I am dead.
I know this with certainty—not because I feel pain or absence, but because nothing expects me to be here.
Time itself hesitates around my thoughts, like a sentence unsure how to finish.
I open my eyes.
The sky is wrong.
Not alien.
Not distorted.
Just… unfinished.
Its colors don't blend smoothly. They stop abruptly, like brushstrokes abandoned halfway. Clouds hang frozen at the edge of motion, their shadows misaligned with the sun.
I am lying on cracked concrete.
A city stretches around me, but it is a city after the idea of cities has failed.
Buildings stand hollowed out, their interiors exposed like ribs. Streets end suddenly, dropping into blank nothingness where reality was never rendered.
This place is not ruined.
It is incomplete.
I sit up.
My body responds slowly, reluctantly, as if remembering how to exist one function at a time. My hands look human—but wrong. Slightly out of sync with themselves, leaving faint afterimages when they move.
I breathe.
Air exists here, but it tastes stale, recycled through memory too many times.
I am in a Dead Timeline.
And I am not supposed to wake up here.
You always look confused at first.
The voice comes from behind me.
I don't jump.
Some instinct deep inside me already knows who it is.
I turn.
He is standing a few meters away, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that makes my skin crawl.
He has my face.
Not an exact mirror—older, sharper, eyes hollowed out by knowledge that refuses to fade. There are faint scars along his temples, the kind left by repeated neural trauma.
Repeated transfers.
Welcome back, he says mildly.
Or forward. Or sideways. Time doesn't behave here.
My throat tightens.
Who are you?
He smiles.
Not kindly.
I'm what happens when you survive too long.
Understanding crashes into me like delayed thunder.
You're—
Yes.
A version of you from a future that was rejected.
Rejected.
The word echoes through the empty city.
This timeline failed selection, he continues, walking closer.
Not catastrophically. Not dramatically.
It just… wasn't optimal.
He gestures around us.
So the universe stopped investing in it.
I follow his gaze.
In the distance, entire blocks fade into static, their details unraveling into meaningless noise before vanishing completely.
Reality here is rotting from neglect.
Why am I here? I ask.
He tilts his head.
Because you're useful.
And because you made a choice the system noticed.
The memory hits me—compressing my consciousness inside the swarm, choosing singularity over optimization.
That shouldn't have worked, I say.
It didn't, he replies calmly.
It just delayed the consequences.
He stops in front of me.
Up close, I notice something worse.
His presence is… anchored.
Unlike the others—Glass Being, Swarm-Self—this version of me is not slipping. Not fragmenting.
He is stable.
In a dead reality.
How are you still here? I whisper.
His smile fades.
Because I stopped trying to survive.
We walk.
The city does not resist our movement, but it doesn't assist either. Gravity works inconsistently, pulling harder in some places, weaker in others.
As we pass a collapsed building, I see something inside.
Frozen people.
Mid-step. Mid-scream. Mid-thought.
Echoes, he explains.
Residual consciousness patterns. Not alive. Not gone.
I look away.
This place is a grave, I say.
No, he corrects.
It's a memory the universe forgot to delete properly.
We stop at the edge of the city, where concrete meets nothing.
Beyond is pure absence.
Not darkness.
Not void.
Just… no data.
You said I was useful, I remind him.
He nods.
You're still being evaluated.
I'm not.
That sends a chill through me.
Then why haven't you disappeared?
He looks at the empty horizon.
Because I refused the final choice.
The words hit harder than any revelation so far.
Refused?
Every cycle ends the same way, he says quietly.
One version of you becomes dominant. One perspective wins.
That version decides which reality continues.
I remember the rule burning into my mind.
The last version standing decides what reality becomes.
And you said no, I realize.
He turns back to me.
I couldn't choose which reality deserved to live.
So the system discarded mine instead.
The ground trembles.
Not from destruction.
From attention.
Something vast shifts its focus toward us.
The air thickens.
It knows you're here now, he says.
You weren't supposed to meet me yet.
What is "it"?
His eyes darken.
The part of the universe that's tired of possibilities.
The city begins to dissolve faster now.
Buildings flicker.
Echoes collapse into dust.
Listen carefully, he says, gripping my shoulder.
You still think this is about survival. It's not.
Then what is it about?
His voice drops.
Control.
Another tremor.
A裂—a tear—rips open the sky, revealing something that is not space behind it.
Not stars.
Not light.
Decision.
They're narrowing the outcomes, he continues.
Too many versions of you are acting unpredictably.
They don't like that.
Who is "they"?
He hesitates.
For the first time, he looks afraid.
You'll meet them soon enough.
The tear widens.
I feel a pull—not violent, but inevitable.
One more thing, I say quickly.
Why help me?
He smiles again.
This time, there is sorrow in it.
Because if you succeed, he says,
maybe my refusal won't have been meaningless.
The world collapses.
Not explosively.
Gently.
Like a thought being erased mid-sentence.
As the dead timeline finally gives up, his voice follows me into the fracture.
Remember this—
the worst version of you isn't the one that fails.
It's the one that agrees.
Then—
I am gone.
I wake up somewhere warm.
Someone is crying.
And I realize, with horror—
I recognize the sound.
It's my own voice.