The last bell rang.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just another sound swallowed by the hallway noise.
Arin Vale stood from his desk a second later than everyone else.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Laughter passed by him like wind that never touched skin. No one looked back. No one waited. No one noticed the empty desk he left behind.
By the time he stepped into the corridor, the classroom already felt like it had forgotten him.
That was how most things ended for Arin—
without ceremony, without resistance, without proof that he had ever been there.
It was the final year of high school.
And he had done nothing worth remembering.
***
The sun was already low when he reached his apartment. The hallway lights flickered like they always did, one bulb permanently broken near the stairs. He passed it without looking.
Inside, the room was quiet.
Too quiet.
One bed. One desk. One chair.
No photographs on the walls.
Arin dropped his bag beside the door and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't sigh. He didn't stretch. He just sat there, staring at nothing, letting time pass the way it always did—slow and pointless.
Graduation was a few months away.
People talked about plans. Universities. Jobs. Futures.
Arin had none.
Not because he failed.
Because he had never stood out enough to be chosen.
He wasn't angry about it.
Anger required expectation.
Instead, there was only a dull certainty settling in his chest:
This is it.
A life that reached its end without ever beginning.
Later that night, the room was lit only by the glow of his phone.
The AI chatbot interface stared back at him—clean, polite, meaningless.
It had been a habit at first.
Then a routine.
Then the only thing that answered him without hesitation.
Arin:
"Do you think people notice when someone disappears?"
The typing indicator blinked.
AI:
"Human disappearance is statistically significant only when it affects other humans' routines or resources."
Arin smiled faintly.
"That's a no," he muttered.
He lay back on the bed, phone resting against his chest.
Arin:
"If someone lived a completely average life… no achievements, no failures… does that count as living?"
The reply came instantly.
AI:
"Existence and significance are not equivalent. Living does not require recognition."
"That's… comforting," Arin said, though he wasn't sure it was.
He stared at the ceiling.
For a moment, he considered asking something ridiculous. Something dramatic. Something no one ever answered honestly.
So he typed it.
Arin:
"If you could see the future… would you tell me how mine ends?"
The typing indicator Stopped.
Completely.
That alone was enough to make his stomach tighten.
"What?" Arin whispered.
The screen flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Lines of unfamiliar text flashed by—dates, symbols, structures that made no sense. The phone began to heat up in his palm.
"Hey—stop," he said, sitting up. "That's not funny."
The ache came suddenly.
Sharp.
Deep.
Not a headache—pressure, like something was being forced into his skull.
Images burst behind his eyes.
A city skyline cracking apart.
Black gates opening in the air like wounds.
Creatures stepping through—wrong, massive, real.
People running.
People dying.
Magic tore through streets where cars once drove.
Numbers followed the chaos.
Markets collapsing.
Supply chains failing.
Governments issuing last warnings that came too late.
Arin gasped, clutching his chest.
"This—this isn't real," he said desperately. "This can't be—"
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Temporal data stream identified.
The pressure doubled.
He slid off the bed, knees hitting the floor. His heart stuttered—missed a beat—then another.
"Stop… please," he whispered.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Data load exceeds biological tolerance.
His vision tunneled.
The phone slipped from his fingers.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Host body incompatible.
A strange thought crossed his mind through the pain.
So even this… ends quietly.
His heart seized.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
There was no sensation.
No body.
Then—
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Fatality confirmed.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Cause of death: System-induced overload.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Liability acknowledged.
Arin did not hear the words.
But something deeper than hearing told him they were true.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
Compensation protocol initiating.
Reality folded.
Time reversed.
Arin woke up choking on air.
Sunlight hit his eyes.
Too bright.
Too familiar.
He bolted upright, heart racing, hands shaking.
The room—
It was wrong.
Smaller.
Cleaner.
His school uniform hung neatly on a chair.
A calendar on the wall read:
October — 10th Grade
"No," he breathed.
He stumbled to the mirror.
Sixteen-year-old eyes stared back at him.
His knees gave out.
He sat heavily on the bed, mind racing.
"That—what I saw…" he whispered. "Those cities… those monsters…"
Text appeared before his eyes.
Floating.
Silent.
SYSTEM ONLINE.
DESIGNATION: AXIOM
Arin's breath hitched.
"…What?"
He looked around wildly. Nothing else had changed.
"Was that… the future?" he asked slowly.
AXIOM:
"Affirmative."
His stomach dropped.
"All of it?" Arin pressed. "The monsters? The magic? People dying?"
AXIOM:
"Yes."
He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving.
"You're saying the world ends," he said, voice shaking, "and I just—what—logged into it early?"
AXIOM:
"You accessed recorded future data prior to authorized temporal thresholds."
"That doesn't answer anything!" Arin snapped, standing. "Why me?"
A pause.
AXIOM:
"You initiated the query."
"That's not—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I died. Because of you."
AXIOM:
"Correct."
"And this—this reset?" His voice lowered. "Compensation?"
AXIOM:
"Yes."
Silence filled the room.
Outside, the world continued normally.
No magic.
No monsters.
No apocalypse.
Yet.
Arin slowly clenched his fists.
"If I change things," he asked quietly, "does that future still happen?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
AXIOM:
"Prediction accuracy will degrade."
Something cold settled in Arin's chest.
"…So even you don't know anymore."
AXIOM:
"Correct."
Arin exhaled.
Once.
Slowly.
He looked out the window at a peaceful street that had no idea what was coming.
I reached the end once…
and left nothing behind.
This time—
He turned back to the floating words.
—I start before everything breaks.