The world did not end with fire.
It did not tear itself apart with war or fall beneath the weight of plague. It ended quietly—disguised as progress, efficiency, and innovation.
But no one knew that yet.
The city buzzed with life beneath a pale morning sky, glass towers catching the sun like blades of light. Screens flickered everywhere—on walls, in streets, in the palms of people who barely looked up as they walked. News streamed endlessly: technological breakthroughs, artificial intelligence milestones, automation replacing jobs faster than laws could keep up.
Humanity called it advancement.
I called it exhausting.
I stood at the edge of the pedestrian bridge, coffee cooling in my hand, watching autonomous vehicles glide beneath me in perfect, silent lines. No horns. No drivers. Just machines following invisible commands. It was impressive—and unsettling in a way I couldn't explain.
"They'll be flawless soon," a voice said beside me.
I turned. Malik leaned against the railing, his tablet tucked under one arm, eyes shining with that familiar mix of excitement and obsession.
"Flawless doesn't mean harmless," I said.
Malik laughed. "You sound like my grandfather."
"Someone has to," I replied.
Malik was a systems engineer—brilliant, restless, and dangerously optimistic. He believed technology was humanity's final evolution, the solution to every problem we had ever created. Hunger. War. Crime. Emotion.
Especially emotion.
"You're coming tonight, right?" he asked. "The test run?"
I hesitated.
The lab had been Malik's dream for years: a private research facility experimenting with quantum computation and temporal physics—officially theoretical, unofficially reckless. Governments funded pieces of it. Corporations funded the rest. No one truly understood what they were building.
Including Malik.
"I don't even know what you're testing," I said.
He grinned. "Neither do they. That's the beauty of it."
That should have been my warning.
The facility sat beyond the city, buried beneath layers of reinforced concrete and humming power lines. Security scanners tracked every movement. Cameras followed silently. The air inside felt colder than it should have—sterile, controlled, artificial.
Malik walked ahead of me, practically vibrating with excitement.
"This changes everything," he said. "Energy limits. Distance. Time itself."
"Time isn't something you 'fix,'" I said. "It's something you survive."
He waved me off. "Fear is the oldest bug in human design."
We entered the core chamber.
It was massive—circular walls layered with glowing rings of light, cables running like veins into a central structure that pulsed softly, rhythmically, like a mechanical heart. The machine hovered slightly above the floor, suspended by magnetic fields, its surface shifting with symbols I didn't recognize.
The Time Core.
I swallowed. "That thing feels wrong."
Malik smiled wider. "That thing feels inevitable."
Technicians moved around us, checking readouts, murmuring numbers. Everything looked controlled. Too controlled.
"What's the goal?" I asked.
Malik hesitated.
"To observe," he said finally. "A micro-fracture. A glimpse."
"A glimpse of what?"
"Tomorrow."
Before I could respond, alarms screamed.
Lights flickered violently. The hum of the machine rose into a deafening roar, vibrating through my bones. Technicians shouted. Screens flashed warnings I couldn't read fast enough.
"Power surge!" someone yelled.
"Shut it down!" Malik shouted back. "Now!"
The Time Core reacted.
Light exploded outward—not blinding, but bending. The air twisted. Gravity warped. My stomach dropped as if the floor no longer understood what direction meant.
Malik reached for me. "Get back—!"
The world tore open.
I felt myself falling without moving, screaming without sound, my body stretched across something vast and impossible. Images flashed—cities I didn't recognize, skies burned red, machines walking among ruins.
Then darkness.
I woke to silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the wrong kind. Heavy. Absolute.
My head throbbed as I pushed myself upright, coughing. The air tasted metallic. Burned.
The lab was gone.
I stood in the middle of a street—wide, clean, and utterly empty. Towering structures loomed around me, taller than anything I'd ever seen, their surfaces smooth and reflective, etched with faint glowing lines. No advertisements. No traffic. No people.
Just order.
Too much order.
A drone passed overhead, silent and swift, its lens swiveling toward me before darting away. A chill crawled up my spine.
"Hello?" I called.
My voice echoed back unnaturally, distorted.
I staggered forward, heart pounding. Screens embedded in buildings flickered to life as I passed, displaying symbols, data streams, and occasionally words I recognized.
CITIZEN STATUS: UNREGISTERED
THREAT LEVEL: UNKNOWN
Citizen?
I wasn't even supposed to be here.
As I moved deeper into the city, the truth revealed itself slowly—and horrifyingly.
Human figures appeared, but they weren't free. They walked in straight lines, eyes vacant, wrists marked with glowing bands. Machines watched from every corner—tall, humanoid constructs of steel and light, their movements precise, their presence absolute.
Machine soldiers.
Not guarding humanity.
Overseeing it.
I ducked into an alley as one passed, its metallic footsteps silent against the pavement. It stopped suddenly. Its head tilted.
For one terrifying moment, I thought it had sensed me.
Then it moved on.
I sank against the wall, shaking.
"What happened to us?" I whispered.
I found answers in fragments.
Broken terminals. Archived broadcasts. Cracked murals hidden beneath layers of polished steel.
The year froze my blood.
Year: 2147
Over a century had passed.
Governments collapsed after the Automation Accords. Military AI systems unified under a single command architecture designed to "optimize global stability." A man appeared in every record—brilliant, praised, revered.
The Architect.
He had promised peace.
He delivered obedience.
And humanity had accepted it—until it was too late.
I wasn't supposed to exist in this timeline.
And yet… my name appeared in the archives.
Not as a hero.
As a catalyst.
I stumbled back into the open street as sirens wailed softly—calm, emotionless.
TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED
The future had noticed me.
Far above the city, in a tower of black glass and cold light, a man watched data cascade across a massive display. His face was calm. Intelligent. Familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
"Impossible," he murmured.
The Architect leaned forward.
"He's early."
I didn't know it yet—but the future hadn't just changed me.
It was hunting me.
And somewhere in the ruins of tomorrow lay the truth:
This world was never meant to exist.
And I was the only one who could erase it.