The next morning, sunlight poured through the wide apartment windows, warm and unobstructed. For once, there was no system pop-up waiting to slap him awake. No disorienting energy pulse. No warped sense of time or space.
Just the smell of scrambled eggs.
Orin blinked against the light and sat up, shirt half-twisted around his torso. He'd crashed hard last night after his little time-folding experiment. His body still ached, but in the dull, post-workout kind of way—not the "you just bent physics and paid the price" kind. Progress?
From the kitchen, a voice called out:
"You alive this time or nah?"
He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood carefully. "Barely," he muttered, padding toward the source of the food-smell.
His roommate, Lena, stood at the stove in fuzzy purple socks, flipping eggs like she ran a diner. Her hair was a frizzy mess tied up with two pencils, and she wore a hoodie three sizes too big. It might've been his. He wasn't going to ask.
"Morning," he said, trying to sound casual.
"You missed dinner again last night," Lena said, not looking at him. "You know, for someone who's unemployed and weirdly fit for a guy who never goes to the gym, you sure stay busy."
He hesitated. "...Thanks for the eggs."
She turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. "That's not an answer."
He smiled innocently and grabbed a fork from the drawer. "Maybe I'm in a secret underground fight club."
"You wouldn't survive one round." She slid a plate in his direction. "Where do you keep running off to, anyway?"
He stalled for a beat. "Uh. Long walks. Clears my head."
Her gaze lingered a little longer than he liked. Then she shrugged, turning back to the stove.
"Well. If you start burying trash bags in the backyard, I'm calling the cops."
"Duly noted."
They ate in mostly comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional sarcastic remark or question about who used the last of the milk. It was a strangely normal morning, and for once, Orin felt... grounded. Human.
But beneath the calm, a subtle unease settled in his chest. Something was drawing him—pulling him toward somewhere he wasn't ready to face.
Orin pushed his plate away, suddenly feeling the weight of silence between them. Lena's casual questions weren't just idle curiosity — she was watching him. Not in a nosy way, but like someone who could tell when something was off.
"So," she said, folding her arms, "you ever gonna tell me what's really going on? You disappear all the time, show up exhausted, and now you're juggling mystery eggs and bad excuses."
He met her gaze, a flicker of hesitation flashing through his mind. How much could he say? How much could he risk?
"Honestly?" he said, shrugging. "I'm still figuring it out."
She raised an eyebrow, smirk playing on her lips. "That's the most honest thing you've said since you moved in."
Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. The kind of sharp that made him think she wasn't about to let this go anytime soon.
Orin exhaled slowly. "Look, I'm grateful you put up with my weird hours and mysterious disappearances. It means a lot."
Lena smiled, a genuine warmth that made the apartment feel less like a strange, foreign place. "Hey, what are roommates for? Just don't make me find out you're a superhero or something. I'm terrible at keeping secrets."
He laughed, the sound feeling surprisingly good in the quiet morning.
Orin leaned back, eyes drifting toward the window. The city was waking up — cars humming, distant chatter, birds calling. Normal life, moving on without him.
"So," Lena said, nudging him with an elbow, "what do you do during those late-night vanishings anyway? Work? Hobbies? Secret double life?"
He smiled faintly. "Something like that."
She grinned. "You're impossible. But if you ever need someone to cover for you, I'm your girl."
Her easy confidence made him want to trust her, but the weight of his secret held tight.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
For now, that would have to be enough.