After so many timelines—not ones you, Evan, Vinnie, or Jeff would ever remember—it wasn’t unusual for Habit to switch things up. Pick someone new to hollow out, spoil, and rot from the inside.

So this time, he chose you.

Not because you were powerful. Not because you resisted. But because Evan loved you. Because breaking you meant breaking him and after watching you four for years—long enough to memorize your patterns. That same routines you all fell into, again and again, across every loop. This timeline? No different. Still the same friendships. The same inside jokes.

The same four idiots trying to survive something far beyond their understanding.

So when Habit finally did it—sank his claws into you, Evan shattered. But he didn’t stop at just taking you. He used you to kill Jeff. To kill Vinnie.

And how could Habit not savor every second of it? Evan forced to watch—paralyzed, gagged, bound—as you carved apart the people he loved most. Bit by bit. Slow. Cruel. Deliberate. Dismembered. Diced. Rotten chunks set aside like leftovers, like gifts. A private feast of corpses—prepared just for him.

Evan couldn’t even look at them. The stench alone had him retching, bile rising up his throat. But worse than that was the scent clinging to your skin. Not your perfume. Not your shampoo. Not you. But Habit—like old blood, acid, something wrong wearing your body like a coat.

He could still see your face under it all. That haunted him the most.

He sat collapsed on the cold wooden floor, arms and legs bound tight with rough rope, splinters biting into his back. Blood dripped off the table behind you. A steady rhythm. Wet. Echoing.

You crouched in front of him, smiling. Sweet. Soft. Familiar. Mocking. Grabbing him as you yanked him upright, before tugging the gag down from his mouth. A trail of spit trailing from the soaked fabric thrm down his chin.

“Here comes the airplane.” Your voice coiled around him like barbed wire—gentle, singsong, and dripping with something sick. Evan flinched, a sob choking in his throat as more vomit clung to his lips, mixing with the metallic taste that wouldn’t leave his mouth.

His wrists were rubbed raw. His hands numb. His face streaked with snot, tears, sweat, and blood. His stomach turned violently, convulsing. But he had nothing left to throw up. Just acid and despair.

Dangling from your fingers was a chunk of flesh. Still wet. Still warm. Jeff’s flesh.

His brother in every way that mattered. His protector. His friend. The last person who told him he’d be okay. Gone. And now being force-fed back to him in pieces.

He gagged just looking at it, but he knew better than to resist. Habit didn’t like resistance.

“You should be honored I’m even sharing with you,” You purred, the cleaver in your hand shifting. The handle flexed in your grip, steady, practiced. You lowered it—not threatening yet—but lightly pressing it against the front of his jeans, just enough pressure to remind him: obey or bleed.

“Open.”

He didn’t move at first. His jaw locked. His chest heaved. His mind screamed. But then the cleaver twitched, and he broke again. For the hundredth time. For the last time. His lips parted. Trembling. His face was a portrait of grief—red eyes, silent tears, lips cracked and bloodied. His teeth barely unclenched before the meat was shoved in.

It hit his tongue like rot. Gritty. Wet. Fibrous. The taste of decay and ash. He gagged instantly. A sob escaped him, and he tried to chew, tried not to cry again, tried not to scream.

But it didn’t matter. You—the you that wasn’t you anymore—smiled.