“Doomsday Loop: Fracture of the Sixth Day”

When Lin Chuan woke, the bed was empty.

Not the room—just the other side of the bed, clearly slept in.

The blanket slightly collapsed. The pillow still held residual warmth, as if someone had just risen and left.

He didn’t panic.

At the end of the fifth day, he had already sensed it:
The concept of “I” was about to become plural.

He walked to the bathroom.

The mirror reflected only one image.

But when he raised his hand to brush his teeth, the figure in the mirror moved slightly ahead of him.

Not delayed.
Preemptive.

The eyes in the reflection met his first, completing the gaze before reality caught up.

Lin Chuan slowly stopped.

The mirrored figure also stopped.

They stared at each other.

The air was almost solid.

Then the figure in the mirror spoke.

Its lips didn’t move.

But the voice appeared directly in Lin Chuan’s mind:

“You still refuse to cooperate.”

Lin Chuan didn’t answer.

“It’s okay,” the voice continued. “The sixth day was never for you.”

He left the room.

The world remained stable.

But among the crowd, a subtle sense of familiarity had emerged.

Not similar faces.
But behaviors.

Someone’s walking rhythm matched his exactly.
Someone else’s angle when looking at their phone was identical.
Even a man waiting at a red light absentmindedly touched his left wrist—
Exactly the same habit as Lin Chuan.

He stood in the crowd, suddenly realizing a harsh truth:

Fracture wasn’t duplication.
It was splitting.

He had been divided into multiple “usable versions,”
Scattered throughout the city.

10:00 a.m.—first encounter with “another self.”

Not a mirror.

A reflection across a subway car.

In the opposite car stood a man.

Same height. Same build. Same outline.

Both looked up simultaneously.

Their gazes met for a moment.
The world stuttered slightly.

The man gave a gentle, standard smile.

The kind of expression favored by the world on day five.

He mouthed one sentence:

“Don’t panic.”

Next second, the train arrived at a station. The view was blocked by the platform.

The synchronization rate appeared again.

This time, not a single number.

Three appeared.

[Individual A: 82%]
[Individual B: 91%]
[Individual C: Unmarked]

Lin Chuan’s heartbeat quickened.

Unmarked.

What did that mean?

There was still one of him outside the system’s control.

At noon, he received messages from Zhou Wan.

Not one.

Two.

Almost simultaneously.

Zhou Wan: “Are you okay?”
Zhou Wan: “Where are you?”

Sent at the exact same second.

Lin Chuan didn’t reply immediately.

Standing on the street, he realized a brutal problem—

He couldn’t tell which “him” she was messaging.

Or rather,
She was contacting multiple versions at once.

In the afternoon, the fracture began to spiral.

Lin Chuan entered a convenience store.

Standing before the refrigerated display, he saw three of himself reflected on the glass.

Not overlapping.

But three angles, three states.

One wary.
One gentle.
One hollow-eyed.

They weren’t synchronized.

Three separate possibilities, torn from him.

At that moment, a cold, impersonal voice sounded:

“Fracture completion insufficient. Initiate internal selection.”

A sudden headache hit.

Not pain.

But a torrent of memory fragments pushed into him simultaneously.

He saw versions of himself making different choices—
One accepted.
One concealed.
One disappeared.

Every choice was being evaluated.

Not for right or wrong.
But for—
efficiency.

By evening, Lin Chuan finally saw the unmarked one.

In that old building that shouldn’t exist.

It had reappeared.

Like an error forcibly reinserted into the map.

Dim hallway, unstable lights.

In the stairwell, he saw a figure from behind.

It didn’t turn around.

But spoke first:

“You’re too late.”

Voice calm.

“A little later, they would have decided
to keep only the most obedient one.”

Lin Chuan froze.

“Who are you?”

The figure turned.

Almost the same face as his own.

But the eyes were different.

Not wary. Not gentle.
But freedom—clear, almost indifferent.

“I’m you before the sixth day.”
“And the last version they didn’t need.”

23:59.

The old building trembled lightly.

Not collapsing.

Like data shaking before being collected.

“They’re going to merge.” the figure said.

“After that, only one will remain.”

Lin Chuan asked:

“And you?”

The figure smiled.

“I won’t be left behind.”

00:00.

Night deepened suddenly.

City lights seemed reordered.

At the deepest edge of his vision, a new message slowly appeared:

[Day Seven: Retain One]

Lin Chuan stood still.

He finally understood: Day seven wasn’t judgment.

It was—
elimination.

And this time,
The one eliminated
Wouldn’t necessarily be the weakest.