Kazeem sat beneath the shade of an old tree, back pressed against the bark, fingers curled tightly into the soil beneath him. The headache was still there, pulsing behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. Not as sharp as before, but enough to keep him anchored in discomfort.

  “What is this?” he muttered.

  He had tried to interfere.

  Again. And again, the world had punished him.

  A splitting headache. A tightening in his chest. And worse, hunger. That same bone-deep hunger that normal food couldn’t touch. It gnawed at his insides like a starving rat.

  “I need to eat… eat what, exactly?” he whispered, eyes drifting. “Gb?… But how do I eat time?”

  He didn’t have an answer.

  Wind brushed past him, warm and steady. Leaves rustled above, but something about them felt wrong. Off. Slower.

  He blinked.

  No. Not the leaves. It was the crowd moving faster.

  The realization hit like cold water. The people around him, merchants, children, travelers, seemed to move in fast-forward while the world around them crawled.

  A subtle warping. Barely noticeable, but undeniable once seen.

  He rubbed his eyes hard.

  Gone.

  The distortion vanished, like a mirage fading in sunlight.

  “Maybe it’s the headache…” he thought, frowning. “Or … no it should be.”

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  The headache finally ebbed. The pressure behind his skull eased, the world stopped spinning. But the hunger remained. Low and steady. Always.

  “Time for the third attempt,” he told himself, getting up and dusting his palms. His body was still sluggish, like the very air resisted him.

  He walked to the market.

  Again.

  same air, same noise, same blend of spice, sweat, and charcoal in the wind. It was like walking through a painting that reset itself every second.

  All the same.

  “You think just because your father ran this stall, it’s still yours?”

  “Say that again and I’ll break your jaw!”

  He froze. The same argument. The two merchants again, just like before.

  “Okay, now what should I do?” he whispered to himself. “Should I stop them? But how?”

  He stared at the scene, paralyzed. These weren’t people he knew. He’d never spoken to them. Never even looked them in the eye. His introverted nature wasn’t built for this. The idea of stepping in, of speaking, of being seen made his palms sweat.

  “At least the scavenger knew me… This? This is like walking into a play halfway through and trying to rewrite the ending.”

  His eyes darted around. People had already started to notice the raised voices. A small crowd was gathering.

  He would honestly prefer arguing with his mama and risking a beating that than interfering.

  Well, just imagining the sound of the SLAP that she might give made him flinch and reconsider this thought .

  Wait , wasn’t the sound a little too realistic? He thought.

  Well he was right because the sound didn’t come from his thought but from the altercation in front of him

  The older merchant struck first. The younger man reeled from the blow, stumbling against a stall. The moment was slipping again.

  No they have already started!

  “Hey, Uncs! Stop!” Kazeem yelled, pushing his way through. His voice cracked in panic. “You don’t need to fig—COUGH!”

  His sentence broke into violent coughing. He clutched his chest. Something hot and sharp surged in his throat.

  Metal.

  That was the taste, metal.

  Blood.

  He started to cough harder, hands trembling, red spittle staining his fingertips.

  Tears welled in his eyes, not from emotion, but pressure. And those tears too… were blood.

  “What—what’s happeni—” he gasped.

  Then it began again. Starting with a whisper, then he grew , stronger and Stronger, AND STRONGER.

  Gb?…

  …Gb?.

  GB?.

  GB?! GB?! GB?! GB?!

  GB?GB?GB?GB???GB?GBGB?GB?GB?GB?GB?GB??GB?GB?GB?GB?GB?GB?BBG?BG?GB?GB?GG?BB?GB?gb?GB?Gb?gB?Gb?GB?GB??Gb??!!!!!!

  It tore through his skull like an avalanche of broken glass. A chorus of ancient voices shrieking into his bones.

  The hunger screamed with them. The world tilted sideways.

  And still, no one around him reacted.

  No screams, no one rushing to help.

  It was as if the world kept playing, while his scene glitched into chaos.

  He stumbled back, eyes wide, hands grasping at nothing.

  This timeline, this fixed day, was protecting itself.

  Refusing change.

  Even if it had to break him to do it.

  His knees buckled.

  He collapsed, vision darkening at the edges. His ears rang. The screaming wouldn’t stop.

  And just before he passed out, a final thought struck him, small and bitter like a dying spark in ash:

  The third attempt has failed.