我握著鋼筆的手突然抽搐，藍黑墨水在作業本上暈開猙獰的痕跡。講台上數學老師正在講解三角函數，粉筆與黑板摩擦的聲音像砂紙刮過神經。第三排靠窗的位置有風掠過，帶著海鹽與機油混雜的腥氣——這是前世沉屍點特有的味道。

「媽咪？」

衣袖被輕輕拽動，小航把擦膠推到我面前。他低頭時後頸有道淺粉色疤痕，和記憶裏那個暴雨夜的解剖報告完全重合。法醫說那是植入違禁品膠囊的手術創口，此刻在九月陽光下像隻振翅欲飛的蝴蝶。

「謝安怡！」粉筆頭擦著耳際飛過，我條件反射地站起來。窗邊傳來嗤笑，葉凱琪把校服外套甩在肩上，銀質打火機在她指間翻出冷光。這個姿勢和二十年後她持槍的模樣微妙重疊，連手腕內側那道新月形燙傷都分毫不差。

走廊盡頭的化學實驗室飄來苦杏仁味。我藉口去醫療室，卻在轉角撞見夏樂蹲在電單車旁。他袖口沾著機油，正用螺絲批撬開排氣管的焊接點。金屬碰撞聲裏，一袋結晶物折射出冰棱般的寒光，那是純度極高的甲基安非他命，在記憶裏本該出現在三年後的緝毒行動中。

「睇咩啊。」溫熱手掌突然捂住我的眼睛。葉凱琪的皮革手鏈硌在鼻樑，她身上有硝煙與茉莉花混雜的香氣，「插班生就該乖乖上堂。」她的呼吸噴在耳後，讓我想起海底掙扎時灌進肺裏的鹹澀泡沫。

體育館後的蘆葦叢在暮色中起伏如浪。我數到第七根承重柱時，果然看見薛寧蜷縮在陰影裏。她校裙沾著泥漿，膝蓋上的青紫像是地圖的等高線。「訓導主任話...話我偷咗班費。」她聲音比蘆葦還細，「但我只係幫凱琪姐拎快遞。」沾著血跡的快遞單從她指間滑落，收件人處赫然寫著我的名字，日期卻是2023年9月23日——我們集體遇害的忌日。

警笛聲就係呢個時候響起嘅。夏樂的電單車引擎在圍牆外轟鳴，輪胎摩擦聲像野獸低吼。葉凱琪扯開我恤衫第二粒鈕，將微型攝像頭塞入內衣夾層：「記住，你從未見過林深別墅的防空洞。」她指尖劃過我鎖骨下方三寸的位置，那裏在前世被子彈貫穿時留下碗口大的疤。

我哋衝入器材室時，薛寧正將化學老師的氰化鉀試劑樽塞入書包。她的動作突然定格，瞳孔泛起機械性的震顫：「佢哋嚟咗。」窗外傳來車輛急煞的銳響，玻璃映出三輛冇車牌的黑色SUV，車頂天線纏繞著漁網專用的綠色尼龍繩。

夏樂踢開後窗鐵柵嘅瞬間，改裝排氣管噴出藍色煙霧。我抱住小航跳上後座，發現里程錶顯示負二百七十四公里。追擊者的獵槍擊碎後視鏡，飛濺的玻璃渣裏，葉凱琪正攀上領頭車的天窗，她咬開手榴彈拉環的姿勢同畢業典禮上開香檳的動作重疊成雙重曝光。

防空洞的鑄鐵門泛著屍斑般的青灰。虹膜掃描儀突然滲出鮮血，林深的聲音經過變聲器處理：「驗證問題：謝小姐今日的生理期週期？」我扯開染血的校裙襯布，將衛生棉條懟在鏡頭前——這是第七次循環時他親自設定的變態密碼。

氣壓門開啟的轟鳴中，薛寧突然抽搐住捉住我手腕：「佢哋等緊閉環完成...」她的指甲縫裏嵌著彩虹糖碎屑，與冷藏庫屍體手中的殘留物完全一致。二十具「謝安怡」在福爾馬林霧氣中同步抬手，指間纏繞的漁網末端繫著現任緝毒局長的警徽。

「歡迎返嚟。」林深的白袍沾著化學教室的苦杏仁味，他胸牌上的日期是1997年9月23日。當手術刀劃開小航後頸的蝴蝶疤痕時，我聽見海潮聲從防空洞深處湧來，混著葉凱琪的茉莉香與血腥氣，構成時空裂縫特有的鹹腥。

As the scent of disinfectant mixed with the sweet metallic tang of rainbow candy floods my nostrils, I recognize this familiar pain of revival—the sensation of sutures rubbing against the lung lobe beneath the third rib on my left side, fractured when Selina pushed me down the exhaust pipe in the last cycle.

"Mom's eyes are moving! Dr. Ken, did you see that?" Lyra's voice filters through like it's coming from behind stained glass windows of a cathedral. My eyelashes, glued together by crystalline secretions, barely open my field of vision: the classical clock tattoo on my daughter's collarbone pulsates, its hour hand trembling between VII and VIII.

"Cognitive restoration program completion at 92%. This time, you woke up six hours earlier than the last cycle." Dr. Ken's pen tip pierces the medical record, ink bleeding into the hues of the sunset on the day Gabriel fell. I fixate on the nutmeg-colored stain on his lab coat cuff—a remnant of the secret recipe I ruined in the 37th cycle, a scent that should have belonged to 2019.

Lyra presses the rainbow pill into the crescent-shaped indentation in my palm: "You almost succeeded in rescuing Aunt Ariana, until the motorcycle exhaust pipe..." She abruptly falls silent as Dr. Ken's glasses reflect light across her carotid monitor. The numbers that pulse there lie, translating the gang bullet piercing the fuel tank into a steady 68 bpm.

"We found this in Damien's basement." My daughter forces a cold metallic object into my unhealed broken fingers—Gabriel's pocket watch case, its inner layer smeared with seabed silt and my menstrual blood. The cracked glass of the dial spells out Ariana's mouth shape before she sank: "They're in the church cellar..."

The serrated pain deep within my skull arrives on schedule. This time, the memory flashback carries gasoline and sandalwood: seventeen-year-old me waking up on Dr. Ken's examination bed, counterfeit hymen repair gauze taped to my inner thigh. He had already begun sketching spacetime curves on the medical records, while I busied myself carving the 47th cycle mark on the wall with his drawer's Swiss knife.

"Emma, it's time for your medication." The glass rim Dr. Ken hands me bears double lip prints, belonging to the forbidden fruit we tasted in 2015 and the conspiracy we forged in 2038. As the rainbow pill explodes on my tongue, I taste Gabriel's last words on the motorcycle's rear seat—not "I love you," but "The tape is in..."

The basement exhaust pipe suddenly echoes with a variation of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," Lyra's iris rings begin to flow like auroras. The code between Selina and me is still alive, but this time the melody carries two extra semitones, signaling an insufficient number of corpses in the tunnel to meet specimen requirements. Dr. Ken's breathing pattern shifts, the outline of the gun bulging in his lab coat pocket is the same one that pierced my uterus in the 15th cycle.

Outside the window, the rain carries ashes from the 2018 church fire. I count the trembling frequency of the hour hand on Lyra's tattoo, awaiting the pain of the 49th cycle. This time, I must remember how to use Dr. Morris's pocket watch gear assembly to wedge the rainbow pill into Gabriel's cranial sutures...