Kazeem sat at the table, the morning’s light creeping in through the slats of the window. His pen hovered over the notebook, tapping gently against the paper. The page was already filled with rules he’d rewritten from memory, but his eyes kept falling to the third one.

  Some scenes are more important than others.

  He didn’t know how he knew it, he just did. It wasn’t logic or evidence. It was a pull, a faint pressure in his chest, like the air around certain moments was heavier. A kind of instinct that whispered this matters.

  He traced the words with the pen’s tip, then leaned back. The day’s script was already written somewhere, waiting for him to step into it. But if he wanted to get out, he had to choose his battlefield.

  He closed his eyes and went through the possibilities.

  His mother cooking?

  The thought made him clench his jaw. He could walk into that scene right now, stir the pot himself, move something, say something strange… but it was too close. Any change there would demand an explanation he couldn’t give, not without raising questions he couldn’t answer. Yasséna wasn’t stupid. She’d see through any excuse. And if she pushed him for answers… no. That was a door he wouldn’t open.

  The scavenger and his cart?

  He pictured the man’s bent frame and the sound of the cart’s squeaky wheel. Harmless. Annoying. The scene was barely more than background noise in the loop. But the thought of getting in his way made Kazeem uneasy… not because it was dangerous, but because it would mean tampering with someone’s day of work. Whatever else the loop was, those coins the scavenger earned were real to him. Playing with that felt wrong.

  The fight between the two merchants?

  This one tugged at him the most. Even in memory, it felt heavier than the others… louder, sharper. He didn’t know why, but the pull in his chest when he thought of it was stronger than for the other scenes. It was also the scene that let him traumatized the most.

  Just remembering what happened last time , the consequences of his reckless behaviour still gave him goosebumps.

  The fall outside the school?

  He grimaced. Yesterday had proved something ugly: sometimes, acting early made things worse. The boy’s bloodied forehead was still burned into his mind. If the loop wanted that fall, maybe there was no direct way to erase it.

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  He leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall. He thought about the scenes , again and again … and again .

  He thought about the solutions , how he can interact, how much he can intervene to escape this loop and if he does … how he could handle the consequences .

  He started to process by elimination, until one last scene remained.

  Honestly he already had a feeling, he already knew the one with the safest option but he wanted to avoid it at all.

  But at the end , he could only sigh bitterly.

  That really is the only one worth testing.

  But this time, he couldn’t rush in swinging at the problem. Not again. He would need to watch, listen and learn.

  ?

  The market in Central Azuma was already busy when Kazeem arrived. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the shuffling of feet and the creak of wooden carts. The smell of spices clung to the heat, mixing with the tang of dried fish.

  He wove through the crowd slowly, pretending to browse, his eyes scanning for the two men.

  It didn’t take long to hear their names: Wrou and Fat?.

  Wrou was the older one, tall and broad-shouldered, his frame like carved wood. His hair was streaked with white, his brow furrowed into a permanent scowl. He sold clay pots and bowls, his stall arranged like a display of trophies. Each time he handled one, he brushed it clean with a cloth, as if removing the day’s dust was a sacred duty.

  Fat? was younger, much younger, in fact barely past his mid-twenties by the look of him. Round-faced but quick in his movements, he sold dried fish and smoked meat. His hands were always in motion, tying palm-fiber cords around bundles, flicking a knife to trim uneven cuts. His eyes darted constantly, scanning customers the way a hawk tracks prey.

  Even early in the day, Kazeem caught the signs. Wrou’s jaw tightening when Fat? laughed too loud with a customer. Fat?’s muttered curses when Wrou’s wide shoulders blocked part of his stall. Small things. But they stacked.

  The other merchants didn’t even have to mention them directly; their voices carried fragments:

  “—always stealing customers—”

  “—took my delivery spot—”

  “—someone should tell them to stop before—”

  Kazeem stayed in the background, close enough to catch words but far enough not to draw attention. The tension wasn’t immediate. However, it built over the hours like clouds before a storm. Small comments, sharper glances, moments where they both reached for the same customer at once.

  By the time the shadows began to stretch long across the market, their voices had changed. Louder. Harsher.

  It was coming.

  Kazeem’s pulse picked up, but he didn’t interfere. Not yet.

  When it finally broke, Wrou moved first—

  SLAP!

  ”…!”

  ”?!”

  ”Ahi ?!”

  slamming a heavy hand into Fat?’s shoulder hard enough to make the younger man stagger back. Fat? recovered fast, shoving him in return, their shouts cutting through the market noise. A clay pot hit the ground and shattered. Fat?’s knife clattered against his stall as his hands clenched.

  Kazeem didn’t step in. He didn’t even flinch.

  He just watched.

  And learned.

  ?

  The walk home was slow. Not because he was tired, but because his mind was heavy with moving pieces.

  He turned the scene over and over in his head. Each word, each movement, a thread he might be able to pull.

  By the time his home came into view, the plans had started forming, half-formed shapes in the dust of his thoughts. Many plans. Some bold, some subtle.

  And with each step, the softness in him thinned.

  By the time he reached his door, the last trace of hesitation was gone.

  ___

  “He had seen the cracks. Now all that remained was deciding where to strike.”