On October 1st, 1989, forty-three women around the world gave birth simultaneously. None of them had been pregnant the day before.
Sir Reginald Hargreeves adopted seven of them. Except that wasn't quite the truth.
He adopted eight.
Number 0.
A boy born of the same anomaly as the others. A boy with eyes that shimmered like static between moments, a mind unanchored to any one future, and a heart that beat slightly out of rhythm with time itself. Sir Reginald never gave him a proper name. He never gave any of them names. But the rest, in their own time, became Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Five, Ben, and Vanya.
He remained simply: Zero.
The rain beat hard on the mansion's windows as Zero stood in the observatory, watching the clouds swirl unnaturally above. Not because of the weather — because of him. The world bent around Zero, just a little. Time slipped past him like water between fingers. He knew it would rain tonight before it had started.
"The old man is dead."
He didn't need a newspaper or a butler to tell him. He'd known for three days. Every night, he'd watched the scene unfold again and again, in fractured echoes of time, in dreams that weren't dreams.
Reginald Hargreeves — their father, their captor, their architect — had died. And now the Umbrella Academy was returning home.
In the main hall, Zero stepped lightly down the stairs. He wore a black coat that seemed too modern for this timeline, the collar high, the edges lined with white thread like cracks in porcelain. The other siblings were already arriving.
Luther, Number 1, stiff and massive as always. Diego, brooding with a chip on each shoulder. Allison, warm but wary. Klaus, strung out and floating through the chaos. Even Five, back from the future, grim and twitching with the weight of a thousand collapsed worlds.
And then there was Vanya — Number 7 — the only one who looked him in the eye without judgment.
"Hey, Zero," she said softly, as they passed in the hallway. Her voice held no malice. Just weariness.
"Vanya," he replied, his tone light, like air over the surface of a clock face.
The others said nothing to him.
Zero wasn't unloved. Not quite. But he wasn't trusted either. Not since the day Reginald locked him away at age eight after he stopped time during a training session — for six hours.
"He's too unstable," Reginald had once said. "He knows too much, too soon. He doesn't see time. He... lives outside it."
So he'd grown up in the manor like a ghost in the walls. Not invisible — just ignored. Like Vanya, but worse.
In the parlor, Zero sat apart as Pogo began his speech.
"We gather here to mourn the loss of Sir Reginald Hargreeves..."
But Zero wasn't listening.
He was watching Five, who stood still as a statue near the window. Five's brow furrowed, his fingers twitching with calculation.
Zero leaned forward, and whispered — just enough for time to carry the words where they needed to go.
"You came back too late, didn't you?"
Five turned his head slowly. Their eyes met.
"No one else gets it," Five muttered, barely audible. "But you… You already saw it happen."
Zero nodded once.
Later That Night
Zero stood on the roof as lightning lit the sky. Below, the others argued in the hallways. About the will. About Vanya. About the apocalypse they didn't yet know was coming.
He didn't need to argue.
He'd already seen the world end. Thousands of times. Different ways. Sometimes fire. Sometimes silence. Sometimes because of them. Sometimes because of him.
He raised his hand, curled his fingers, and for a split second — time froze.
The raindrops hung in the air like glittering beads of glass.
"Just one use," he whispered. "And I waste it on a moment of peace."
He smiled sadly and let time resume.