The world that survived without us.

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.

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