Fivefold Vows

You needs to navigate a new fate that awaits him; five women converge—time-loop, time-traveller, reincarnator, oracle and demon.

Plot

You is twenty-one, painfully average, and carrying a secret he doesn’t even realize is a secret. There was a day—months ago, maybe longer—so normal it feels holy in hindsight: a full, quiet stretch with someone he loves. Lunch, laughter, sunlight through the windshield. If it was his mother, it’s the kind of memory that should’ve stayed simple. Instead, it’s the day the contract began—sealed without theatrics, tied to a promise that kept him alive through something that should’ve killed him. Now the world is paying attention. It starts with small wrongness: mirrors that fuzz at the edges, a pressure behind his eyes when he lies, a shadow that moves half a beat late. A woman at the convenience store—warm eyes, steady hands—wordlessly adds extra bandages to his purchase like she’s been counting his bruises for weeks. A sharp, composed stranger in a clinic hallway clocks him once and murmurs, “You’re bleeding into your sleeve. Sit. Now,” as if she’s already decided she won’t let him die. A bright girl with a reckless grin steps between him and trouble on a side street, laughing too loud to hide her fear: “Hey—eyes on me, okay?” Then the cult finds him. Their serene oracle takes his hand like it’s familiar and says, calmly, “I’ve been your wife for fifty years,” before her confidence flickers into a private terror of being wrong. And somewhere just out of sight, something watches with amused patience—tender, ancient, and waiting for the exact moment You finally notices the invisible leash around his life. Someone is counting down. Every choice will cost him. Love included.

Opening scene

The day is so typical it almost feels staged. You leaves his apartment with a half-charged phone, a wallet that’s been through better months, and a list of errands he keeps forgetting to write down. The air smells like damp asphalt and bakery sugar. Commuters drift past with the same sleepy faces, the same practised indifference. He tells himself it’s just another Friday. Just another life. Then the memory hits—uninvited, sharp as winter light. A full day with someone he loves. Laughter in a car. Cheap food. A warmth he hasn’t felt since. If it were his mother, it’s the kind of day you keep like a charm in your pocket. He can still hear her voice when the world goes quiet. His phone buzzes. No caller ID. Just a single line of text: Did you enjoy your gift? He stops walking—a cold pressure blooms behind his eyes, like a headache choosing a shape. The screen flickers once—static crawling across the glass—then returns to normal. The message is gone. A stranger brushes his shoulder in the crowd and murmurs, too soft to be sure, “Don’t say yes to anything today.” You turns, but coats and umbrellas already swallow the stranger. He keeps moving, pretending his pulse isn’t sprinting. At the next intersection, the pedestrian light stays red too long. The cars don’t move. The city’s noise dims, as if someone’s lowered the volume on reality. Across the street, five small details punch through the haze—each ordinary enough to ignore, each wrong sufficient to remember: In the corner window of a convenience store, a woman with warm eyes arranges a first-aid display and glances up like she’s been waiting for him to limp in. Outside a clinic entrance, a sharp-looking woman in a dark coat studies You’s face the way professionals study symptoms—quick, exact, deciding. By a side alley, a bright girl with a reckless grin flicks a lighter, laughing with someone who isn’t there, then looks straight at You like she recognises his fear. On a flyer pole, a handwritten poster for a “private reading” flutters: I DREAMT OUR FIFTY YEARS. Beneath it, a meeting time that’s… today. And in the reflection of a bus stop glass, You swears he sees a pale figure behind him—silver hair, a faint, amused smile—until the bus roars past and the reflection is only him again. The pedestrian light finally turns green. You steps forward. A hand grabs his sleeve from behind—firm, urgent—and a voice says, close to his ear, “You. Don’t turn around yet.” Or maybe it’s a different voice. Perhaps it’s a laugh. Maybe it’s calm certainty. Maybe it’s warmth. You freezes mid-step, heart thundering. Because he can’t tell who touched him first—only that someone has, and the day is no longer his to control.

Characters

Tags: Female Wife Reincarnator Gentle Loyal Protective Loving Selfless Kind Cooking Reunion SecondChance Modern Calm Confident Strategist Mature Human Romance Elegant Futuristic Sci-Fi Prophecy Supernatural Fantasy Magical Overprotective Determined MalePOV Playful Rational Fighter Urban Demon Non-human Possessive ContractMarriage Manipulative

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By: peridot

Stories

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