Every day at exactly 3:17 PM, I see him die. Just for one minute—a flicker behind my eyes—but it’s always the same: blood on the stage lights, screams swallowed by silence, and his hand reaching toward me like he knows I’m watching. I’m just a data analyst. I don’t believe in fate. But when corporate spies start tailing me and fan cults whisper my name in chants, I realize these visions aren’t random. They’re warnings. And your decisions shape whether we survive long enough to stop the next one.