Seven Seconds Ago

The scream came first. It wasn't hers. Detective Talia Cross freezes in the doorway, her heart hammering harder than the sirens behind her. A woman’s scream—sharp, brittle, and ripped straight from the gut—echoes through the narrow hallway of the old townhouse. She reaches for her sidearm. Her boots creak on the hardwood floor as she moves forward, gun drawn. Blood smears the walls like a grotesque signature. It’s fresh. Still warm. Still wet. Talia’s fingers tremble, but not from fear. No—this is something else. A déjà vu so strong it makes her nauseous. She steps into the living room. And then she sees it. A man—mid-thirties, clean-cut, eyes wide in eternal surprise—lies sprawled across a broken coffee table. Blood pools beneath his head. No sign of a struggle. No visible wound. Dead. “**Talia, status?**” crackles the voice in her earpiece. It’s Grant, her partner, waiting outside. “Victim found,” she whispers, eyes scanning the room. “Single male. No obvious—” A floorboard creaks. Her breath catches. She spins around—too slow. A hand. A shadow. The glint of metal. **BANG.** Pain blooms in her back. Her knees give way. The world tilts sideways, sound collapsing into silence. She hits the floor, face-first. Then darkness. And then— **Light.** But not the kind that comes after death. Fluorescents. She blinks. Her hands are not her own. Paler. Larger. Holding a camera. She is standing. Over a body. Her own. Talia screams. No one hears it. Because in this body, she has no voice. Just seven seconds before it all happens again.