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Déjà Vu

Chapter 1: The First Cut

Denji wakes up to the sound of his own screaming.

His breath stutters, raw and uneven, as he clutches his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he's trying to hold himself together. His heart is pounding. His skin is damp with sweat.

Something is wrong.

The air in the apartment feels stale, like it's been trapped in here for too long. The sheets are tangled around his legs, too heavy, suffocating. He kicks them off and rubs his face, trying to shake off the lingering wrongness.

It's a dream. It has to be.

But his body remembers.

He can still feel the phantom sting of a blade piercing his stomach, the warmth of blood soaking through his clothes. The sharp, unbearable cold as his body gave out.

I died.

Denji grips his head.

That's insane. That's not possible. He's right here. He's breathing.

But the feeling doesn't go away. It clings to him like a second skin, itching, pressing into the back of his skull.

And then—

"WAKE UP, YOU FILTHY MUTT!"

A pillow smacks him in the face.

Denji jerks, heart hammering against his ribs as he scrambles upright.

Power is standing on the couch, one foot pressing into his stomach, her sharp teeth flashing in a smug grin.

Denji stares at her.

His pulse slams in his ears. Too loud. Too fast.

This already happened.

Didn't it?

"Jeez, Power, ever heard of a gentle wake-up call?" His voice shakes.

Power huffs, crossing her arms. "Bah! You should be grateful I waste my energy waking you at all, fool!"

Denji knew she was going to say that.

Not in the vague, fuzzy way people get déjà vu.

No.

He knew it word for word.

Static hums at the back of his mind, deep and suffocating. His hands tremble, fingers twisting in the sheets.

Too real. Too exact.

He glances around the apartment. Aki's katana leans against the wall. Dishes pile in the sink. The air smells faintly of cigarettes and burnt toast.

The same. Everything is the same.

His stomach churns. It's wrong.

"You look weird," Power says. "Like, weirder than usual. You sick or somethin'?"

Denji stops breathing.

His body remembers.

His mind remembers.

This isn't just familiar.

It's identical.

No.

Denji forces himself to laugh, rubbing his face. "Just tired," he mutters.

But his voice doesn't sound right.

His voice never sounds right.

A door opens.

Aki walks in. Hair tied back. Cigarette already between his fingers.

Denji knows what he's going to say before he says it.

"Quit yelling so early," Aki mutters, voice flat. Tired.

The same as always.

The same as last time.

Denji's head pounds.

He died.

He remembers it in flashes—Blood. Screaming. The cold sinking into his bones.

It's hazy, like staring at something through warped glass, but he knows it happened. He knows.

So why is he here?

Why is Aki here?

Why is Power standing on the couch, throwing pillows, grinning like she hasn't already—

She died, too.

Didn't she?

Denji's breath stutters.

Did she?

His thoughts glitch. Stutter. Skip. Like a scratched-up tape, playing over itself.

Aki exhales, rubbing his temple. "Get ready. We've got a mission today."

Denji recoils.

His head aches. His stomach lurches.

He knew Aki was going to say that.

Because this already happened.

And it will happen again.

And again.

And again.

Denji grips his head, fingers digging into his scalp.

Aki's already walking away. Power is already yelling something in the background.

The day is already moving forward.

Like a script.

Like a recording on loop.

Denji sucks in a breath.

He has to do something. He has to break it.

Because if he doesn't—

How many times has he already lived this day?