The elevator hummed faintly as Elias descended through the subterranean research facility. He could still feel the phantom heat of plasma fire, the collapse of steel beams, the screams from the final hours of the Rift War. Every second since waking in this impossible second chance felt unreal.
The Time Core pulsed faintly against his chest—an invisible thrum only he could sense. It wasn't just in his mind. It had chosen him, rewound the clock, and dropped him back into this fragile past.
He had to act now.
The heavy steel doors slid open, revealing the familiar expanse of the Rift Energy Research Division—the heart of humanity's doomed experiment. Rows of transparent coolant pipes glowed faintly with blue light. Holoscreens floated over technicians' stations. Scientists in pristine coats bustled with quiet urgency, unaware that their work would one day shatter the world.
His pulse quickened. This is it. The point of divergence.
At the far end of the chamber, standing before a holographic projection of the Rift Generator model, was Dr. Lyra Veyna. Her dark hair was tied back in a no-nonsense bun, glasses reflecting strings of mathematical data that spiraled across the air. She was explaining stability tolerances to a cluster of junior researchers.
Elias hesitated. How do you tell someone their life's work will end in catastrophe?
He forced his legs to move.
"Dr. Veyna," he called, his voice carrying more sharply than intended.
Lyra turned, brows raised. She studied him for a brief moment—the grease stains on his uniform, the exhaustion etched into his face. Her tone was polite, but clipped. "Yes, Engineer Kael? Do you need something?"
The others turned too, curious. Some smirked—Elias wasn't exactly a name that carried weight here. Just another maintenance-level engineer, low clearance, low importance.
He swallowed hard. "You need to shut down the Rift Generator project. Immediately."
The room stilled.
Lyra blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious," Elias pressed forward, the words tumbling out before his courage failed. "What you're building—it isn't stable. The containment algorithms won't hold. In less than ten years, the first Rift opens over Solaria Prime. Cities burn. Armies fall. Humanity loses the war before it even begins. I've seen it."
There was silence, followed by muffled laughter from the junior staff. One of them leaned to another, whispering loud enough to be heard, "He's lost it. Been down in the reactors too long."
Lyra didn't laugh. She studied him with the cool detachment of a scientist examining a strange specimen. "Engineer Kael… what exactly are you implying?"
"That the Rift Generator is a mistake," he said, desperation creeping into his tone. "You think you're unlocking limitless energy, but you're tearing holes into… into places we were never meant to touch. The things on the other side—they're not meant to exist here. And once they come through, there's no stopping them."
His words spilled too fast, too frantic. He could see it in their eyes—he sounded like a madman.
Lyra folded her arms. "That's a bold claim. Do you have evidence?"
Elias froze. Evidence? What could he say—that he'd lived through it already? That the Time Core, embedded in his chest like a phantom heartbeat, had dragged him back through causality? If he said that out loud, they'd haul him off for psychiatric evaluation.
"I don't need evidence," he said instead, voice tight. "I lived it. I saw billions die. I—" His throat closed on the memory.
Lyra's eyes softened for a fraction of a second, but then the mask of professionalism slipped back into place. "Engineer Kael, grief-induced delusions are not uncommon for field engineers under stress. Perhaps you should take a leave of absence."
The words hit harder than any Rift Beast's claw.
"I'm not delusional!" he snapped, louder than intended. Several scientists flinched. Security glanced up from the perimeter.
Lyra raised a hand to calm the room, then lowered her voice. "Mr. Kael… I don't know what you think you've experienced, but I assure you the Rift Generator has passed every stability test. Containment is solid. There's no risk of the… apocalyptic scenario you're describing."
Elias's fists trembled at his sides. They didn't understand. They couldn't.
"You're wrong," he whispered. "You think the equations are airtight, but reality doesn't follow your models. The moment you push the Generator to full capacity, it won't just fail—it will invite them in. And once the Rift Beasts arrive, no firewall, no containment field, no fleet will hold them back."
Her jaw tightened. The murmurs of the staff grew louder—phrases like unstable and losing it drifted through the air.
Lyra finally sighed. "I'll… make a note of your concerns, Engineer Kael. But unless you can provide hard data, I suggest you return to your post. We have real work to do."
The dismissal cut like a blade.
Elias staggered back a step, his chest constricting. He wanted to scream, to shake them all, to drag them to the future battlefield strewn with bones and shattered cities. But the words died in his throat.
Because he realized the truth: they would never believe him.
Not yet.
Not until the first cracks began to show.
As he turned away, his gaze caught on the projected model of the Rift Generator. The hologram shimmered, its rotating rings glowing a calm blue. But to Elias's eyes, the faint outline of the apocalypse countdown overlapped it—red numbers ticking down relentlessly.
09 years, 11 months, 17 days.
The timeline was still moving toward collapse. And every failed attempt to change it only seemed to make the countdown accelerate.
He walked out of the chamber in silence, the murmurs of laughter and whispers following him. His shoulders hunched as though he carried the weight of entire worlds.
In the corridor beyond, the lighting was dimmer, quieter. He leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to his temple. The Time Core pulsed again, a rhythm only he could hear.
"Not enough," he muttered bitterly. "Words won't change anything. If they won't listen… I'll have to show them."
His reflection in the polished wall panel stared back—haunted eyes, weary face, grease-stained uniform. The man who had failed once already.
This time had to be different.
A faint flicker of static whispered in his ear, though no comm-link was active. A distorted voice, mechanical yet familiar, bled into his thoughts.
"Still… trying… aren't you?"
Elias's breath hitched. He knew that voice.
"Ava?" he whispered.
The static fizzled again, just for an instant, then was gone.
The corridor was silent once more.
Elias pushed off the wall, every nerve on edge. If Ava's fragmented consciousness had survived inside the Time Core, then maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as alone in this as he thought.
But one thing was certain: the scientists wouldn't save humanity. The generals wouldn't save it. The politicians wouldn't save it.
If the future was to change, it would be him.
And the countdown was already ticking.