“Doomsday Loop: The Noise of the Second Day”

Lin Chuan woke to sound.

Not an alarm.

But a continuous, low-frequency hum, as if vibrating from deep beneath the city, or pressed directly against his skull. The instant he opened his eyes, the sound abruptly stopped.

The room was unnaturally quiet.

He stayed in bed for a moment, not moving immediately.

Memories of last night lingered—the gray sky of day one, the paused wind, the cut-off broadcast, and the darkness at exactly 00:00.

He remembered.

And that should not have been possible.

Because deep down, he knew:
The second day was not meant to be remembered in full.

His phone lit up.

No missed calls. No abnormal alerts.

The date read as expected—
The second day.

He noticed a detail:
Battery at 100%.

He hadn’t charged it last night.

When he stepped outside, the world felt “louder” than yesterday.

Not in volume, but in density.

Advertisements flashed faster, subtitles occasionally overlapped; traffic lights at intersections sometimes showed red and green at the same time for a brief moment; conversations in the crowd contained words that had no discernible source.

Like multiple channels being forced onto the same track.

On the subway, a low whisper reached him:

“...No, this time it’s still him...”

He jerked his head around.

Everyone else kept their heads down, scrolling phones, dozing, or staring blankly. No one had spoken.

But the words were clear—too clear to be a hallucination.

10:00 a.m.—the first manifestation of the noise.

He was taking notes in a company meeting when the projection screen flickered.

The next second, a line of text appeared on the PPT.

Not gibberish.

A complete sentence:

[Day Two: Corrections Allowed]

No one in the room reacted.

Colleagues continued discussing the project as if the line had never appeared. Seconds later, the PPT turned to the next slide, and the text vanished.

Lin Chuan’s hands froze over the keyboard.

Day one had been “Observation Allowed.”
Day two was “Corrections Allowed.”

What did that mean?

It meant—
The world was beginning to intervene.

At noon, he deliberately took a detour home.

He wanted to confirm one thing:
Could he still choose his own path?

By the third intersection, he found the road under construction.

Barricades, warning signs, temporary detour notices—all perfectly in place. Yet he was certain that yesterday, the path had been open.

He hesitated for a second at the intersection.

During that second, the low hum returned.

Not piercing, but oppressive.

As if urging him forward.

Lin Chuan took a deep breath and turned toward the detour.

The hum disappeared instantly.

He stopped.

Stepped back a step.

The hum returned.

At that moment, he realized:

The noise of the second day was not background.
It was guidance.

3:00 p.m.—he saw the first “corrected person.”

A man standing in the middle of the street.

Cars roared past, yet none came close. Every vehicle subtly swerved, as if pre-calculated to avoid him.

The man’s expression was blank.

He looked like he was waiting, or frozen.

Lin Chuan stepped closer.

The hum surged.

He saw the man’s lips move.

No sound.

But Lin Chuan “understood.”

The man was saying:

“I remember yesterday.”

The next second, the man seemed lightly pushed back onto the sidewalk. Traffic returned to normal. He looked at his own hands, confusion on his face, quickly replaced by blankness.

Memory erased.

Correction completed.

By evening, the sky darkened again.

Earlier and more completely than the previous day.

But the city’s noise grew denser—
Flashing electronic screens, distant sirens, low-frequency vibrations from below—all interwoven like a tightening net.

Lin Chuan stood on a pedestrian overpass, speaking aloud for the first time:

“I don’t need to be corrected.”

His voice was soft.

But the moment he spoke, the world reacted violently.

The hum sharpened into a piercing shriek. Brief double images appeared at the edge of his vision. The entire world felt dragged, yanked.

Then, silence.

Deeper than day one.

His phone lit up again.

This time, not a system prompt.

But a line of text with no visible source:

[Record Confirmed: Observer Not Overwritten]
[Noise Level Increased]

Staring at the words, Lin Chuan suddenly realized:

He was not the only anomaly.
He was simply the most uncooperative—for now.

Night deepened.

He sat in the dark room without turning on the light.

The city outside remained bright, but now with an unnatural layering, as if invisible structures were superimposed on reality.

23:59.

The hum returned.

Closer than yesterday, almost at his ears.

Lin Chuan did not close his eyes.

He wanted to see—
How the world would handle an observer who refused to be corrected at the end of day two.

00:00.

This time, there was no blackout.

Instead—
He heard countless voices, all at once.

Someone counting down quietly.
Someone debating outcomes.
Someone saying: “Day three—he must be restricted.”

Lin Chuan stood still, heartbeat steady.

Because he knew—

Day three would no longer be just observation and correction.
Day three, the world would begin to limit him.

And he had already been marked.