The Cost of Knowing
The building Kieran led her into looked abandoned from the outside.
Its windows were dark, its entrance half-hidden behind a flickering holo-advertisement that glitched between colors. To anyone else, it was just another forgotten structure in Lower Novus. To Aria, it felt like a mistake waiting to happen.
Kieran keyed in a sequence on the rusted door panel. It slid open with a low groan.
"Inside," he said.
Aria hesitated only a second before stepping in. The door sealed behind them, cutting off the noise of the city. The interior lights warmed gradually, revealing a surprisingly clean space—bare walls, minimal furniture, and layers of concealed tech embedded into the structure.
"This is safe?" she asked.
"Safer than anywhere you've been in the last ten minutes," Kieran replied.
She turned to face him. "You said the future noticed me."
"Yes."
"And what does that mean?" Her voice sharpened. "Because it sounds a lot like you're saying I broke something I can't fix."
Kieran studied her for a long moment before answering. "It means you're no longer invisible."
He moved toward a console near the wall and activated it. Data bloomed into the air—temporal graphs, probability curves, branching lines splitting endlessly.
"This," he said, gesturing, "is what time looks like after you ran your experiment."
Aria's breath caught.
The lines were chaotic. No clean flow. No stability.
"It's collapsing," she whispered.
"Destabilizing," Kieran corrected. "The collapse comes later."
Her knees felt weak. "I only looked. I didn't change anything."
"That's the problem," he said. "You observed yourself."
She frowned. "So?"
"In time mechanics," he continued, "observation isn't passive. The moment you saw your future death, you anchored it. You made it real enough to chase you."
Her throat tightened. "So I'm marked."
"Yes."
"By what?" she demanded.
Kieran's jaw clenched. "By the same people who killed you last time."
A chill ran through her.
"You said the Council cleans up time breaks," she said slowly. "That means they already know I exist."
"They always knew," he replied. "They were waiting for proof."
She laughed once, sharply. "And I handed it to them."
Silence stretched between them.
Aria dragged a hand through her hair, pacing. "If the future is fixed, if I'm already dead in three days, why are we even trying?"
"Because it isn't fixed," Kieran said. "Not yet."
She stopped. "You just said I anchored it."
"I said you made it real enough to follow you," he replied. "That doesn't mean it can't be rewritten."
"By who?"
He met her eyes. "By the only person who's seen it and come back."
Her heart pounded.
"You," she said quietly, "aren't from my present, are you?"
Kieran didn't answer immediately.
Then, "No."
The word landed heavily.
"What year are you from?" she asked.
"Five years ahead," he said. "Five years of damage you don't remember causing."
Her breath hitched. "Then why help me now?"
His gaze softened, just slightly.
"Because in every version of the future," he said, "you try to save everyone but yourself."
Something twisted painfully in her chest.
"And you?" she asked. "What happens to you?"
Kieran looked away.
"In most timelines," he said, "I fail to save you."
A soft chudder ran through the building as distant engines passed overhead.
Aria straightened, resolve slowly replacing fear.
"Then we change it," she said.
Kieran looked back at her.
"That's the cost," he warned. "Once you know the future, every choice becomes heavier."
She nodded. "I already crossed that line."
Outside, unseen and unheard, the city's surveillance grid recalibrated—quietly adjusting its focus toward the anomaly that refused to stay dead.