Her Last Loop

In the old days, they called it a justice system. Now they just call it The Spin.

At 9:03 a.m., with mascara tears already webbing her cheekbones and her fake lashes flapping like panicked spiders, Isla Wren stood before the Wheel of Karma, wearing six-inch heels and exactly zero guilt.

The courtroom wasn’t a courtroom. It was a streaming platform in disguise—an arena of chrome and LED light, with rows of watchers swiping hearts or vomiting emojis depending on the pulse of the narrative. Live comments crawled across the bottom of the feed.

“She’s guilty af, spin the bitch.” “Bet she lands on something cute. Pretty privilege wins again.” “Justice is hot today 🔥”

Isla adjusted her mic necklace. “Do I have to stand this close? I have a contour line and lighting angle to preserve.”

From her seat on the judge’s dais, Magistrate Khora blinked once, slow and unimpressed. “You’re lucky you’re standing at all.”

“Am I though?” Isla pouted. “My lawyer ghosted me after I told him I wasn’t doing a remorse reel.”

Khora gestured to the shimmering, ominous monstrosity in the center of the room. The Wheel of Karma stood twelve feet high—jet black, with slats made of bone-colored titanium, each labeled with an old-world word that made the crowd twitch.

Oblivion. Reversal. Isolation. Echo. Live Their Pain.

“Ms. Wren,” Khora said flatly. “You’ve been found guilty of aggravated psychological harm, social endangerment, and indirect manslaughter.”

“That girl killed herself over a comment war,” Isla said, inspecting her manicure. “That’s not on me. I didn’t make her unalive herself. People are so fragile now. If you can’t handle the heat, unfollow the kitchen.”

Khora’s face didn’t move. “She was sixteen. You doxxed her. Mocked her lisp. Reposted her suicide note with a laughing emoji.”

“Allegedly.”

“No,” Khora said. “Digitally recorded.”

Isla rolled her eyes so hard it was almost performance art. “Fine. Let’s get it over with. I’ve got an Insta sponsorship for cruelty-free lashes at noon.”

Khora nodded toward the wheel. “Step forward.”

The floor vibrated. Lights dimmed. And that’s when the room shifted—from circus to séance. A hush rolled in, heavy and low. The audience leaned forward. On screen, heart rates climbed. Viewers held their breath.

Isla posed like it was a game show. “Do I get a Vanna White moment, or…?”

“Just spin.”

She slapped her palm on the handle and gave the wheel a dramatic twirl. It spun fast, faster, blurring words into streaks of ivory and shadow. Around and around it went, a roulette of fate and vengeance.

And then—

CLICK. CLICK. CLACK.

The wheel slowed. Slowed. Stopped.

The crowd gasped. The comments section exploded. The arrow pointed to:

Live. Their. Pain.

Isla blinked. “The hell does that mean? Like I watch a sad video montage or something?”

“No,” said Khora. “You’ll live her last 24 hours. Every thought. Every breath. Every scream no one heard.”

“I don’t do trauma porn.”

“It’s not porn,” Khora replied. “It’s penance.”

The chamber began to glow blue at the base. A rising hum filled the air. Isla turned, wild-eyed, as the floor beneath her feet pulsed with ancient circuitry.

“What the fuck is this?!” she shrieked. “I have rights! I’m an influencer! I have brand deals!”

But it was too late. The wheel clicked once more—and Isla fell through the floor like a dropped phone.

She hit the ground hard—only it wasn’t a floor. It was gravel. Cold. Wet. Too real.

Isla Wren, influencer and digital deity of the savage screenshot, opened her eyes to a pale morning under gray skies and the stench of regret.

She was wearing someone else’s skin.

Not literally—but it felt that way. Her limbs were too heavy, her joints didn’t listen, and her nails? Ragged. Bitten. No polish in sight.

Her reflection blinked back from a cracked store window: a teenage girl with dark circles, hollow cheeks, and a school uniform hanging off her like a surrender flag.

“No,” Isla whispered. “No no no no no—”

A vibration rattled her pocket. She pulled out a phone—not hers—and the screen was already open to the DMs.

“You should kill yourself, freak.”

“Lisp girl really out here trying to go viral with her pity party 😂”

“Slit your wrists like your daddy did, maybe someone will care then.”

Each notification hit her like a bullet. Her hands began to shake—no, this girl’s hands.

This wasn’t just a roleplay.

She was inside the girl she broke.

"Okay, okay," Isla muttered. "This is some kind of simulation. Like VR trauma therapy. I can handle this."

But her chest was already tightening. Panic clawed up her throat. She recognized the flavor—it wasn’t fear. It was despair. Thick and bitter. Not hers. Hers now.

A bell rang. A wave of cold sweat broke over her.

High school.

Hell itself.

Hour 3.

She walked the halls like a ghost in a meat suit. Students didn’t shove her—they didn’t even look at her. But she could feel it. The whispery laughter. The eyes that slid past her like she was a roach.

She opened a locker.

A note fluttered out:

“Why haven’t you died yet?” —From The Pretty Committee

She spun, furious. “WHO WROTE THIS?!”

But her voice cracked in a way Isla Wren’s never had. Thin. Powerless.

Someone giggled.

"You're not real," she hissed. "You're just code. A punishment. A hallucination—"

A text came in.

[Unknown]: Feeling it yet?

Another.

[Unknown]: Still think it was just a comment war?

Hour 9.

The crying wouldn’t stop.

She was in a bathroom stall, knees pressed to her chest, sobbing so hard she thought her ribs might crack from the pressure. Snot smeared across her sleeve. Her phone buzzed in her lap.

“You’re on The Wishlist.”

Isla’s stomach dropped.

She knew that phrase.

She’d posted it, once—laughing as her followers compiled “kill yourself” wishlists for internet pariahs. She’d trended off it.

But this? This wasn’t trending. This was drowning.

“No,” she whispered. “This wasn’t supposed to feel real.”

Hour 15.

She stood on a bridge. Shoes gone. Wind slicing through her bones.

A voice whispered in her ear, and it was hers—but younger, softer. The girl’s.

“You told me I didn’t matter. Over and over. I started to believe you.”

The river roared below. Isla tried to step back—but her legs didn’t obey.

“STOP,” she screamed. “I GET IT. I’M SORRY.”

“You’re not.”

Isla shut her eyes. “Please, I’ll do a reel. I’ll donate. I’ll start a charity—”

But the world tilted.

And she fell.

She woke up gasping.

Flat on her back. On the gravel again. Same uniform. Same body.

The same day.

Same bridge waiting.

Welcome to your Loop.

“No,” Isla whispered. “NO.”

But the phone vibrated again.

“Kill yourself, freak.”

“Go die already.”

“You’re on The Wishlist.”

"""

The third time Isla fell, she didn’t scream.

She just hit the gravel, rolled onto her back, and laughed. A long, cracked laugh that ended in a sob and a hiccup. Her nose was bleeding. Or maybe the girl’s was. Same difference now.

“Okay,” she whispered to the sky. “You made your point.”

The sky didn’t answer.

But the phone buzzed again.

“You’re on The Wishlist.”

“Go jump again, nobody will stop you.”

“This is better than reality TV.”

She hurled the phone into the river. It didn’t matter. Another one appeared in her pocket three seconds later.

Same cracked screen. Same messages. Same countdown to the bridge.

Loop Four.

She tried to fight it.

She curled up on the school steps and screamed until her throat was sandpaper. She punched the lockers until her knuckles split open.

She tackled a teacher and begged her to make it stop.

Nobody responded. They all moved like cutouts. Background extras in a horror film she couldn’t quit.

Even the voice—the soft one—was fading.

“You don’t get to forget,” it whispered. “You wanted to watch. So now you will.”

Loop Seven.

She tried to apologize.

To the girl’s mother. To the kids in the hallway. Even to herself, mumbling sorries in the mirror like penance. Like prayer.

But the system wasn’t built for forgiveness.

It was built for mirroring.

Everything she made the girl feel? Now looped through her veins like a cursed track.

And every time she stepped onto the bridge, her body moved on its own. The same breathless panic. The same stillness. The same drop.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Loop Ten.

She begged.

“Please,” she whispered, staring up at the sky. “I’ll confess. I’ll go live and tell them everything. I’ll delete my platform. I’ll make a fucking nonprofit called ‘Don’t Be Me.’ Just let me OUT!”

The sky didn’t blink. But a new message did.

[Admin Notification]: Karma credits depleted. System status: Permanent Loop Assigned.

She dropped to her knees. “No. No no no no no—”

[Admin Notification]: Appeals not accepted post-final spin.

[Comment Thread Unlocked]: “LMAO she still thinks she’s the main character.” “Karma.exe running like butter.” “This is what poetic justice tastes like.”

Her hands clawed at her throat. “I was just doing what they wanted! The algorithm feeds off outrage! I played the game! I gave them blood!”

“Then drown in it,” the girl’s voice said.

Loop Sixteen.

Something changed.

She looked in the mirror and saw both of them—herself, and the girl. Side by side. One weeping. One watching.

“You feel it now?” the reflection asked.

“I do,” Isla whispered.

“But you don’t understand it.”

She swallowed hard. “Maybe I never will.”

“That’s why you’re still here.”

Loop Twenty.

She woke up expecting gravel.

Instead, she was in a chrome-white room. Silent. Sterile. A projection hovered in the air: Wren, Isla. Sentence: 20/∞ Loops Completed.

A shadow stepped forward from behind a glass wall.

Magistrate Khora. Looking ageless and severe. “Curious,” she said. “You’ve lasted longer than most.”

Isla crawled toward the glass. “Why are you here?”

“To observe.” Khora tilted her head. “The wheel doesn’t usually glitch. But you’ve begun... fragmenting.”

“Glitch?”

Khora tapped her tablet. “Your ego’s still intact. You’re resisting dissolution. Clinging to your identity like it means something. Fascinating.”

“So you’re watching me like a science experiment?”

“We’re studying justice in real time,” Khora said. “This isn’t punishment. It’s exposure. You’re being forced to feel what you made others feel.”

Isla’s voice cracked. “And what if I do? What if I really get it? Then what?”

Khora raised an eyebrow. “Who said understanding was the goal?”

And just like that, the room fell away.

Loop Twenty-One.

She didn’t wake up in gravel.

Or the bridge.

Or the bathroom.

She woke up in her old apartment. Her real one.

Her walls. Her bed. Her ring light.

Her hand flew to her chest. Breathless. Shaking. Alive.

A new phone rested on the nightstand. No cracks. Just a notification:

“Trial closed. Loop: Concluded.”

Her breath hitched.

Had she done it? Had she earned release?

The mirror across the room flickered.

In it, her reflection was smiling.

But she wasn’t.

The reflection lifted the phone.

“Let’s go live,” it said. “They’ve been waiting.”

The screen burst into life.

Live now: The Loop Diaries – Featuring Isla Wren Viewer count: 1.4 million Caption: Justice is the new content king.

🖤 THE END

(Or is it?)