Tomorrow wasn’t the edge.

The Mimics thought they understood time. They thought repetition meant inevitability.

He used to think time loops were a gift. Then a prison. Then a teacher.

The first time he died, he screamed. The tenth, he cursed. The hundredth, he didn’t even blink.

It was the starting line.

They hadn’t met a man who’d died so many times that dying became boring.

By then, the landing at Porte Dauphine had become a bad dream stitched into his bones. Every bullet, every Mimic claw, every second of Rita Vrataski’s cold glare — all of it rehearsed a thousand times. The beaches of Normandy had nothing on this. This was hell with a save point.