explosion. Same copper baptism. Same digital stigmata burning red.

Thursday's a rerun.

Friday, Sam's body has memorized the choreography. Heart rate spikes at 3:32:45. Pupils dilate at 3:32:55. Full consciousness at exactly—

3:33.

He tries everything. Ambien crushed into powder, snorted like his twenties never ended. Bourbon. Exercise until his muscles scream. Meditation apps with voices like Xanax. His body doesn't give a shit. His body has an appointment.

Saturday, he sets twelve alarms starting at 3:15. Gonna catch this thing in the act. Gonna stay awake and—

The numbers crawl: 3:31. 3:32.

His eyelids are concrete slabs. His brain's dissolving into static.

3:33.

Click.