11th november, 1826 BCE
The air smells of ashes. Heavy. Bitter. Like the world's been burned down to its bones.
Everything around me is fire — crawling up the walls, spiraling through the air, turning palaces into hollow shadows. I can hear people screaming. It's not background noise anymore; it's everywhere. The kind of sound that sticks to your skin.
And then I see her.
She's lying on the ground — a woman with skin pale as snow. Still. Too still. There's a tear frozen on her cheek, and I don't even know why, but something inside me hurts. Like she's someone I once loved and forgot how to remember.
I kneel down beside her. My hand shakes as I touch her cheek.
Cold. Ice cold.
"Why… why does this feel so real?" I whisper. My voice breaks in the smoke.
Somewhere behind me, I hear footsteps. Slow. Calm. Wrong.
I turn, and there's a man standing there.
He's not panicking. He's just there — like the flames mean nothing to him. His eyes are this piercing blue, the kind that feels familiar in a way that makes my heart twist. I've seen those eyes before — soft, warm, maybe even smiling under pink petals I can't quite place. But now they're empty.
I want to scream at him, to ask what's happening, but no words come out.
He just keeps walking closer, step by step, while the world behind him collapses.
"Why?"
It slips out before I can stop it.
The word feels bigger than me — heavier — like it's not just about him or her, but everything.
Because it's not just fire. The whole world feels… alive.
Like it's watching me. Like it's remembering me.
And it's trying to fix something I don't understand — something I tried to change.
But why?
And at what cost?
29th October, 2025
The sun is personally attacking me again.
Like— hello? Consent??
I groan, roll over, and pull the blanket over my head. My alarm goes off anyway, blasting the most cursed 8-bit tune known to humankind. I've been meaning to change it for three months. I just… haven't emotionally recovered enough to pick a new sound.
"Five more minutes," I mumble. Then my hand flails around like a dying fish, smacks the phone off the table, and boom— blessed silence. I win.
By the time I zombie-walk into the kitchen, my hair looks like a thundercloud had a meltdown. I shove two slices of bread into the toaster and stare at them like maybe they'll toast faster if I threaten them.
They don't.
When they finally pop, one slice launches to the floor. I blink at it. "Perfect. I love when the universe challenges me before coffee."
I pick it up, blow on it, and take a bite. Tastes like defeat. Still better than cereal.
I pour my instant coffee (the drink of champions) and head to my room — or as I like to call it, The Command Center of Procrastination.
LEDs: on. Curtains: closed. Cat: judging.
Pixel's already lounging across my keyboard like he pays rent. He doesn't.
"Move, your highness," I tell him. He blinks once, slow and unimpressed, like he just paid taxes for existing beside me.
I squeeze into my chair, sip coffee, and open the Play Store.
Alright, digital gods. Impress me.
Scrolling... scrolling… oh, look, another "Epic Battle Survival Royale with Crafting." Revolutionary. Truly.
I sigh so hard Pixel flicks his tail at me.
Then — hold up.
A weird little app catches my eye.
The Game of Fate
Developer: @1823BCE
Description: please help
I blink. "Well that's not concerning at all."
The icon's a black circle split in half — fire on one side, frost on the other. No reviews. No downloads. No screenshots. Just one black image with white text that says:
> You can change the story.
I snort. "Yeah, sure. I can't even change my sleep schedule, but okay."
Still… my finger hovers over Install. Because apparently, curiosity and bad decisions are my love language.