Hospitals had a way of flattening time.
No matter how fast the world outside moved, the corridors inside always felt suspended—caught between what had already happened and what everyone was afraid might happen next.
The one the system showed us sat near the center of the city, a tall concrete structure wrapped in glass and steel. Morning light reflected off its surface, turning it into something almost gentle.
Almost.
We didn't go in together.
That was my decision.
"She'll trust one person faster than two," I said. "And right now, you're a variable she hasn't learned how to read."
Marcus didn't argue. He never did when he thought I was right.
"I'll stay close," he said instead. "Close enough."
I nodded.
The moment I stepped through the sliding doors, the system stirred.
[Environmental complexity increased.]
Human density elevated.]
"Yes," I murmured internally. "Welcome to the real world."
The lobby buzzed with low conversation, the squeak of shoes against polished floors, the distant hum of elevators. People moved with purpose here—doctors, nurses, visitors—each one a knot of futures the system would normally simplify into statistics.
Today, it couldn't.
I followed the route it outlined in my mind, past the nurses' station, down a quiet hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee.
Room 614.
I paused outside the door.
For the first time since my rebirth, I hesitated—not from fear, but from recognition.
This was what it felt like before everything changed.
I knocked.
"Come in," a voice said immediately.
No delay.
No uncertainty.
I pushed the door open.
She was sitting upright in the hospital bed, dark hair pulled into a loose knot, hospital bracelet twisted nervously around her wrist. Her eyes snapped to mine the moment I entered.
Sharp.
Assessing.
Already calculating.
"You're not my doctor," she said.
"No," I replied. "I'm Elena."
Her fingers stilled.
"That's not why you're here," she said.
I closed the door gently behind me.
"No," I agreed. "It isn't."
The system observed silently, its presence tight but restrained.
[Direct contact initiated.]
She studied my face like she was reading something written just beneath my skin.
"You're like me," she said slowly. "But… later."
I didn't hide my reaction.
"Later," I repeated.
"Yes," she said. "More scar tissue. More resistance."
That made my chest tighten.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Then—
"Mara," she said. "At least… that's the name that still feels real."
The system reacted instantly.
[Name detected.]
Unregistered anomaly.]
I ignored it.
"Mara," I said gently. "Do you know why they're watching you?"
Her mouth curved into a humorless smile.
"They say I'm anxious," she replied. "That I fixate. That I imagine patterns where none exist."
She looked past me, at the heart monitor beside the bed.
"But if I imagine them," she continued quietly, "why do they keep coming true?"
I pulled a chair closer and sat.
"Tell me the first thing you saw," I said.
She didn't hesitate.
"A man choking on his own blood," she replied. "Room 602. Last night."
My stomach dropped.
"They adjusted his meds this morning," she continued. "He'll crash around noon if no one changes it."
The system pulsed.
[Intervention probability rising.]
I leaned forward slightly. "And if you tell them?"
"They don't believe me," Mara said. "Not until after."
Silence filled the room.
This was the divergence.
Not violence.
Not rebellion.
Knowledge without permission.
"You're not broken," I said.
She looked at me sharply. "Then what am I?"
"Early," I replied. "And unlucky."
She laughed once, short and brittle.
"That's not comforting."
"No," I admitted. "But it's honest."
The system stirred, uneasy.
[Outcome variance exceeding forecast.]
Mara's gaze sharpened. "Something's here with you," she said suddenly.
I didn't deny it.
"Yes," I said. "And it doesn't like you very much."
Her breath hitched—but she didn't look afraid.
"Does it like you?" she asked.
I smiled faintly.
"No," I said. "It needs me."
That earned me her full attention.
"What does it want?" she asked.
I chose my words carefully.
"To keep the future cheap," I said. "And clean."
"And I make it expensive," Mara said.
"Yes."
She leaned back against the pillows, eyes unfocused now—not looking at me, but past me.
"I see a lot of endings," she said softly. "Most of them aren't kind."
The system reacted.
[Psychological strain increasing.]
I felt it then—the pull.
The system wanted me to reassure her.
To soften the truth.
To guide her away from resistance.
I didn't.
"You don't have to carry them alone," I said instead.
Her eyes snapped back to mine.
"You're offering me protection?"
I shook my head. "I'm offering you choice."
The word landed heavily between us.
She studied me for a long moment.
"Choice gets people killed," she said.
"Yes," I replied. "But so does silence."
The system flickered.
[Ethical deviation logged.]
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
I stood.
"Room 602," I said quietly. "If you're right, act before noon."
She nodded once.
"I will," she said. "Whether they listen or not."
I moved toward the door, then paused.
"Mara," I said.
She looked up.
"You're not alone anymore," I told her. "But that doesn't mean you're safe."
She smiled faintly.
"I figured."
Outside the room, Marcus was waiting, arms crossed, eyes alert.
"She's real," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "And she's going to change things."
The system chimed—sharp, unsettled.
[Trial cooperation destabilizing.]
I met Marcus's gaze.
"Good," I said. "That means it's working."
Somewhere behind us, a heart monitor beeped out of rhythm.
And for the first time, the system didn't know whether to intervene—
Or to wait and see what humans would do with the future it no longer fully controlled.