zzz...ZZZ...zzz...
That’s the sound of my personal hell. Not the howling wind outside the tent. Not the distant creak of glacier ice shifting in the dark. It’s the ringtone waking me up to the reality of reliving this same Everest summit attempt for the seventh time.
Tyler’s fucking snore.
zzz...ZZZ...zzz...
Three beats. Short, Long, Short, fading like an unanswered call into the void. It vibrates through the tent fabric, to my skull.
I open my eyes to the orange ceiling of my tent. There’s a patch above my head—seven stitches, the third one crooked. I know this because it’s the first glitch within my eyesight.
The tent smells like kerosene and old sweat. My sleeping bag crinkles when I move. Outside, prayer flags snapping in the wind.
My watch says 4:47 AM. In thirteen minutes, Tyler will unzip his tent. In fifteen, he’ll say his line.
I close my eyes and mouth the words: “Rise and shine, team! Time to push for the Summit!”
Loop Seven, and I’ve memorized the script like it’s my own.
【Memory Fragment: Loop Six】
Base Camp to Camp I: four hours, 800 meters up.
Camp I to Camp II through the Western Cwm: three hours if nobody stops to adjust gear.
Camp II to Camp III up the Lhotse Face: seven hours of blue ice at 50 degrees.
Camp III to Camp IV, the death zone: oxygen tanks mandatory.
At 7,850 meters, Lena’s oxygen regulator froze.
Fifty meters ahead of me. Less than 5 seconds if I were playing Usain Bolt on the Olympic track.
I watched her kneel in the snow. I ran to her through air so thin it felt like my chest was being pressed against the wall.
“I can make it,” she wheezed behind her mask.
I radioed Tyler: “You need to climb down. Now.”
Static. Then his voice: “We’re at 97% of the target, Cecil. Cost-benefit analysis says we continue.”
Cost-benefit analysis.
Three minutes later, Lena stopped moving. Her lips turned blue.
Tyler summited before sunset. We scored 58 points.
Then, everything reset.
【End Fragment】
zzz...ZZZ...zzz...
The snore continues. I focus on details to stay online: the way my camera strap has worn a groove in my thumb. The lightning-bolt scratch on the LCD screen. Three stuck pixels forming a tiny constellation.
Zip.
Right on schedule. Tyler’s tent opens. Boots going on. Double knot on the left, single on the right because the right lace is shorter. He hasn’t noticed in seven loops.
I count to sixty.
“Rise and shine, team!” His voice cuts through the chilling air like a megaphone. “Time to push for the Summit! Weather window looks perfect!”
Perfect. In Loop Two, “perfect” meant Dee lost three toes to frostbite. In Loop Five, “perfect” meant nine hours pinned in the death zone while the jet stream dropped to 8,400 meters.
I unzip my tent—zzzzzip—and the Himalayas punch me in the face.
The air is so cold it feels unreal. Breathing feels like sucking from a blocked pipe. The sky is a saturated blue that only exists above 5,000 meters—so intense it looks AI-generated. Everest rises to the north: 8,849 meters of indifferent stone and ice, bigger than every photo you’ve ever seen.
Jennie’s already up, checking her medical kit. Dee’s doing her morning routines. And Lena.
Slim yet athletic, sitting on a rock adjusting her crampons.
In six loops, I’ve watched her die three different ways.
“Cecil!” Tyler waves me over. He’s made drip coffee—smells sour and bitter at the same time. “Big day! You ready?”
I take the cup. The metal rim burns my lip. I let it sit there until the pain drops below my sensory threshold.
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ve been thinking about your photography,” Tyler says, leaning in with his boardroom voice. “Could you capture our expedition. Show the struggle, the triumph—”
zzz...ZZZ...zzz...
I took a peek at Tyler’s tent. It’s empty. He’s standing right in front of me, mouth moving.
But I can still hear the snore.
It’s coming from inside my head.
Two hours later. Strategy meeting.
Tyler stands at a whiteboard, drawing our route with the confidence of someone who’s never failed.
“Based on role assignments and objective analysis,” he says, “optimal strategy is: Day One, push to Camp II. Day Two-Three, reach Camp IV. Day Four, summit. Day Five-Six, descend.”
“What if someone gets sick?” Jennie asks. She’s the only one who challenges him. “This plan has zero margin for error.”
“That’s why we stay together,” Tyler says. “Medical resources available to everyone. You’re with the main group, Jennie. You can help whoever needs it.”
“But if someone needs to rest, I should stay with them, not keep climbing—”
“We need to consider overall efficiency,” Tyler cuts in, voice tightening. “If we stop every time someone’s uncomfortable, we’ll never summit. You have to think about the bigger picture.”
The room goes quiet.
This is Tyler’s pattern: when challenged, he deploys words like “efficiency” and “big picture” to crush dissent. Then ends discussion with “I’m in charge, I take full responsibility.”
A few loops ago, I would’ve jumped in here.
【Memory Fragment: Loop Three】
“Wait, Tyler,” I’d said. “Jennie’s right. Medical resources should stay with whoever needs them, not prioritize ‘efficiency’ over individual safety.”
He turned to me: “So what’s your suggestion?”
“Split into agile groups. Those who can move, move. Those who need rest, rest. Jennie stays with anyone who needs care.”
“That’s not agile,” Tyler said. “That’s chaos.”
“It’s flexible coordination—”
“Cecil,” he cut me off, “I’m the leader. I need to manage the whole team. Your plan would scatter our resources, complicate communication, increase risk.”
“Your plan will get someone killed!” My voice rose.
Silence.
Everyone is quiet.
Tyler’s face went red: “Fine. You lead then.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Since you think my decisions are incorrect, you make them.”
The atmosphere shattered. Tyler stormed off with Dee to prove his point, pushed too fast in brutal cold. Dee nearly died of frostbite between Camp III and IV.
Nobody summited. Zero points.
【End Fragment】
Now, Loop Seven, I watch the same tension build between Tyler and Jennie.
And I do nothing.
I look down at my notes, pretending to study my photography assignments.
Jennie glances at me. Her eyes hold a question, waiting for me to speak.
I don’t.
Because I’ve learned: speaking doesn’t help. Tyler won’t listen. The team will fracture. We always fail.
So, forget it.
“Any other questions?” Tyler asks.
“Yes,” Lena says quietly.
I tilt my head to search for her sound—Lena rarely spoke in the last 6 loops.
“I don’t feel well,” she says, with an ASMR-like voice. “A little dizzy this morning.”
Tyler frowns. “Altitude sickness?”
“Maybe.”
Jennie checks her immediately—oxygen levels, heart rate. “Mild altitude sickness symptoms. Recommend rest today. No further ascent.”
Tyler thinks. This variable disrupts his perfect plan.
“Lena, you stay at Base Camp and rest. The rest of us push to Camp I.”
“Wait,” Jennie says. “If I don’t stay with Lena, and something happens—”
“We’re only going to Camp I,” Tyler interrupts. “not summiting. Should be fine.”
Jennie wants to argue. But she sees Tyler’s “I’ve decided” expression and swallows her words.
I watch this scene. A voice in my head says: You should say something. What if someone gets hurt along the way?
“I will stay.”
Everyone looks at me.
“What?” Tyler frowns.
“My role requires specific photography from Base Camp and Camp I. If I rush ahead with you, I’ll miss these shots. So I’ll stay at Base Camp and complete my assignments.”
This is true. My individual tasks do require me to stay at lower altitude.
But it’s also an excuse.
The real reason: I’m tired.
Six failures. Six conflicts with Tyler. Six times watching the team collapse from bad decisions.
This time, I’m opting out.
Tyler stares at me. He knows exactly what I’m doing—using “complete my assignments” as an excuse for “I quit.”
“Fine,” he says finally. “You stay. Dee and Jennie will continue.”
Meeting ends.
Two hours after they leave, Lena comes out of her tent.
“You’re not resting?” I ask.
“Felt better,” she says, sitting on a rock. “Thought I’d get some air.”
In six loops, Lena has never stayed behind for personal reasons. Never.
We sit in silence as the sun rises over the Himalayas. Not the Instagram sunrise—the raw kind that makes you understand why ancient people thought mountains were sleeping titans. Light hits ice crystals in the air, turning everything into gold and blue and white that hurts to look at.
I press the shutter button out of muscle memory. Only then do I realize the data will all be wiped in the next loop.
“Can I ask something?” Lena says softly. “Do you ever feel like you’ve done this before?”
My hands freeze.
“Like dreams,” she continues. “Fragments. I dreamt about summiting last night. About not being able to breathe. About someone—” she glances at me “—trying to save me.”
The camera slips from my hands.
“How do you—”
The wind picks up. In the distance, two tiny figures move up the ridge, roped together like prisoners.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I remember your face. When I... when it happened last time. You looked destroyed.”
“I’m tired,” I admit. “I’m so fucking tired of proving myself to be right.”
“Then don’t.”
She turns to face me, and I see it—a pixel-like glitch in her left eye, there and gone.
“Look around, Cecil. Really look.”
I look at the cloud formations with every breath I take. At the ice crystal fractals on her eyelashes. At the distant figures moving with mechanical precision.
“This isn’t about reaching the summit,” she says. “It never was.”
We spend the day doing nothing. Two people at 5,364 meters, just sitting.
Around 2 PM, my watch buzzes:
ALTERNATIVE ENDING UNLOCKED
The pixels shuffle, the world shifts. Like a stable diffusion model revealing content in front of me.
I’m now standing in a plant-filled office with standing desks.
My mouth open and a familiar voice is heard through my ears.
“Rise and shine, team!” Tyler’s voice from my mouth with muscle memory. “Let’s push for the record!”
I’m holding a coffee mug instead of a camera. Dee types on a laptop behind me. Jennie glances at me from the VP’s office wearing glasses, checking her phone.
I spin around, searching for something reflective to see my own face. Instead, I find Lena—new grad hire, twenty-three, name tag and all—sitting across the room with that knowing look.
“Cecil” she mouths.
I pause my speech. “Lena?”
“Welcome to Level 2”