“Doomsday Loop: Restrictions of the Third Day”

When Lin Chuan woke, he realized he couldn’t move immediately.

He wasn’t tied up. His muscles weren’t numb.

It was—
His brain was half a beat behind.

His consciousness was fully awake, but his body still lagged in the “previous frame.” He tried to lift his hand; the thought seemed to be dragged along, and almost a second later, his fingers twitched.

This wasn’t fatigue.

It was delay.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and suddenly understood the rule of the third day.

Restriction wasn’t prohibition.
It was making you unable to keep up.

He forced himself to get up.

Every movement felt awkward, unnatural—as if operating a body not fully in sync. In the mirror while washing up, his reflection lagged behind him by a beat—he lowered his head, but the reflection still looked straight ahead.

The delay was consistent.

Not an illusion.

He looked closer and noticed a faint line of text in the lower right corner of the mirror, like it was pasted behind the glass:

[Synchronization Rate: 93%]

He blinked.

The text remained.

Outside, the world appeared orderly again.

No hum. No afterimages. No obvious anomalies.

But he quickly realized: the restriction had seeped into every choice.

As he reached for the closing elevator doors, they didn’t trap him.

Instead—
Before his hand even touched the doors, they had reopened.

As if they had anticipated his intention.

Traffic lights at intersections changed the instant he intended to step forward; when he hesitated, green lights flicked back to red.

Not blocking him.
Just deciding for him.

11:00 a.m.—first attempt at resistance.

He deliberately performed a meaningless action—
On a deserted sidewalk, he spun around and started walking in the opposite direction.

No hum appeared.

But his steps slowed.

The synchronization rate flickered at the edge of his vision:

[91%]

The air felt thicker.

Not physically, but like a “permission value” had been reduced. Each step required extra effort, as if requesting authorization from an invisible system.

He stopped.

The rate recovered.

[93%]

The world resumed smooth operation.

Lin Chuan stood still, breathing evenly.

The full rule of the third day had revealed itself:

You could act freely.
As long as your actions met expectations.

At noon, he ran into Zhou Wan.

This time, it wasn’t chance.

She stood outside a coffee shop, seemingly waiting for a long time. People flowed around her but somehow avoided them, leaving a small empty space.

“You don’t look well,” she said.

Lin Chuan opened his mouth; his reply lagged behind by a beat.

“You… remember yesterday?”

Zhou Wan didn’t answer immediately.

She glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, then whispered:

“A little. Like… a folded dream.”

A chill ran through Lin Chuan.

She shouldn’t remember.

At least, not this clearly.

They sat down.

When the coffee arrived, the cup rim trembled slightly, as if calibrated into place.

“Third day, right?” Zhou Wan asked.

Lin Chuan looked at her.

“How do you know?”

She tapped her temple.

“It’s noisy here. But not like yours.”

Her gaze was sharp.

Not the calm of someone “corrected,” but a clarity still fighting back.

Lin Chuan realized a dangerous truth—

The restriction didn’t affect everyone.
Or rather,
Some people were allowed a higher synchronization rate.

At that moment, his rate plummeted.

[87%]

The world slipped into noticeable lag.

Sounds stretched, like slow-motion playback. People’s actions stuttered, expressions flickering between states.

Zhou Wan’s face remained perfectly stable.

She looked at him, voice clear:

“You’ve been marked.”

“I know,” Lin Chuan said.

“They don’t want you to keep watching.”

He smiled faintly.

“And you?”

Zhou Wan paused.

“I might be… here to make you stop.”

The synchronization rate dropped to 85%.

His vision darkened.

Lin Chuan stood, slow but resolute.

“They miscalculated one thing.”

Zhou Wan raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“The restriction means they need me.”

The moment he spoke, all numbers froze.

As if the system had triggered an unexpected branch.

23:59.

This time, he didn’t go home.

He stood high above the city, watching it unfold like a calculated map.

Lights, roads, people—everything was a parameter.

And he was the variable that could never fully fit.

00:00.

The world didn’t reset.

Synchronization did not drop to zero.

Instead, a new message slowly appeared in the night sky—only he could see it:

[Day Four: Core Access Forbidden]

Lin Chuan closed his eyes.

He knew that starting from the fourth day,
This was no longer just a looping doomsday.

It was—
A confrontation in escalation.