Jet-lagged and restless, I was scrolling through my phone in the hotel suite when a bizarre post on some fringe message board caught my eye: 【Billionaire Bloodbath: An Inside Look at the Westwood Murder. On July 30th, 2025, at 10:30 PM, the sole heiress to the Westwood Corporation, on a business trip in Chicago, was brutally decapitated. Her head was discovered in the suite’s mini-fridge. The killer? The late CEO’s secret illegitimate son, who gained access by posing as a food delivery driver.】 I felt a flicker of unease. I’m the sole heiress to the Westwood Corporation. I am, in fact, on a business trip in Chicago. But my father didn't have a secret son. Besides, it’s July 30th right now, but the clock on my phone reads 10:00 PM. The post was timestamped for a murder that was supposed to happen in thirty minutes. How could a news alert from the future pop up on my feed? I dismissed it as a sick prank by some bored internet troll. Then, a wave of thirst hit me. I walked over to the mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. As the small door swung open, I froze. The interior of the fridge—the precise arrangement of miniature liquor bottles, the brand of sparkling water, the single can of Coke Zero—was identical to the one in the crime scene photo from the post. And the spot where the photo had shown a severed head, nestled between the gin and the Perrier, was conspicuously, perfectly empty. Just then, the doorbell chimed. A man’s voice called out, muffled by the heavy door. “Food delivery.” 1 My heart hammered against my ribs. My first instinct wasn't the door; it was the phone. I hit the speed dial for my security detail. Forget the fact I haven't ordered takeout in years. When I travel, I book the penthouse suite precisely for the quiet, the isolation. All my meals are handled by the hotel's private kitchen. Even if, by some bizarre circumstance, a delivery was made, a hotel staff member would bring it up. A delivery driver would never, ever be allowed on this floor. The post flashed in my mind. It was insane, utterly unbelievable, but every detail—the person, the place, the timing—was lining up with a terrifying precision. Was this some kind of death prophecy? My silence was making the person outside impatient. The knocking became louder, more insistent. The flat of a hand now, slapping against the wood. “BANG! BANG! BANG!” “Hello? Delivery! You need to come get your food!” The voice was rough, gravelly. It sounded like a man in his fifties. I remembered the post described the killer as the CEO’s son. A small, irrational wave of relief washed over me. The man outside sounded nearly as old as my father. He couldn’t possibly be his son. My security detail was quartered in a standard suite a few floors below. It would only take them a minute or two to get here. Thinking of them, my coiled nerves began to loosen. The relentless pounding on the door continued, and a morbid curiosity began to bubble up inside me. I tiptoed across the plush carpet, my movements silent, until I reached the heavy, sound-proofed door. The second I got close, the knocking stopped. The silence on the other side was absolute. I held my breath, pressing my eye carefully to the peephole. The hallway was empty. A long, vacant corridor under the warm glow of the sconces. And then— “BAM! BAM!” Two explosive blows struck the door, so loud and close I felt the vibration through the floor. At the same time, a face shot up from below, instantly filling the entire fisheye lens of the peephole. It was a wrinkled, bloated face, the skin slick with a greasy sheen. A heavy double chin spilled over the collar of a cheap delivery uniform. A pair of murky, bloodshot eyes stared directly into mine through the peephole. His lips peeled back slowly, mechanically, stretching into a grotesque, impossibly wide grin. “BAM! BAM!” Two more thunderous impacts. He knew I was right there. It felt like he was trying to smash through the door with the heel of his palm. The sound was so immediate, so violent, that I stumbled backward, my heart seizing in my chest as I nearly fell to the floor. Just as I braced for another assault, the tone from outside shifted entirely. The brutal pounding ceased, replaced by a voice that was intentionally low and soft, a stark, terrifying contrast to the earlier violence. “Hello, your delivery… I’ll just leave it here at the door for you, okay?” I heard the scuff of shoes. Tap, tap, tap, tap… The footsteps receded down the hallway, fading into silence. He just… left? Moments later, a different set of footsteps approached—heavy, purposeful. My security team had arrived. I saw them through the peephole, a line of imposing men in dark suits, their presence a fortress of security. I finally let out a long, shuddering breath. But the relief was quickly consumed by anger. The penthouse suite of a five-star hotel, and the security was this pathetic? They let any lunatic wander these halls? I stormed back into the living area and dialed the front desk, my voice sharp with accusation. The manager’s response, after a moment of checking, was laced with confusion. “Ma’am… first, please accept my sincerest apologies for your disturbing experience. However, we’ve reviewed all security footage for the half-hour surrounding your call. Every elevator to the penthouse level, every service corridor, every fire escape… there’s nothing. There is no record of anyone in a delivery uniform entering the penthouse floor. The elevator logs only show your security team’s arrival. The hallway cameras show no one suspicious going up or down…” The manager paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held a barely perceptible tremor. “And ma’am… we also have no footage of the ‘deliveryman’ you described ever leaving.” Vwoom. An icy chill shot up from the soles of my feet and exploded in my skull. Not on the cameras? He never came up, and he never went down? It could only mean one thing. The ‘deliveryman’ had been hiding on this floor the entire time. A deep, primal unease settled in my gut. Without a second thought, I texted my head of security to call the police. I glanced at the team of men now stationed outside my door. I’d handpicked them myself. Each one was a decorated martial artist, a professional in close-quarters combat. At least until the police arrived, I was safe. I let my shoulders slump, just a little. The ordeal had left a sheen of cold sweat on my skin. I went back into the bathroom to splash water on my face and change. When I came out, I sank onto the sofa to wait for the police. I unconsciously unlocked my phone, and there it was again, that same damned post, sitting at the very top of my feed. This time, I didn't dismiss it as a prank. I started reading it, word by word, my focus absolute. And then I saw the publication date on the post, and the air left my lungs. July 30th, 2035. 10:45 PM. Ten years in the future. How is that possible? I frantically backed out of the post and scrolled through the rest of my feed. Every other article, every other meme, every other picture was dated today. But when I clicked back on the strange post and refreshed the page, the date remained unchanged: 2035. This post, published ten years from tonight, was analyzing a murder that was set to happen at 10:30 PM. My murder. I forced myself to read to the end. The post claimed the case went unsolved for a decade. For ten years, no one knew the heiress had been killed by her father’s secret son. In that time, the son had inherited the family business, liquidated every asset, sold off the company for parts, and vanished overseas with the fortune. The police never found him. And the original heiress’s mother—my mother—was committed to a psychiatric hospital by the illegitimate son, under the pretense of mental instability following the loss of her only child. She died by suicide six months later. A powerful, sickening sense of dread rose in my throat. I scrolled down to the comments. My heart seized when I saw the highest-rated replies: [Post is wrong. The son didn't kill her disguised as a delivery driver. He hired the driver. The police figured it out years later. It was a classic misdirection.] [^^Right? We're talking about the Westwood heiress. Penthouse suite, private security detail. No way a single delivery guy could get to her.] [Exactly. The real killer was already inside the suite.] […inside the suite.] [INSIDE THE SUITE!] Those three words drained every ounce of strength and warmth from my body. A coldness, more profound than any I had ever known, clawed its way through me, soaking my silk pajamas in sweat. My eyes, acting on their own primal instinct, darted to the top right corner of my phone screen. 10:29 PM. The post said the murder happened at 10:30 PM. The thought had barely registered, my mind too slow to process, too paralyzed to react— THUMP! A dull, heavy impact exploded from the back of my head. A hot, sticky liquid, thick with the metallic tang of rust, erupted from the wound, blurring my vision as it streamed down my face and neck. Then came the feeling of a sharp, serrated blade drawing across my throat. With the last shred of my consciousness, I fought to turn my head, to see the face of the person behind me. But a hand, strong as an iron clamp, was already pressing my head down, another covering my mouth and nose, silencing me forever. So the post was real. And the person in the post was me. I collapsed into a spreading pool of my own blood. As a million protests screamed in my mind, a helpless darkness pulled me under, and my eyes slid shut. 2 When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the hotel bed, completely unharmed. A phantom pain still throbbed at the base of my skull and tingled across my neck, but when I reached up to touch the skin, there was no stickiness, no blood. My gaze fell to the phone clutched in my hand. The screen was on, displaying that same, cursed post. The headline was identical: 【Billionaire Bloodbath: An Inside Look at the Westwood Murder…】 The time displayed on the screen was 10:00 PM. I was back. I had been reborn, thirty minutes before my own murder. My eyes darted around the room, a new kind of terror dawning. The killer was here. Right now. Hiding somewhere in this suite. I forced a breath into my lungs. Calm down. Think. Knowing he was already in the room changed everything. This time, I didn't call. A phone call could be overheard. I sent a discreet text to my head of security, then another to a contact at the Chicago PD. Almost as soon as I hit send, the doorbell rang. “Food delivery,” the gravelly voice announced. Knowing now that he was just a decoy, a diversion, my first instinct was to ignore him completely. But I had to play the part. I couldn't let the man in the room know that I knew. I pitched my voice to sound annoyed, unsuspecting. “Sorry, I didn't order anything. You must have the wrong room.” Then I slipped in my AirPods, pretending to listen to music, to be oblivious to the knocking at the door. My eyes, however, were anything but oblivious. They scanned every shadow, every potential hiding place in the vast suite—the heavy velvet curtains, the walk-in closet, the marble-lined bathroom… Where are you? Soon, the pounding on the door stopped. I heard the faint footsteps retreat down the hall. Just as before, my security detail arrived moments later. Everything was happening exactly as it had the first time. I practically threw myself at the door, unlocking it and surging into the center of the human wall formed by my bodyguards. As I crossed the threshold, I thought I heard a faint rustling sound from behind me, from inside the suite. I glanced back over my shoulder. In a dark corner of the living room, I felt it more than saw it—an intense, unwavering gaze fixed on me. “Go! Now!” I commanded, my voice trembling. I didn't dare look again. Instantly, they formed a tight circle around me, a phalanx of muscle and tailored suits, hustling me toward the private elevator. The doors slid shut, and as we descended, I felt like I could finally breathe. The feeling intensified as I sank into the plush leather seat of my armored town car in the garage, the heavy door slamming shut with a solid, reassuring thud. The car pulled out of the garage and into the city streets. I'm safe. I did it. The tension in my shoulders began to ease. The car had just turned onto the main avenue when I looked down at my phone. Like a moth to a flame, I opened the app. And there it was. The post. Staring at me from the top of my feed once again. That sickening premonition returned, a cold knot in my stomach. I scrolled down to the comments. My heart stopped. The comment section was different. There were new replies since the last time I’d looked, just minutes ago. Reading them, I felt the air turn to ice in my lungs. [Damn, the heiress was smart. She almost got away. Too bad she still died.] [She really thought getting in the car meant she was safe…] [What a shame. She still died…] [She thought she escaped…] A frigid terror seized me, freezing the blood in my veins. Slowly, deliberately, forcing my terrified muscles to obey, I turned my head to look at the men inside the car with me. I counted. One, two, three… six, seven. A chill crawled up my spine. Seven. Why were there seven men? My security detail is six people. They were all dressed in identical black suits, all wearing sunglasses, even at night. I scanned their faces, trying to find the one that didn't belong. But that was the strangest part. All seven faces were familiar. I recognized every single one of them. How could that be? I forced the panic down. Think. Be rational. I had to make a decision, now. “Stop the car,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “Marcus, you stay. The rest of you, get out and head back to the hotel. Wait for the police, and help them find the man who was hiding on the penthouse floor.” Marcus was my father’s original pick. He’d been with me for a decade. He was the only one I knew, with absolute certainty, I could trust. The driver pulled over. The doors opened and the other six bodyguards filed out, quickly assembling on the sidewalk before jogging back toward the hotel. They all looked normal, professional. Except one of them, just for a second, glanced back. His expression was strange. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the car itself. I didn't have time to analyze it. “Marcus, you drive. Get us to the nearest precinct. Fast.” He nodded, sliding into the driver's seat. I collapsed against the leather, drenched in a cold sweat. Now it was just me and Marcus. The car moved smoothly back into traffic. Okay. I'm safe now. For real this time? I glanced at my phone. 10:28 PM. Two minutes left. I leaned my head back, trying to will my heart rate back to normal. Everything seemed okay. Marcus’s focused profile, the city lights sliding past the windows, my own pale reflection… And in that precise moment of relaxed vigilance— A wisp of cold air brushed against my right ear. My pupils contracted. There’s someone else in the car. The thought had barely formed when a hand, covered in some kind of coarse fabric and as cold and unyielding as an iron clamp, shot out from behind my seat and locked around my throat. Another hand, this one gripping a blade that glinted in the passing streetlights, plunged into the left side of my neck with cold, brutal precision. Shhlick. An explosion of pain. A gush of hot blood. It happened so fast. So impossibly fast that even Marcus, my most trusted protector, had no time to react. My vision turned crimson, then blurry. I saw Marcus’s face in the rearview mirror, his features twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. The phone slipped from my limp fingers. The screen was still lit. The time read: 10:30 PM. Ten-thirty. Again. There was only one other person in the car with me. Marcus hadn't moved. So who was the second person? How did they get in here? An absolute, final coldness swallowed my consciousness. The world went black. 3 I woke up again in the hotel. I immediately checked my phone. As expected, the time was 10:00 PM. The screen was still open to the post from the future. But this time, I noticed something had changed. The headline itself was different. 【Billionaire Bloodbath: An Inside Look at the Westwood Murder. On July 30th, 2025, at 10:30 PM, the sole heiress to the Westwood Corporation was murdered on a business trip in Chicago. Her head was dumped beneath the east pier of the Grand Avenue Bridge. The killer? The late CEO’s secret illegitimate son.】 It had changed. The Grand Avenue Bridge. I did a quick mental replay. That was exactly where we had been when I was killed in the car. So it wasn't a closed loop. Things could be changed. There was hope. This time, my plan was the same, but refined. Call the police. Contact my security. But I only summoned one person: Marcus. After what I’d just experienced, seeing his reaction, I knew with certainty he wasn’t the one who had attacked me. He was the only one I could trust. As before, I didn't engage with the decoy deliveryman at the door. When Marcus arrived, I slipped out of the room, made sure no one followed, and pulled him with me toward the service elevator. In the underground garage, I took no chances. I didn't go for the town car. Instead, I pointed to the smallest sedan in our fleet. I had Marcus do a full, meticulous sweep. He circled the vehicle with a high-powered flashlight, checking the undercarriage, the wheel wells, the door seams, even the engine block and trunk latch. “All clear, Ms. Westwood. Exterior is secure. No attachments, no signs of tampering.” He then opened the door and did a rapid but thorough internal check—under the front and back seats, the trunk divider, even the glove box and sun visors. “Interior clear! We’re secure!” My frayed nerves settled slightly. The car was small. There were only so many places a person could hide. “Let’s go. Nearest police precinct. Now,” I ordered, getting into the passenger seat. Marcus got behind the wheel and started the engine. The car moved smoothly out of the garage and merged into the late-night traffic, speeding toward the closest station. The car was dead silent, save for the low hum of the engine. I kept my eyes glued to the space behind our seats, the gaps between the headrests and the ceiling, the seals around the doors. Marcus drove with intense focus, his eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirrors. A thought struck me. I pulled out my phone. I opened the app. The post was gone. It wasn't in my feed. A surge of genuine hope, of joy, flooded my chest. Had I finally done it? Had I broken the cycle? The time on my phone: 10:28 PM. 10:29 PM. Up ahead, I could see the blocky outline of the police station at the next intersection. The traffic light turned red. Our car slowed to a stop. The crosswalk timer ticked down. 3… 2… 1… Just as Marcus’s foot moved toward the accelerator— A plume of hot, foul-smelling air washed over the back of my neck. I heard a man’s low chuckle from directly behind me. Every hair on my body stood on end. My heart stopped cold. Impossible! It’s just me and Marcus! He’s in the driver's seat!
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