The city never slept—but it had forgotten how to live.

Aren stood on the balcony of a decaying apartment tower, watching the lights flicker below like tired stars. Neon signs buzzed softly. Surveillance drones drifted through the air with mechanical patience, their red lenses sweeping over streets that no longer needed watching. No one ran. No one laughed too loudly. no one fought.

The world was peaceful.

And it was dead.

Aren pressed his palm against the cold railing, fingers numb— not from the night air, but from the memory that never left him. Fifteen years had passed since his family disappeared, yet the silence they left behind still screamed.

He swallowed, jaw tightening.

Below, a large holographic screen lit up the square. A familiar face appeared— handsome, calm, almost gentle. Lucien Vale. Even now, history adored him. The man who had "saved" humanity from collapse. The architect of order.

The murderer of Aren's family.

Aren turned away before the bitterness could choke him.

Inside the apartment, the lights automatically brightened as he entered. The space was small, bare, untouched by warmth. He hadn't bothered to decorate. Memories hurt more when they had places to sit.

Tonight, though, something felt different.

Aren knelt beside a metal storage box tucked beneath his bed. The lock had resisted him for years— until now. It clicked open with a sound far too soft for something that had guarded the past so fiercely.

Inside lay his mother's belongings.

A thin journal. Loose papers covered in frantic handwriting. And beneath them— A device.

Aren's breath hitched.

It was no larger than his palm, circular, etched with symbols he didn't recognize but somehow felt. The metal was warm, as if it had been waiting.

His mother's voice echoed in his head, distant and tired.

'If anything happens to us, Aren... promise me you won't let them decide the future alone.'

His hands trembled as he picked it up.

"Was this what you were hiding?" he whispered.

The journal fell open on its own, pages fluttering until they stopped on a marked section. One line stood out, underline again and again.

Time remembers what people try to forget.

Aren laughed— a broken sound. "Then why did it forget you?"

The device pulsed.

Light bled from its edges, thin at first, then blinding. The air grew heavy, pressing against his chest. His ears rang as the symbols ignited, spinning faster and faster.

"No—wait—"

Pain tore through him. Not sharp, but vast, like being pulled apart by memory itself. His knees hit the floor. The room fractured—walls stretched, lights dissolving into white.

Aren screamed his family's names.

And the world answered with silence.

He woke to the sound of breathing.

Not his own.

Aren gasped and sat up, lungs burning. The smell hit him first— rain-soaked concrete, oil, something metallic. His vision swam. The sky above him was dark, but not with the sterile glow of drones. Real clouds moved slowly, hiding the stars.

No drones.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Voices echoed nearby. Laughter. Human laughter.

Impossible.

He scrambled to his feet and staggered forward— only to collapse again as dizziness overwhelmed him.

Strong hands caught him before he hit the ground.

"Hey— slowdown."

The voice was calm, steady, close.

Too close.

Aren looked up.

The world tilted.

Lucien Vale knelt in front of him, brows drawn together in concern. Younger. Softer. His hair was longer, falling slightly into his eyes. No sharp lines carved by power yet. No weight of history on his shoulders.

Alive in a way Aren had only seen in archived footage.

"You are burning up." Lucien said." Can you hear me?"

Aren couldn't breathe.

This was wrong. This was cruel. This was— The man who destroyed everything.

Aren jerked back, panic flooding him. "Don't touch me."

Lucien froze— not offended, just surprised. "Okay. I won't." He raised his hands slightly, a universal gesture of peace. "You collapsed out of nowhere. I was just trying to help."

Aren stared at him, hatred and confusion twisting together until he couldn't tell them apart. This Lucien didn't look like a villain. He looked like someone who still believed in tomorrow.

"What year is it?" Aren demanded, his voice hoarse.

Lucien blinked. "2070."

Aren's knees nearly gave out.

Fifteen years.

It worked.

The realization crashed into him with terrifying clarity. The device. His mother. The pull.

Time hadn't broken— it had bent.

Lucien studied him carefully. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aren laughed weakly. No, he thought. I’m looking at one.

“I’m fine,” Aren said quickly, forcing himself upright. “Just… dizzy.”

Lucien hesitated, then nodded.

“There’s a clinic nearby. You should get checked.”

“I don’t need—” Aren stopped himself. He needed time. He needed answers. And whether he liked it or not, Lucien Vale stood at the center of all of them.

“…Okay,” Aren said quietly. “Just for a bit.”

Lucien smiled, relieved. The sight sent a strange ache through Aren’s chest.

They walked side by side through streets that felt impossibly alive. People talked. Vendors argued. Music drifted from an open window. Every sound felt like a wound and a blessing at once.

As they reached the clinic, Lucien glanced at him. “I’m Lucien,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

Aren opened his mouth.

This name had survived when nothing else had.

“…Aren,” he answered.

Lucien paused.

Just for a fraction of a second—but Aren saw it.

A flicker. Recognition without memory.

Lucien frowned slightly, as if a thought had brushed against him and vanished.

“Aren,” he repeated softly. “That’s… a nice name.”

Aren’s chest tightened.

He doesn’t remember you, he told himself. Not yet.

Lucien held the clinic door open.

“Come on. Let’s make sure you’re okay.”

Aren stepped inside, past the threshold of a past he wasn’t meant to touch.

He clenched his fists.

I came here to destroy you, he thought, watching Lucien’s back.

And somehow, terrifyingly—

Time had given him the chance.

Lucien Vale was irritatingly difficult to hate up close.

Aren learned that within the first hour.

The clinic released Aren with nothing more than a mild warning about exhaustion and dehydration.

No questions. No suspicion. The past was dangerously trusting.

Lucien, however, hadn’t left.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he was used to being listened to. His eyes flicked up the moment Aren stepped out, sharp and assessing.

“You’re alive,” Lucien said. “Good. I would’ve felt responsible otherwise.”

Aren scoffed softly. “You would’ve forgotten me by tomorrow.”

Lucien raised a brow. “Arrogant of you to assume I forget people easily.”

You erased my entire family, Aren thought.

Instead, he said, “Thanks for staying.”

Lucien seemed mildly surprised by the gratitude. “Don’t read too much into it,” he replied. “I had time.”

There it was—that effortless arrogance. Not cruel. Not loud. Just the quiet certainty of someone who believed the world would bend eventually.

Lucien pushed off the wall. “Where are you going now?”

Aren hesitated.

He had nowhere.

The future had taken everything. The past had given him nothing yet.

“I’ll figure it out,” Aren said carefully.

Lucien studied him for a long moment. “You collapsed on a public street, you don’t know where you’re staying, and you look like you’re one bad thought away from falling apart.”

Aren bristled. “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Lucien smiled faintly, unconvinced. “You’re terrible at lying.”

That annoyed Aren more than it should have.

Lucien turned and started walking. “Come on.”

“Where?” Aren asked.

“My place,” Lucien replied casually.

Aren stopped. “Absolutely not.”

Lucien glanced over his shoulder, amused. “Relax. It’s a guest room, not a proposal.”

Aren’s ears warmed despite himself.

“I don’t even know you,” Aren said.

Lucien shrugged. “You will.”

That confidence—infuriating.

Magnetic.

Aren followed.

Lucien’s apartment was nothing like Aren expected.

It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t cold. It was orderly, minimal, filled with books and soft lighting. The windows were open, letting in the sound of the city breathing.

“This is where the villain lived,” Aren murmured before he could stop himself.

Lucien paused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aren said quickly. “Just… surprised.”

Lucien handed him a glass of water.

Their fingers brushed.

Aren pulled back too fast.

Lucien noticed.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” Lucien asked, tone neutral—but his eyes sharpened.

“No,” Aren lied. “I just don’t like being touched.”

Lucien nodded once. “Good to know.”

He respected it. That was worse.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Lucien added. “You can shower if you want.”

Aren hesitated. Then, deliberately, he said, “Thank you.”

Lucien watched him like that word meant something.

Later, Aren sat on the edge of the guest bed, damp hair clinging to his neck. He felt exposed—out of armor, out of time.

Lucien knocked once before entering. “I ordered food.”

“You didn’t have to,” Aren said.

Lucien set the containers down. “I wanted to.”

They ate in silence at first.

Then Lucien spoke. “You don’t move like someone who belongs here.”

Aren stiffened.

“You move like you’re waiting for the ground to disappear,” Lucien continued. “Like you don’t trust tomorrow.”

Aren met his gaze. “Does that bother you?”

Lucien leaned back, studying him openly now. “It makes me curious.”

Aren’s heart thudded.

Careful, he warned himself. This is the man you came to destroy.

“I need a job,” Aren said suddenly.

“And a place to stay. Temporarily.”

Lucien smiled—slow, knowing. “So this is you asking to be friends?”

The word felt heavy.

“Yes,” Aren said. “Friends.”

Lucien chuckled. “You’re bad at this.”

Aren frowned. “At what?”

“At pretending you’re not desperate,” Lucien said gently—and then, softer, “But I admire the honesty.”

He stood. “You can stay. For now.”

Aren blinked. “Just like that?”

Lucien looked down at him. Taller. Steadier. Dominant without trying. “Just like that.”

Aren swallowed.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

Lucien’s expression shifted—not much, but enough. “Because I don’t like leaving people behind.”

Liar, Aren thought.

And yet—his chest ached.

That night, Aren lay awake listening to the quiet hum of the city.

He stared at the ceiling, Lucien’s presence heavy just beyond the wall.

Every memory screamed at him to run, to strike, to hate.

Instead, he did something far more dangerous.

He decided to stay.

I’ll become someone you trust, Aren vowed silently.

Someone you care about.

Then I’ll decide what you deserve.

In the other room, Lucien stood by the window, phone forgotten in his hand.

He frowned, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Why do you feel familiar?” he murmured into the dark.

Time held its breath.

Morning arrived without asking permission.

Aren woke to the sound of movement beyond the thin wall—footsteps, the low hum of a kettle, the quiet confidence of someone who owned the space he moved through.

Lucien.

The thought settled in Aren’s chest like a weight.

He lay still, staring at the ceiling, counting his breaths.

This was wrong.

Staying here was wrong. Getting close to Lucien was dangerous in ways Aren didn’t yet know how to survive.

And yet—he hadn’t left.

Eventually, the smell of coffee reached him.

Real coffee.

Not the synthetic substitute the future had perfected and ruined.

His stomach twisted.

Aren sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. He caught sight of himself in the mirror—too thin, eyes too sharp, tension carved into every line of his body.

You’re here to destroy him, he reminded himself.

Not to feel safe.

When Aren stepped into the kitchen, Lucien was already dressed—dark slacks, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to be intentional.

He glanced over, eyes flicking briefly from Aren’s face to his bare feet, then away again.

“You sleep like you’re expecting to be attacked,” Lucien said.

Aren stiffened. “You watch people while they sleep?”

Lucien smirked faintly. “You screamed once. Thought you were dying.”

Aren froze.

“I wasn’t,” Aren said flatly.

Lucien didn’t argue. He simply handed him a mug. “Drink.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Aren hesitated—then took it. Their fingers brushed again. This time, Lucien didn’t pull away.

The contact was brief, but it sent a strange awareness through Aren’s body, like standing too close to a fire.

Lucien’s presence wasn’t loud—it pressed in quietly, steadily, making space feel smaller.

Aren hated that his shoulders relaxed.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Aren muttered.

Lucien leaned against the counter, watching him over the rim of his own cup. “You’re in my home. That makes you my responsibility.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “You didn’t refuse it either.”

Aren looked away.

They left the apartment together.

Lucien walked half a step ahead—not enough to be rude, just enough to lead. Aren noticed without wanting to. He followed without meaning to.

The city in daylight felt different.

Softer. Less haunted. It hurt more than the future ever had.

Lucien stopped suddenly at a crosswalk. Aren nearly walked into him.

Lucien glanced back, eyebrow lifting. “You always this close, or am I special?”

Aren flushed. “You stopped without warning.”

Lucien hummed. “Excuses already?”

Aren clenched his jaw. “You’re insufferable.”

Lucien smiled like he’d been complimented.

They crossed the street in silence.

After a moment, Lucien spoke again.

“I’m meeting someone at work. You’ll wait.”

That wasn’t phrased as a question either.

Aren bristled. “I’m not your—”

“Friend,” Lucien cut in smoothly.

“You said that yourself.”

Aren swallowed the rest of the protest.

“Yes,” he said. “Friends.”

The word tasted unfamiliar.

Lucien studied him for a second longer than necessary. “Good. Then wait.”

Lucien worked at a policy research institute—clean, glass-heavy, full of people who looked like they believed they were shaping the future.

You are, Aren thought grimly.

He sat in the lobby, watching Lucien move through the space like he belonged there. People greeted him easily. Deferred to him. Listened.

This is how it starts, Aren realized.

This is how the world learns to trust you.

The urge to hate burned sharp in his chest.

And yet—

Lucien returned twenty minutes later, coat slung over his shoulder, expression faintly irritated.

“Change of plans,” he said. “Lunch.”

Aren blinked. “I didn’t agree to—”

Lucien leaned closer, voice lower.

“Relax. I’m not kidnapping you.”

Too close.

Aren leaned back instinctively, heart racing. Lucien noticed—and stepped back, giving him space without comment.

That somehow made it worse.

At the café, Lucien ordered for both of them without asking.

Aren opened his mouth to protest—then stopped.

Lucien slid a plate toward him. “You looked at it twice.”

Aren stared. “You’re observant.”

Lucien shrugged. “I pay attention.”

Aren ate quietly, conflicted. No one in the future had ever bothered to notice what he wanted.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Aren said suddenly.

Lucien looked up. “What doesn’t?”

“This,” Aren gestured between them. “You helping. Me staying.”

Lucien considered him. “Then why are you trying so hard to convince yourself?”

Aren’s fingers tightened around his fork.

Lucien leaned back, studying him with calm intensity. “You’re not as closed off as you think. You just don’t like what slips through.”

Aren laughed under his breath. “You talk like you know me.”

Lucien’s gaze softened—just a fraction. “I don’t. But I want to.”

The words settled between them, heavy and unfinished.

Aren looked away first.

That night, Aren stood at the window of the guest room, watching the city lights flicker.

He should leave.

He didn’t.

In the other room, Lucien lay awake, one arm thrown over his eyes, irritation buzzing beneath his skin.

You shouldn’t care, he told himself.

You don’t know him.

And yet, the thought of Aren walking out without warning tightened something in his chest.

Neither of them slept well.

Time, watching quietly, smiled.