Mikey stares at the date, at the room, at everything. His heart pounds against his ribs like it wants to burst free. His eyes are wide, unfocused, darting from the crooked calendar to the sunlight striping across his desk to the unmade bed that shouldn't exist. He staggers back from the calendar, each step unsteady, the world too sharp and too familiar all at once. Then, without warning, his vision floods with cascading streams of blue. Digital code rains across his sightline—messages spilling down in fast succession, blinking, pulsing, each one stamped with a time.
BIG ANGRY GUY
[Hey Mikey, I didn't want to wake you, but I have to head into the office early so I'll meet you at your graduation. Love you, son!]
7:46 AM
The words hammer into him, his pulse kicking harder. Mikey stumbles back, the floor tilting beneath his feet until his heel catches the edge of a laundry basket. He slips, crashes down on his backside outside the doorway. His palms slap the marble tile, slick with sweat.
"Wha—"
Another flash. Another message.
BIG ANGRY GUY
[Mikey. Where are you? I told you to be here early, are you still at home?]
11:30 AM
Mikey claws at the marble floor, his fingernails scraping deep grooves into the polished surface as if he could dig himself out of this reality. He staggers upright, chest heaving, each breath ragged and uneven. His mind feels like it's splitting.
Then another blink. Another message.
BIG ANGRY GUY
[MICHAEL GRANT! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!]
12:11 PM
The words freeze him in place. His stomach sinks, his throat tightens until it burns.
'It's my graduation all over again.'
The memory slams into him like a tidal wave—jumping out of the penthouse window, sprinting across the city like a madman, meeting Amelia at the venue, the celebration that blurred into the party afterward. The night when everything broke. His father's voice. His father's apology. And then—his father's death.
His father died.
Mikey's legs move on instinct, carrying him in a frantic stumble until he crashes into the bathroom. His reflection waits for him there, and the sight steals the air from his lungs. The face staring back is not the one he has grown used to. His hair is cropped shorter, messy and past the ears, the way it was then. His cheeks and forehead are smooth—no scars, no jagged reminders of battles survived. His face was thinner and more youthful.
And there, glowing faintly at his temple, is something he hasn't seen in months. A circular orange implant pulsing with quiet life. Mikey grips the counter, swallowing hard. His reflection looks back with wide, terrified eyes.
"…H.E.L.P…"
He lifts his hand slowly, almost afraid to touch, and lets his fingertips brush the implant. His throat tightens.
"T-Turn… on…"
The response comes instantly.
"Good morning, Michael."
The voice. The one he never thought he would hear again. Mikey's eyes well up before he can stop them. Tears spill down his cheeks in hot, uncontrollable streams. His chest shakes with uneven breaths.
"H.E.L.P… y-you're… okay…"
"Why would I not be, Michael?" the automated tone replies, smooth and calm. "It appears you are late to graduation, Michael."
The simple phrasing carves through him like a blade. His head bows, his hands trembling on the sink. His thoughts spiral, crashing into each other.
'I'm back on graduation day. Dad's death day. The day I learned about the Council. He's alive. H.E.L.P. isn't gone. This isn't possible. It feels too real. I can smell, I can feel, I can touch. Everything's here. Everything's… right. Was it all a dream? Or is this the test? What the fuck is happening…'
Pressure builds in his skull, the weight unbearable. His vision sways, his ears ring with a high-pitched whine that drowns out the voice calling his name. His knees threaten to give out beneath him. He stumbles out of the bathroom in a frenzy, shoulders striking the chrome wall of the hallway. His hand drags along the metal, leaving smears of sweat as he forces himself toward the bedroom.
H.E.L.P.'s voice echoes faintly, distorted under the ringing in his ears.
"Michael? Michael, are you alright? Should I call your—"
The words fade beneath the static flooding his head. His breathing grows ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. He can't keep his eyes open. His lashes flutter as the floor tilts and the world slips sideways.
"What the fuck—"
Mikey collapses onto the bed, his body seizing with exhaustion.
Darkness swallows him whole.