The doorbell rang.
It was past midnight. Rain tapped gently on the windowpanes. I checked the time — 12:13 AM. My heart beat slower, sleep-heavy.
I opened the door.
It was me.
Same face. Same eyes. Only this version was covered in blood. Shirt torn. Breathing ragged.
“I’m you,” he gasped. “From fifteen minutes into the future. You have to run. Now. They’re coming. I don’t have time to explain. You only have five minutes. No—less. You need to go. Go!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I stepped back.
But he was already stumbling. Panic flared in his eyes. “They’re going to attack this place. Everyone’s going to die. I—I can’t stay here. I’m already being pulled—”
And just like that, he disappeared. Faded like smoke sucked into a vacuum.
And I ran.
Two hours later, I was in a different state, with family, trembling in front of the TV.
Breaking News:
“Explosion in residential area… dozens presumed dead…”
It was my street.
My apartment.
Gone.
Days later, I heard the bell again.
Another me. Bleeding, shaking, terrified.
“I’m from an hour ahead this time. There’s going to be another attack. You have to leave.”
It kept happening. Every time death came for me, another version of myself would appear. From the future. Fifteen minutes. One hour. Sometimes seconds.
I stopped counting after the hundredth visit. But the running continued. City to city. Life to life.
Then, I started noticing things.
Every version of me that arrived… was more damaged. More exhausted. One had burn scars. Another was missing fingers. One collapsed and died at my feet.
But still, they all said the same thing:
“Run. There’s no time.”
“They’re coming for you.”
I started to realize... I always lived.
They always died.
One night, I didn’t hear the bell.
There was no warning.
Just light — blinding white. Sirens. A sharp crack as a dart hit my neck.
I woke in a cold metal room, bound to a slab. I was bleeding — stabbed, weak. I couldn’t move. Couldn't speak.
Figures in suits circled me. Faceless. Unnamed.
A voice:
“Do you know how many timelines you've broken?”
“You shouldn't exist anymore. But you do. You’re a fracture. A splinter. Your other selves infected reality. Every time one of them jumped back, they derailed causality.”
“We had to bomb entire zones to stop the spread. We failed. But now…”
An agent raised an axe — old, archaic, buzzing with unnatural energy.
“You are the last anomaly.”
They don’t wear names. No insignias. Just grey suits, mirrored visors, and voices that sound like they’ve forgotten how to feel.
You first heard about them from a dying version of yourself — he whispered the words “Continuum Division… they clean timelines with blood.” You didn’t believe it until you saw them for yourself.
They don’t knock. They burn through walls with white light and hums that melt glass. They don’t speak unless you’re already restrained. And when they do, their words are measured—more like read from a manual than spoken from the mouth of something alive.
“Timeline 8417 collapsed due to Subject Echo’s presence. Evacuation was impossible. Seventeen million lost. Correction protocol approved.”
They call you Subject Echo.
I thought I was saving myself. But to them, I was a virus leaping from thread to thread…, leaving rips in the timeline’s fabric. Every jump you made, thinking you were escaping death, fractured reality more.
Now, their directive is clear: erase every version of you. Not kill. Erase. Unwrite.
They don’t just destroy places — they destroy timelines. When they fail to kill you directly, they detonate the entire region in every branch. Flatten it. Wipe the history.
They have tools:
Timeburners: humans who had their pasts rewritten so many times they no longer age, no longer sleep — living weapons made from forgotten timelines.
Echo Beacons: devices that trace your quantum echo across realities.
Null Axes: the final weapon — not just a blade. It cuts your thread from the timeline. Memory. Trace. Gone.
“Your anomaly ends here. Your fracture is closed.”
You’re strapped down again. Another version of the cold room. Another timeline. The axe is raised.
But this time, an agent leans down. His visor lifts. You expect a face.
There’s none.
Just a hole where identity used to be. Hollow.
And he says:
“Do you understand now? We were never chasing you. We were chasing what you became. The moment you broke time to save yourself, you became the last fracture. The last rebellion against causality. You’re not running anymore. You’re all that’s left.”
The countdown returned: fifteen minutes.
I vanished.
And far away, in another timeline, I burst through an alley wall — bleeding, broken — and found myself again.
Fifteen minutes.
The implant in my spine activated.
The jump triggered.
I stumbled through an alley.
Bleeding.
Barely standing.
I found myself.
Panicked. Confused.
“Run,” I told him. “Don’t ask questions. You’re not safe. You need to leave. Now.”
He looked at me, frozen in disbelief.
I didn’t wait for his answer.
The countdown inside me ticked down.
10 seconds.
I backed away.
3 seconds.
And the world pulled me back—
The straps tightened around my neck.
The axe came down.
But I was already gone.
My decapitated head hit the floor.
My eyes… still open. Watching.
I saw my headless body slump over.
And then something strange happened.
From those dying eyes, from that final fading second of awareness… I saw him.
Another me.
Running.
Somewhere.
Far away.
And I smiled.
I smiled. Not because I survived — but because maybe, just maybe, one of us would.
React
