His Final Six Minutes

What’s this poor bastard about to do? Kyra Witkoff thought.

The man by the window had less than six minutes. She peeked over the cappuccino machine, watching the numbers over his head bleed away—soft blue, transparent, flickering like a dying bulb.

The countdown to zero always tightened something in her lower gut. Years ago, Kyra learned the numbers didn’t predict death—only the moment people break themselves in a way they could never undo. A life-changing mistake. Whenever a zero drew close, she trembled, afraid she’d break her promise… again.

Kyra fumbled with the cappuccino machine's steam wand, gazing into the swirling, frothy milk as if it were a hypnotist's pocket watch.

Of course, the guy with no time left had to be attractive—that quiet, stubborn hope in his eyes like he honestly believed he could stare down fate and make it blink first. No phone in his face. No doom-scrolling. Just sitting and observing the world with a rare confidence, a calm that pulled her in before she could stop herself.

Everyone else in the café looked busy and worn-out, tens of thousands of hours drifting over their heads. Everyone except a jaded, middle-aged woman in the corner. No numbers. Only a single word pulsing over her: Betrayal. Her timer had expired and now she wore her mistake like a scar. Kyra had seen that one often—it was the other words that burrowed under her skin like splinters: Cruel, Abandoned, Coward.

She shook off the thought and focused on the ceramic cup half full of espresso. Her hands whirled the steamed milk with practiced precision until a foamy heart floated on top.

“Large cappuccino for Simon,” she called, and immediately regretted the artwork—because the handsome man with only minutes left was the one walking toward her.

Simon grinned at the sight of the heart. Kyra’s breath froze with anticipation as his eyes lingered a beat too long—then came a wink, warm enough to thaw out the butterflies. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the floor, praying that when she looked back again, the blue curse would be gone.

Of course it wasn’t. Just over three minutes glowed above Simon’s head as he returned to his table.

Not even years of therapy could shake the numbers loose. The doctor had given her that smug, patronizing smile as he called them a delusion, and Kyra eventually stopped trying to explain. She’d been seeing the number since she was eleven—puberty brought more than cramps and mood swings.

Simon had only a couple minutes left. What kind of choice could ruin a life that fast?

Maybe it’s a text message. Kyra had seen that before, thumbs crashing down on a phone screen as the number flipped to zero.

Or maybe he’s about to blow an amazing opportunity, like that customer who frantically clicked between her resume and a job posting, then ran out of time as the laptop clicked shut.

Or perhaps it was something darker. She remembered the man who sprinted into the liquor store across the street with seconds left and walked out with a single word burning above him: Murderer.

Kyra watched Simon nonchalantly sip his cappuccino with one minute remaining. Getting this close always reminded her of a Space Shuttle launch—that breathless moment when all you can do is stand back and pray that you’re not about to watch something go catastrophically wrong in real time.

Kyra desperately wanted to shout across the packed café, to tell Simon to freeze, don’t move, don’t breathe, your life might depend on it. She would have—if her own haunting words hadn’t crawled up her spine: Never again. Never try to save someone. It only makes things worse.

Fate, she learned, didn’t like being cheated—it always upped the ante. The last time she interfered, the word that should’ve appeared was GOSSIPER. But the one that actually formed still made her pulse spike.

Down to thirty seconds, and Simon just sat there, jittery, like he’d had too much caffeine and needed to walk off the twitch.

At seventeen seconds, Kyra gasped. Simon pushed back his chair and marched straight toward her.

10 … 9 …

“Hey, I was just wondering,” Simon said.

6… 5…

“Do you think, um—”

3… 2…

“I could get your phone number?”

ZERO.

How could this—asking for her number—possibly be the worst decision of his life? Kyra forced a shaky smile, half of her desperate to believe the curse was wrong—the other half terrified fate was going to implode the life of someone giving off heartthrob vibes. God, he really was cute, which only made the dread worse.

The silence dragged on too long, the kind that gave her a prick of unease—like a radio station cutting to dead air mid-song. Simon’s smile faltered as the zero above his head began to flicker faster, ready to turn.

“Ummm, yeah,” Kyra managed. “That would be… great. We could totally—yeah.”

Her fingers shook as she scratched her name and number onto a scrap piece of till paper and slid it across the counter.

“Awesome,” Simon said, relief softening his face. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Promise.”

As he walked away, a cold dread washed over Kyra. A single, ghastly word materialized over his head—one she’d never seen before.

“Excuse me, miss,” an elderly lady called from the other side of the counter. “I’d like to order, please.”

Kyra moved on instinct, her limbs stiff, mind buzzing like a blown speaker. The lady’s voice dissolved into static as she stared at the cash register. In the reflection of the monitor, she caught a smear of blue hovering where it shouldn’t be.

She snapped her gaze to the wall mirror.

Several numbers glowed above her head. She’d never had a timer before—not once—and now one danced above, moving in perfect time with every twist of her neck. Being intertwined in someone else’s fate had triggered a domino effect.

292 hours, 13 minutes, 56 seconds. And counting.

Kyra screamed as she watched Simon push open the café door—the word DESTROYER burning above him.