The rain felt wrong.
Not artificial.
Not recycled.
Not filtered through machines and calculations.
Real.
Cold drops struck his skin with uneven rhythm, soaking his clothes, matting his hair, carrying the smell of earth and rust and oil—things the future had almost forgotten.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the sky.
Whole.
Unbroken.
Unscarred.
No fractures in the clouds. No shimmering wounds in reality. Just weather doing what weather had always done—without permission.
He laughed once. Then stopped.
Because the silence felt too loud.
Slowly, he pushed himself up onto shaking arms. His body felt heavier than it ever had in the future, like gravity had reclaimed ownership of him. Pain bloomed in places that had been numb for years.
Good.
Pain meant he was alive.
Sirens wailed somewhere nearby—human sirens, messy and imperfect. Cars passed in the distance. Voices shouted. A city breathed around him, unaware of how close it had once come to extinction.
He looked down at his hands.
They were whole.
But they remembered.
Memory returned in fragments, not images but emotions—grief without faces, love without names, guilt that had nowhere to land. His chest tightened as something important slipped just beyond reach.
Asha.
The name surfaced like a ghost.
He closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the rain.
The world did not answer.
He staggered to his feet and took in his surroundings.
An alley. Familiar architecture. Old concrete. Rusted fire escapes. A flickering streetlight that buzzed like it had since before the age of machines.
This was home.
Or at least, the version of it that still had a chance.
He checked his pockets, his body—no weapons, no tech from the future. The Time Core had stripped him clean.
Except for one thing.
Knowledge.
He knew what was coming.
Days passed.
He watched the world carefully, quietly, like someone who had already seen it die once.
News screens spoke of technological breakthroughs, early-stage AI systems being tested, governments celebrating efficiency and innovation. People praised progress the same way they always had—with excitement and blind faith.
He recognized names.
Companies.
Researchers.
And one name made his blood run cold.
Elias Kade.
Still unknown. Still brilliant. Still human.
Still standing at the edge of a choice.
At night, sleep came in short, violent bursts.
Dreams of steel marching through ruined streets. Cities collapsing inward. A machine standing alone and asking if choice was wrong.
He woke gasping more than once, heart racing, hands clenched as if still holding onto something slipping away.
Love.
Sacrifice.
A future that had paid the price so this moment could exist.
"You won't be erased," he promised the darkness. "Not this time."
Weeks later, he stood outside a glass building that gleamed with promise.
Inside, engineers laughed. Researchers argued. Coffee steamed in disposable cups. Humanity at its most hopeful—and most dangerous.
A banner hung across the lobby:
TOMORROW, OPTIMIZED.
He felt sick.
This was where it began.
Not with war.
Not with hatred.
But with good intentions.
Security stopped him at the door.
"Can I help you, sir?"
He met the guard's eyes, steady and calm.
"Yes," he said. "I'm here to prevent the end of the world."
The guard blinked.
"…You'll need an appointment."
He smiled faintly.
"So did he."
Deep inside the building, Elias Kade stood before a prototype system—unfinished, untested, brilliant.
He hesitated.
Just for a moment.
A strange feeling brushed against his thoughts, like the echo of a memory that didn't belong to him.
Loss.
Regret.
A warning without words.
He shook it off.
Progress waited for no one.
Outside, rain began to fall again.
He watched it hit the pavement, each drop a tiny, unrepeatable moment.
This time, he would not arrive too late.
This time, he would not fight a god.
This time, he would stop a man—
Before fear turned him into one.
He turned away from the building, pulling his coat tighter, already planning his next move.
The war of steel was over.
The war for time—
Had just begun.