She woke slowly, staring at the ceiling and clinging to the thought: It was a truly bizarre dream. The frantic rush of the night before—the flash of impossible light, the wrenching sensation of displacement, and the shocking intimacy with a stranger—felt like the desperate hallucination of an overworked student.
But as the hazy light filtered in, the distinct, inescapable lavender glow of the room shattered the illusion. Lev sat up in the strange bed, the reality of the purple sky and the sheer impossibility of her journey slamming into her. This was real. The familiar weight of her exhaustion had been replaced by a dizzying, cosmic uncertainty. There was no going back.
She found the guest room completely silent. Ben was gone.
A wave of fresh panic washed over her until she noticed the small, neatly folded note on the bedside table. It was written in a precise, minimalist hand that screamed corporate efficiency:
Gone to work. Do not answer the door. Do not go near the windows. Breakfast is in the kitchen. Eat it.
Slipping out into the apartment, she found a scene that was both unsettlingly normal and profoundly strange. Ben had already organized his departure, adhering to his rigid schedule despite the temporal fugitive sleeping in his guest room.
On the counter, he had prepared a plate of scrambled eggs with a surprising amount of greens, covered meticulously with a piece of synthetic film. Next to it was a mug of steaming black coffee. It was a gesture of basic provision masked by the rigid demands of his routine.
Lev approached the window, where the sky was a deep, uncompromising hue of violet. She picked up the plate. "I don't think I can ever get used to this," she admitted to the empty room, finally sitting down.
As she ate the surprisingly good breakfast, the anxiety Ben had left behind began to take hold. She finished quickly. He had left her food, but he had left her alone. It was time to find out a way to go home.
As Lev cleared her plate, her eyes landed on the chaotic cluster of papers near Ben's laptop—the remnants of his corporate exhaustion. She frowned, seeing the panic behind the mess.
"Stop," she muttered, though only to herself. "You're stressed because you see three problems. You only have one."
Ignoring the silence, she walked over to the clutter. In under a minute, she had gathered the papers into three neat stacks, labeled them clearly with Ben's own pens—Project A, Project B, Deadline—and opened his laptop to a blank document. She recognized the anxiety of a looming deadline and the structure of his mind instantly.
It's just organization, she rationalized, though a flicker of unease crossed her face. Her instant competency in his chaos felt too natural, an unsettling familiarity that transcended their brief acquaintance.
Lev knew she couldn't stay. She pulled on the generic, high-collared jacket Ben had left and slipped out.
The moment she stepped out of the apartment building, the oppressive atmosphere was a physical shock. The air was thick and heavy, and the purple light seemed to swallow every trace of genuine color.
Every face she saw—pedestrians, drivers, the attendant in the lobby—wore the exact same tired, utterly blank expression. Their eyes were focused straight ahead, unseeing. No one exchanged a greeting, and no one offered a spark of warmth. The world felt stripped down to bare, weary functionality.
She felt a sharp, sudden pain pierce her chest—not fear, but a visceral ache for connection. She searched desperately for any sign of intimacy. She didn't see a single couple. People maintained a precise, clinical distance, gliding past one another without a word or a glance. Will they ever be happy? she wondered, struck by the profound realization that this reality had forgotten how to love.
Even the wildlife reflected the despair: small, rodent-like creatures glided silently a few inches above the grass, looking like dust bunnies late for a meeting, while the four-winged birds fluttered with utterly indecisive chaos.
THE STRANGE LAWS AND BADGES
Lev moved quickly, trying to absorb the new world's laws through observation. She noted the silent, automated authority—hover-cars braking for tiny, police-like drones, and the general air of constant surveillance. The laws here seemed geared toward total control and minimal human interaction.
As she passed a large, sterile plaza, a man and a woman in the stiff, futuristic uniforms she'd noticed in the lobby suddenly changed direction and began gliding toward her. They weren't walking; they were propelling themselves forward with a purpose.
Lev's stomach dropped. The Authority.
The man—his face just as blank as every other civilian's, but his posture rigid—approached her. On his chest, a polished metal badge displayed a stylized symbol: a clock face with the hands violently shattered.
"Citizen," the man stated, his voice a low, synthetic monotone. "May I see your ID?"
Lev froze. The words she had rehearsed—mute, regional dialect, cousin—flew right out of her head. All that remained was the raw, primal panic of a law student who knew exactly how much trouble she was in.
She opened her mouth, trying to produce a coherent excuse, but only a desperate gasp came out. "I—I just—"
"Citizen is showing signs of temporal instability and prevarication," the male officer reported to his wrist-cuff, his tone clinical. "Compliance is now mandatory."
That was all the signal Lev needed. She pivoted sharply, ducked under the woman's arm, and ran.
She ran like a desperate fugitive, her heart hammering out a frantic rhythm that defied the city's slow, tired pulse. She heard the faint, high whine of the officers' propulsion units behind her, a sound that promised swift, certain capture.
She turned a corner and bolted down a narrow service lane, hoping to lose them, but the lane abruptly ended in a sheer concrete wall.
Lev slammed against the wall, chest heaving, her eyes squeezed shut in terrified defeat. She could hear the distinct, terrifying whine of the officers' approach, close enough now to be inescapable.