This Is Still The Funniest Set Of Panels Of All Time

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

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I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

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The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

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1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

it primarily surfaces the essence of making it perfect yet it reminds us that perfection comes from revision, not hesitation.

sometimes the best writing advice is "just let it be bad." revolutionary. terrifying. but it works.

Chapter 10: When the Silence Breaks

TW ⚠️

Emotional and psychological trauma, Implied domestic abuse (Clara’s backstory. Not that detailed tho), Medical scenes and mild body horror (organ-like dream realm), Brief discussion of death, Mild violence and unsettling imagery, Mental disorientation / hallucination & Light profanity and dark humor

It had been days since everything happened. I’d been waiting—hoping—for an announcement that would finally let me take part in the journalism program.

But today… it was raining.

Raindrops tapped softly against the glass of my bedroom window, each one leaving a faint trail as it slid down. I stayed cocooned beneath my blankets, the quiet hum of the rain wrapping around me like a lullaby. For a moment, there was peace.

Then came the restlessness.

I wasn’t sure where the restlessness came from. Maybe it was the waiting. Maybe I just needed to move—to be somewhere else, even for a while. That had to be it.

So, I decided to go for a walk, rain or not.

The pavement shimmered under the drizzle as I stepped outside, the gentle patter of raindrops drumming softly on my umbrella. It was oddly soothing, like the world had quieted down just for me.

As I strolled through the streets, the rain gradually faded to a light mist. Eventually, the clouds began to part, and the sun peeked through, casting a golden warmth across the damp streets of Aloy.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the National Museum—Metallica. That’s one thing about living in the city: you can stumble upon places like this without even meaning to.

I looked up at the massive structure towering above me. A chill ran down my spine—not the kind that warns, but the kind that hums with something unspoken. Like clouds rolling in with no promise of rain. Oddly enough, it felt… inviting.

So, I took a step forward, and walked inside.

Inside, dim lights welcomed me, casting soft shadows along the museum’s quiet halls. Every artifact seemed to hum with its own presence—each one whispering a different kind of power. I could feel it in my chest, in my fingertips.

And it made me feel so…

Nice.

Until—

I stopped.

There, right in front of me, stood a statue.

“Oh…” The word slipped from my mouth as it fell open slightly.

My eyes locked onto it—unmoving, unblinking.

The Statue of the God of Time.

“Temureth,” I whispered, stepping closer to the statue.

There was a weight in the air—heavy, ancient. I was still caught in that silence when a familiar voice broke through.

“Hagarin! You’re here too?”

I turned. It was Clara, her eyes bright with surprise.

“Yeah,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I was just strolling, and somehow ended up here.”

She nodded, her voice softer now. “I always come here alone when I feel lonely. My mom used to bring me.”

I nodded, understanding her sentiment. “I don’t blame you,” I said gently. “If there’s any place—or anything—you hold close, of course you’d cherish it.”

She gave a soft smile, then sighed. “Wanna have a drink?”

I deadpanned. ———————————————————————

At first, I thought she meant alcohol.

But now we were sitting in a café. The sun had fully broken through the clouds, casting warm light across the windowpane.

“Y’know, Hagarin,” Clara said, eyes on the menu, “you remind me of my older sister.”

“Oh?” I asked, absentmindedly flipping through a spare menu. “How so?”

“She was… chill. A lot like you. But she’s not around anymore.” Clara’s voice dipped, but she kept talking. “I’ve got a brother too. He’s a doctor. Busy guy.”

She paused. Then, after a breath: “My mom… she died. My father abused her.”

The silence that followed was heavy. I looked at her, then exhaled.

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,” I said quietly. “It’s okay. You’ll find a way to carry it—maybe even grow past the pain someday.”

Clara gave a quiet nod just as the waitress approached our table to take our orders.

“A salad, please,” Clara said as the waitress nodded, jotting it down.

“And a slice of apple pie,” I added with a small smile.

When the food arrived, we fell into easy conversation—talking about anything and everything.

“Speaking of school, I’ve finally caught up on everything,” I said.

Clara groaned lightly. “And here I am, still needing to go back just to pass some things.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Well… I was sick the other day, so I’ve got to hand in everything I missed.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, without thinking twice.

The good atmosphere lingered even after we finished eating. There was something comforting about it—like we’d both needed that quiet hour more than we realized.

The sun had taken its rightful place in the sky, high and golden, casting long shadows across the street as we made our way toward school. The sidewalks were still damp, glistening faintly, and the air smelled like wet pavement and leaves.

We didn’t talk much on the way. We didn’t need to. There was something about shared silence that felt more intimate than words.

When we reached the school, Clara turned to me and gave a small smile. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll wait here,” I replied.

She disappeared through the doors, her footsteps echoing faintly down the hall as she made her way to the faculty room. I lingered just outside, near the row of lockers lining the hallway. A few students wandered past, chatting among themselves, laughter echoing in snippets that came and went like passing winds.

I leaned against the cool wall, folding my arms. The stillness gave me too much room to think.

The image of Temureth’s statue flashed through my mind—how the stone felt alive, how his name tasted strange on my tongue, like something forgotten yet familiar. There had been a presence in that room, subtle but undeniable. Like something old was watching. Waiting.

I shook my head a little, trying to bring myself back to the present. Still, the feeling lingered.

The silence around me wasn’t as peaceful now. It felt suspended. As if time itself had slowed, stretching out the seconds into something just a little too long. Just a little too still.

And then—I felt it again.

The same chill I felt at the museum. Faint, like a whisper running along the edge of my spine. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough to notice.

I looked around. Nothing out of place. Just lockers, bulletin boards, classrooms with doors slightly ajar. The ordinary shape of a school afternoon.

But something felt…off. Like a ticking clock had skipped a beat.

That is, until I heard it.

A shriek—sharp, panicked, and startlingly loud. What made it worse was that it came from a man.

The sound cut through the hallway like a blade, jolting me upright before I even had time to think. My instincts kicked in. I didn’t call out. I didn’t hesitate. I just moved.

I followed the direction of the sound, my footsteps echoing softly against the tiles as I passed one hallway after another. The school, once familiar, now felt unfamiliar—twisted slightly by the weight of something I couldn’t name.

Eventually, I reached the stairwell.

The air felt heavier here, like the very space was holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slowly, cautiously, my hand brushing the rail. With each step, the atmosphere grew more tense, more… off. Like walking into a place that time had forgotten.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway was dim. Lights flickered above, struggling to stay alive. A faint hum buzzed from a nearby socket, but it was the only sound besides the soft thud of my heart.

Then I saw it.

A room—its door slightly ajar, pale yellow light leaking from the gap. The windows were completely covered by thick curtains, drawn from the outside. The whole space looked swallowed in shadow.

I approached slowly, heart beating a little faster.

And then I saw the sign on the door.

Faded lettering. Nearly rubbed away by time and cleaning.

But still readable.

“Time Studies - Research Archive Room 3”

“What are you two doing here?!” the teacher’s voice boomed, sharp and urgent—but it sounded far away, like I was hearing it through water.

Everything was fogged, muffled.

“I—I don’t know why she was here!” Clara’s voice cracked, panicked, as she held onto me.

Then—darkness.

I didn’t get to hear what came next. The pain in my chest spread like ink in water, and the world around me unraveled. My limbs gave out. My mind slipped.

And I passed out. ——————

Is this real life? Or is just fantasy?

I heard cackles.

Sharp. Echoing. Wrong. It was Ezra’s laugh. Twisted and distant, like it didn’t belong to him—or maybe like it did, and I’d just never heard it this way before.

“Ezra?” I jolted awake, gasping.

But it was just a dream… wasn’t it?

I blinked. My vision blurred, then settled.

“Ezra…?” I whispered again. His giggle still lingered, soft and persistent, like it had taken root in the walls.

The room around me pulsed faintly, cramped and alien. The walls weren’t made of stone or wood—they were… flesh-like. The color of organs, deep reds and purples, squirming gently as though alive. Veins, maybe. Or shadows.

I couldn’t tell where I was—but it was definitely not the school anymore.

It was disturbing. Claustrophobic.

And still, I could hear Ezra’s giggle.

Light, childlike.

Wrong.

“Hagarin… Hagarin!”

His voice echoed everywhere. Not just once. It multiplied—clashing against itself in distorted waves, rising and falling like laughter buried beneath madness.

It was Ezra’s voice. But it wasn’t Ezra.

Each syllable struck like a drumbeat inside my head, louder, faster—relentless.

I clutched my temples, stumbling back as the space around me pulsed like a living thing. The squirming walls grew tighter, the colors deeper—veins bulging, floors rippling beneath my feet.

My breath hitched. Confusion swelled. Panic followed.

And that’s when I felt it—my powers flaring uncontrollably.

Like a storm breaking inside my chest.

No direction, no form—just raw energy reacting to the fear, the disorientation, the voice.

It was overwhelming. It felt like being stripped back to zero. Like all the control I’d built up until now had been burned away in a second.

I fell to my knees.

“Hagarin…” Ezra’s voice whispered again, this time gentler, but no less twisted. “Why are you afraid of what you already are?”

“Get… get out of my head! Ezra!” I cried out, my voice cracking, heavy with panic. My hands trembled as I broke down into sobs, unable to hold it together any longer.

And then— Silence.

The giggling stopped. The echoes dissolved. Even the room… settled.

The walls no longer squirmed in chaos. They pulsed slowly now—steadily. Like a heart at rest.

And that’s when I felt it.

A sharp sting in my palm.

I looked down— A clean cut had appeared across my hand, fresh blood welling at the surface. It wasn’t from the dream. It was real.

Pain flared. The world snapped into place.

I gasped, sucking in air like I’d been underwater.

My eyes flew open.

Bright lights. A ceiling. The sterile scent of antiseptic.

I was back.

Breathing hard, my chest rising and falling rapidly, I scanned my surroundings—disoriented.

Hovering above me were three figures. Clara—her brows knit with worry. A nurse gently checking the IV line in my arm. And a teacher standing behind them, arms crossed tightly, eyes unreadable.

Sir… Evan?

I blinked. Focused.

His school ID swayed slightly from a lanyard around his neck. Evan M. Soriano, it read. Faculty, Temporal Studies Division.

I was shaking.

Not from fear—at least not just that. It was exhaustion. Discomfort. A heaviness that settled in my bones like I’d run a marathon inside a nightmare.

What the hell was that even? Was that… Ezra’s power?

I clenched the blanket over me, trying to stop the tremble in my fingers, but it didn’t help. My body still remembered the chaos—even if my mind couldn’t fully make sense of it.

And that place—ugh.

I swallowed hard as the memory returned, vivid and raw.

It was like I had been trapped inside a living organ—walls that pulsed, colors that moved and squirmed like tissue under a microscope. The floor wasn’t solid. The air felt alive.

It wasn’t a dream. Not completely.

Because the pain was real. The cut on my palm was real.

The bolt of darkness, Ezra’s eyes, that voice—

I wanted to throw up.

I closed my eyes, steadying my breath. But I could still hear that distant giggle—lingering like a splinter in my mind.

When I tried to sit up, everyone in the room panicked.

Clara practically jumped three feet in the air. “Hagarin, no—lie down!”

The nurse rushed to my side, gently but very firmly pushing my shoulder back against the bed. “You need rest—please don’t make me use tape.”

Even Sir Evan, who looked like he hadn’t blinked in ten minutes, took a step forward. “You shouldn’t be moving yet. You’re still stabilizing.”

“Stabilizing?” I muttered. “I’m not a nuclear reactor.”

But they didn’t laugh.

Probably because I looked like I’d been through a nuclear meltdown.

Still, I couldn’t stay put. I was too rattled. Too… itchy inside my own skin. My brain was spinning, my chest still tight, and every time I blinked, I saw squirming walls and heard Ezra’s creepy little laugh echoing in the back of my head.

“I can’t just lie here,” I said, struggling against the blanket like it was actively restraining me. “I’ve literally been inside a sentient meat room and black magic’d through the chest. I think I earned a walk.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “A what kind of room?!”

Sir Evan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting ever getting a teaching license.

The nurse finished patching up my palm with a soft sigh, gently placing my hand back down on the bed. She didn’t say anything at first—just turned her gaze to the hospital bed next to mine.

I followed her eyes.

Then Clara looked.

Then Sir Evan.

We all deadpanned.

Ezra was lying there.

Sleeping.

With his eyes open.

Another nurse was tending to him, adjusting his IV like this was completely normal behavior, as if sleeping with your eyes open was just some cute little personality quirk.

“Is… is he dead?” Clara whispered.

“No,” the other nurse replied, unfazed. “He’s sleeping.”

“With his eyes open?” I asked, tilting my head slightly like it would help the situation make sense.

“It’s… been happening since the incident,” she added, as if that explained anything at all.

Clara leaned closer to me. “I feel like I’m in a horror film.”

“You are,” I muttered. “Except there’s no popcorn and I’m the one getting possessed.”

Sir Evan let out another sigh. “Enough. He’s stable—for now.”

“Ezra… his power is highly contagious. Everyone knows that. Everyone should know that.” Sir Evan started, dismissing the nurse with a wave before turning back to us.

“We all grew up thinking that the five elemental categories—nature, air, water, fire, and time—were the main sources of power. But the truth is…” He paused, folding his arms. “Those five aren’t the ‘main.’ They’re just the most recorded. The most understood. That’s why they dominate the books, the schools, the statistics.”

He stepped closer, his tone growing firmer. “There’s no such thing as a true ‘main’ element. Every power is different. Some valuable. Some… completely useless. But even the rarest ones have gods tied to them.”

I furrowed my brows, listening.

“That’s why gods and goddesses exist in so many forms—each representing something deeply specific. Take this nation, Aloy. Ruled by a god who commands metal. Yet ironically, the highest recorded ability among our people? Air.”

He glanced toward the window, briefly, before continuing.

“And then there’s Ezra. We don’t know where he came from. No nation claims him. No lineage traces back to him. But one thing we do know…” Sir Evan’s voice lowered.

“…is that the power he carries is called Pulsebind.”

My stomach turned at the name. That was the thing that put me in the fleshy, breathing nightmare?

“It’s a contagious ability,” he said. “When Ezra experiences intense emotion or trauma, even brief eye contact can infect someone. That’s all it takes. In some cases, he can even cast Pulsebind into an object.”

He looked at me, pointedly.

“It craves flesh and bone, and once it gets ahold of your mind, you’re trapped. Inside a world that’s him. A place built from his instincts, fears, and whatever twisted shape his subconscious decides to take.”

Through an object… My fists clenched.

That’s what he did to me. That’s how it started. And if Clara hadn’t stopped me—damn it.

I sighed heavily, glaring at the unconscious boy nearby.

If it weren’t for his face, I’d have decked him by now.

“Though it’s still taught in basic education that those five—time, air, fire, nature, and ice—are the main elements, truthfully, that should’ve been changed a long time ago.”

Sir Evan’s voice carried a hint of frustration, as if he’d said this before, many times, to ears that refused to listen.

“They’re not the ‘main’ because they’re fundamental. They’re just… common. Well-documented. Easy to explain to children. But the truth is, there are countless types of abilities out there. Some born from emotion, others from ancestry, or even divine influence.”

He took a breath.

“And then… there’s time.”

At the mention of it, something in the air shifted.

“It’s still one of the rarest powers ever recorded. And yet, despite its rarity, it’s counted among the top five strongest abilities known in history—not because of how many people have it, but because of what it can do.”

He paused for a beat, letting the weight of that settle.

“Time itself doesn’t just manipulate moments—it bends memory, rewrites decisions, reshapes futures. That’s why gods like Temureth are feared, even by other deities.”

“But… our rules clearly say never to tamper with the timeline,” I said, brows furrowed. “How can you say it’s possible to change the past?”

Sir Evan didn’t flinch. He simply looked at me, calm but heavy with meaning.

“Rules exist to keep something in place,” he began. “To protect what’s fragile—like cause and effect. And yes… if you do interfere with the past, you’ll likely be stuck in that altered timeline forever. That’s the consequence. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

He leaned forward, voice low and firm.

“You can change the past. You just might not survive it.”

I swallowed. “But why would anyone even want that? To live in the past… until their soul cracks from the weight of what they’ve done?”

A shadow passed over his face.

“If you don’t belong in a timeline,” he said quietly, “the world will notice. And once it does… you die the moment you’re seen.”

Sir Evan checked his wristwatch and let out a quiet sigh. “That’s my cue,” he murmured. “I have to leave. In the meantime, get some rest. Another proctor will take over from here.”

He stood from his seat, giving one last glance toward Ezra, then at me—like he wanted to say more, but chose not to. With a nod, he turned and left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

“That was… a lot to digest,” Clara finally said, breaking the thick silence that had settled between us.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, eyes drifting to my bandaged palm. “Yeah. I’ve got a million questions, and zero brain cells left to process them.”

“I think I’ll just ask Ms. Renée later.”

There was a pause.

“Sometimes,” I muttered, “I really want to strangle Ezra.”

Clara let out a small snort. “Same. But he’d probably trap us in another meat realm the moment we touch him.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” I groaned, pressing my palm to my forehead.

“Maybe let’s change the topic then?” Clara offered with a soft smile, trying to lighten the mood.

I nodded, rubbing my temple. “Yeah… good call.”

She glanced out the window for a moment before saying, “Back at the café… I didn’t really finish what I was saying. About my mom.”

The air shifted—just slightly. I sat up straighter, the exhaustion still there, but I gave her my full attention.

“She used to take me to the Metallica museum,” Clara began, her voice gentler now. “Not because we loved art or history or anything. She just… wanted me to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere she could pretend we were safe.”

She paused.

“My dad was the kind of man you never knew what version you’d come home to. Angry. Drunk. Silent. And my mom… she was always trying to shield us. Me, my sister, my brother. But eventually, she couldn’t anymore.”

Clara looked down, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet.

“She died. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left to protect us from him.”

I swallowed hard, unsure what to say, so I just listened.

“My sister left first. She ran. And I don’t blame her. My brother buried himself in school, became a doctor. I… just learned how to disappear when I had to.”

She glanced at me, her eyes glassy but steady. “That’s why I go to the museum when I feel lonely. It’s the last place I felt like she was still trying.”

“I… honestly just wanted a loving father,” Clara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone who would provide love and care for me. The man who created us three—me, my sister, my brother—he used to love Mom so much.”

She exhaled, long and tired.

“I just…” her voice faltered, “maybe the idea of loving someone or settling down—it’s hard to imagine now. The world feels too dangerous for that kind of dream.”

She paused again, her eyes unfocused.

“Life is such a beautiful thing… but sometimes I wonder why we were brought into it, only to live through so much pain.”

“I used to be so fixated on the idea,” Clara said softly, “that somewhere out there, there’s a man who’ll love me forever. I… I hope I’ve already met him.”

She sighed, eyes lingering on the floor.

I couldn’t help the quiet smile that tugged at my lips. “That’s why there’s Clarence.”

Her head snapped toward me. “Where the hell did that even come from?” she huffed, giving my arm a playful slap.

I laughed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at my bandaged palm. “I dunno. Just saying. He looks like the type to write poetry in secret.”

We both laughed quietly, letting the tension melt into something lighter. But just when I thought we were done, Clara tilted her head with a sly grin.

“Oh yeah? What if Ezra likes you?”

I didn’t even blink. “I’ll shove this dextrose tube down your throat if you keep talking.”

She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “You’re so dramatic—he’s not even conscious!”

“That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

In the end, it all dissolved into quiet giggles and soft chuckles—like nothing had happened. Like we weren’t just talking about trauma, or powers that trap people in organ nightmares, or the terrifying mystery that was Ezra.

For a fleeting moment, it felt normal. Almost safe.

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3,857 words

lil description for my story

Hagarin never expected her life to become a story worth telling. Born into an ordinary existence, her reality twists when she discovers her fate as a time traveler-one with no map, no prophecy, and no warning for what comes next As her twin sister Hanari once said: "You've got a hell of a story to tell." With each jump through time, Hagarin sees the world through fractured glimpses: memories that aren't hers, tragedies she can't stop, and horrors she must survive.

From battles against monsters and violent self-defense to heart-wrenching losses and fleeting moments of love, every fragment shapes the tale she's destined to live-and the one she's meant to tell. This is a story of fractured futures, untold horrors, fleeting romances, and the weight of knowing too much.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

proceed to Prologue

My throat hurts and it feels like needles clawing inside my throat whenever I swallow, cough or eat.

Chapter 8: Blades and Rivalries

Tw: Mild language

Days had begun to settle into a quiet rhythm once I got the hang of everything—by trying everything. But that didn’t make it any less exhausting.

Now, I find myself walking through the library, where the soft patter of rain against the windows casts a monochrome hue over the space. The dull light filtering in makes everything feel muted, as if the world outside had drained all its color and left only shades of gray behind.

The library is vast, its towering shelves stretching endlessly, yet it holds only a handful of students scattered between aisles. Their presence is barely noticeable beneath the heavy silence.

I wander deeper, trailing my fingers along the spines of old books, savoring the rare tranquility—until it's broken.

A voice rises from the other side of the shelf.

"I still can't believe Hagarin has returned," Liviya mutters, her words laced with something sharp, something bitter.

"Why? Does she bother you?" Another voice responds. Sashenka.

I freeze in place, my ears tuning in despite myself.

"Yeah, she does. I suppose you could say she’s stealing my spotlight." Liviya scoffs, the sound grating against the hush of the library.

My brow arches as I process her words. Stealing her spotlight? I comb through my memories, trying to recall a moment where I had even tried to get involved with her. But I had barely interacted with Liviya—let alone threatened her place in anything.

"What do you even mean by spotlight?" Sashenka asked, her tone laced with curiosity.

"She’s taking the valedictorian spot," Liviya replied, and I nearly choked on my own saliva. Woah. Valedictorian? That was the last thing I expected of myself.

"How are you even so sure?" Sashenka asked, skepticism thick in her voice.

"Because I’ve seen her perform in all aspects, and I must admit—she’s no ordinary student," Liviya said, irritation creeping into her words.

Sashenka sighed. "She’s ordinary. What are you even talking about?"

I heard the faint rustle of pages as she reached for a book, and my stomach twisted in panic. If she pulled that book from the shelf, she’d see me standing right here. Too close. Too risky.

Instinct kicked in—I grabbed the book before she could.

For a second, Sashenka tugged at it, confused, as if sensing an unseen resistance. Then, after a brief pause, she let go with a quiet, puzzled huh.

"You don't get me, Sashenka," Liviya said, irritation creeping into her tone. She was too caught up in her own thoughts to notice Sashenka’s growing confusion as she stared at the book.

"I really don’t," Sashenka scoffed. "You make it sound like she’s some all-powerful, high-and-mighty Hagarin, when really, she’s just doing what any student would do."

"You don’t get me," Liviya repeated, her voice firm.

"Oh, I get you," Sashenka shot back, a grin breaking through. "You’re just as crazy as the rest of them." She let out a hearty laugh, and I stood there, utterly lost.

Crazy? Competing? Me?

I hadn't done anything to rival anyone—I could barely keep up with my own inner turmoil. And yet, somehow, I had ended up in the middle of something I never even signed up for.

Without thinking, I turned and walked away.

I didn’t stop until I was back in the main building. Unlike the quiet halls I had left behind, this place buzzed with life—students moving in all directions, their voices blending into an endless hum.

"You’re here?"

I turned at the sound of Hanari’s voice as she appeared behind me, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"I was bored," I admitted.

Hanari beamed before looping her arm through mine. "Perfect. Come on!"

Before I could protest, she was already dragging me toward the cafeteria.

She pulled me toward the cafeteria, where the hum of conversation and clatter of trays filled the air. The place was alive—brimming with energy in a way that felt almost foreign after spending so much time in the other department.

I glanced around, taking in the familiar scene. It was nice. Comfortable, even. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this until now. Maybe that other place had drained more life out of me than I thought.

Hanari and I grabbed our food before settling at an empty table just outside the cafeteria.

"I kinda doubt that the only reason you're here is because you’re bored," Hanari said, poking at her food before taking a bite.

I sighed. "It’s the truth. Don’t overthink it." I focused on my own meal, hoping she'd drop it.

"Ironic, coming from someone who overthinks everything," she shot back, giving me a knowing look. "Just tell me. I feel like ‘boredom’ is just the tip of the iceberg."

I hesitated but eventually let out another sigh. Fine.

"Someone doesn’t like me," I admitted.

Hanari paused—then burst into laughter. Loudly.

"I can't believe people over there have the time and energy to hate someone when there aren’t even that many of you!" she cackled. "Like, seriously? They had to go out of their way to despise you?"

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

"So? Are you not gonna share the context?" She eagerly waited for me as I sighed. "She said that I have the potential to take the

"The valedictorian spot? I’m clearly just an average student," I said, rubbing my chin before letting out a sigh. "If I were going to compete, it’d only be if I actually had confidence. And honestly? I just hope she won’t be mean to me."

Hanari scoffed. "You can handle yourself in any situation. I doubt you wouldn’t find a way to shut her up the moment she starts spouting nonsense." She nodded, as if already picturing the scene.

"Yeah, but making a big deal out of everything is just a waste of time. For what?" I muttered, shaking my head.

"That’s their problem, not yours," Hanari said simply. "Unless you actually want to take responsibility for something you never even signed up for."

She had a point. I leaned back, mulling over her words before nodding. "I’d only fight back if I have to."

Lunch passed, and I made my way back to the building where I studied, Hanari heading off in her own direction.

While waiting in the elevator, the doors slid open, and as I stepped out, my gaze landed on someone in the hall. He was refilling his water bottle, dressed in an outfit that could only be described as… adventurer-like.

A sun hat—the kind classic explorers wore—sat atop his head, and a camera hung around his neck. His entire attire practically screamed "traveler," though a subtle detail caught my eye. Somewhere on his clothing, a logo of the school was embroidered, almost like a mark of recognition. My eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before walking back to my classroom. 

I settled into my seat just as our professor entered the room, their presence immediately commanding attention.

"We have a visitor today," they announced. "Someone will be offering an opportunity to join the media analyst team."

The door opened, and in walked the same guy I had passed by earlier—the one dressed like an adventurer.

"Good afternoon, everyone." His voice was steady, confident.

"I’m Prince, a member of the media analyst team. I’m both a journalist and an adventurer," he introduced himself, adjusting the camera slung around his neck. "Today, I’m here to recruit students to join our team. In this field, we take on activities ranging from real-world adventures—documenting stories from the outside world—to tackling controversies within the city itself. Everything we uncover, we write and publish in the media."

With a flick of his wrist, a stack of brochures scattered through the air, gliding toward us like leaves caught in the wind. One landed on my desk, and I picked it up, scanning the details.

Almost without thinking, I muttered, "What are the pros and cons of this?"

Silence followed. Did I just say that out loud?

I cleared my throat. "Sorry," I mumbled before quickly lowering my head to read the brochure properly.

A scoff echoed from behind me, sharp and unmistakable. Liviya.

Of course. As if my mere existence offended her. I’ll have to find a way to keep her on her toes.

Prince, however, remained unfazed. "To answer your question," he began, adjusting his glasses with a practiced motion, "the biggest pro is experience—real-world exposure in every aspect. You’ll develop literacy in global issues, gain firsthand knowledge, and sharpen your analytical skills."

He paused before continuing, "However, the cons depending on your personal weaknesses. Some might struggle with the risks, the unpredictability. Others might find the weight of knowledge overwhelming."

I let his words settle in my mind. Exploring the world… that does sound nice.

But leaving home? Maybe that’s where the real downside comes in.

"I’ll return in three days to collect the list of those interested in joining. Please stay tuned for further announcements," Prince said before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Almost immediately, Sashenka turned to Liviya, who sat behind us. "Are you gonna join?"

Liviya scoffed. "I wouldn’t join if she was in the same room as me. Oh, but let’s be real—I’m too smart to even be there to begin with." She flipped her hair, her tone dripping with self-importance. "Joining a team of journalists to refine political stances and views does sound like a decent choice, but I’m going to be a lawyer. Studying law will sharpen my thinking just fine."

I mentally rolled my eyes so hard I might as well have yanked her hair while I was at it.

"I see…" Sashenka simply nodded, though she stole a glance in my direction. "What about you, Hagarin?"

"I’m considering it," I said casually.

"Ain’t no way!" Clara’s voice shot across the room from the other side. "You’re leaving again?"

I blinked, tilting my head. "I get to leave?"

As if I’d just found a loophole—a perfect escape from this place.

"Oh, but of course," Liviya said, her voice dripping with amusement. "I actually suggest you leave, Hagarin. Maybe people there would find you interesting." She chuckled, her words laced with something just short of mockery.

Sashenka glanced at her but said nothing. No backup this time, huh?

I exhaled slowly, finally turning to face Liviya. "Oh? Was that necessary to say?"

For a split second, her composure faltered—just the slightest crack.

The classroom fell silent. Even Clara, who had been outspoken moments ago, had gone quiet, reduced to a spectator along with the rest. The tension in the room thickened, all eyes flickering between us.

Liviya recovered quickly, offering a play-it-safe response. "Of course, I’m just saying you’d meet more people there."

"As if I’m looking for people to surround me," I shot back, my voice daring her to say what she really meant. "What’s your point, Liviya?"

Before she could answer, the professor’s voice cut through the air.

"That’s enough."

Liviya clicked her tongue. "Tch. Sensitive."

I smirked. "Egotistical.

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The next day, we were gathered in the gym for yet another exhausting activity. Physical combat. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Liviya had somehow decided to turn this into a rivalry—one I couldn’t care less about, yet she still managed to irritate me to no end.

"For the next activity," the instructor announced, "we will be exploring weapons. This exercise is meant to sharpen your skills and help you find a weapon you may prefer. Please take your time testing them before we begin sparring."

I glanced at the collection laid out before us. They were all crafted from wood and other harmless materials—blunt enough to prevent injury but still effective for training.

Reaching into a bag, my fingers brushed against the hilt of a katana. I pulled it out, weighing it in my hands. Not bad. Feels comfortable.

A hushed whisper reached my ears.

"Look at her, using a katana. Isn’t that weird?" Liviya murmured to Sashenka.

Sashenka barely reacted, giving me a quick glance before shrugging it off.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my eyes before casually picking up a small rock and tossing it in Liviya’s direction. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, just enough to startle her.

Without waiting for her reaction, I swiftly left my spot, making my way over to Clara and Clarence, who were deep in discussion about their weapon choices.

"I saw what you did, Hagarin," Clara chuckled, shaking her head.

Clarence adjusted his glasses. "Liviya’s just looking for any excuse to talk bad about you. A katana is just as useful as any other weapon."

I sighed. "Is she really like that? I almost feel bad for her—arguing with a wall must be exhausting."

Clara raised a brow. "Well, this is a first. I honestly don’t know why she has it out for you either." She picked up a magic book, flipping through the pages. It was the kind designed for combat, filled with spells that could be cast in an instant.

"I overheard her in the library the other day," I admitted. Both of them turned their full attention to me.

"She said I was stealing her spotlight. That I might take her throne as valedictorian." I rubbed my chin, still baffled. "Which is ridiculous. I took months off just to pull myself together. I’m not even caught up yet."

"She’s just afraid of being outsmarted. That’s it."

Ezra strolled toward us, seamlessly joining the conversation.

"Really?" I asked, eyeing him.

Clarence sighed. "You’re back from detention. What did you do this time?"

Ezra let out an awkward chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Well… I was supposed to prank that egotistical guy in our class by scaring him—but I scared our professor instead. Dang, almost got him. So… yeah." He sighed dramatically.

Clara stifled a laugh. "You’re impossible.""And yeah, about Liviya—she hates being outsmarted," Ezra continued, shaking his head. "She’s been getting on my nerves, too. As if that pretty face of hers makes up for her problematic ass."

"What’d she do to you?" I asked, curious.

Ezra scoffed. "Laughed at me for being mentally unwell. Man, I should’ve kicked her in the face." He groaned, clearly still bitter about it.

Before I could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air. The professor called us to gather.

"Now that your five minutes of weapon selection is over, we will proceed to picking opponents."

I straightened, gripping the hilt of my katana. Let it be Liviya. I wanted to see her squirm—just a little, just enough to get under her skin.

"Hagarin and Sashenka."

Oh.

Everyone stepped aside, clearing space for the spar.

"The rules remain the same as last time," the professor announced. "If you stay down for five seconds, it will count as a defeat. However, today, supernatural abilities are strictly forbidden. This will be purely physical combat."

I adjusted my grip on the katana, rolling my shoulders as I settled into my stance. Across from me, Sashenka did the same, raising her sword and small shield. A shield? Nice choice.

"Be ready," the professor warned.

The moment the signal rang out, we lunged at each other.

Steel met steel in a sharp clash. Sparks of friction. A test of strength. I dodged a strike, twisting my body to avoid the blade, only for Sashenka to counter just as quickly. We moved like pieces on a chessboard—attack, dodge, counter, repeat.

Each step, each motion, was calculated.

And neither of us was willing to be the first to fall.

Our blades clashed in a sharp burst of motion. Sashenka struck first, aiming for my side, but I parried with the katana’s blunt edge before twisting away from her shield bash. She was fast. I had to admit that. Each swing came with precision, her balance unwavering.

She wasn't just swinging wildly—she was testing me.

I stepped back, dodging another strike before retaliating, slashing toward her shoulder. She blocked it with her shield, the impact vibrating through the air, and shoved me back with a quick push. I skidded a step before regaining my footing.

Sashenka smirked. She's good.

I exhaled. Fine. Let’s speed this up.

I darted in again, feinting to the right before pivoting left, slashing low. She barely raised her shield in time, but the movement left her sword arm vulnerable. Taking my chance, I twisted my grip and struck toward her wrist.

A clean hit.

She hissed, losing her grip for a split second—long enough. I swung again, forcing her to step back, her defense breaking apart. I pressed forward, relentless, pushing her into a corner.

She raised her sword for one final attempt at striking me down.

But I was already a step ahead.

Ducking under her blade, I swept my leg out, hooking behind her ankle. Her balance wavered. A moment of hesitation—just a moment.

Then she fell.

Her back hit the ground hard, sword slipping from her grasp as I stepped forward, pressing the dull side of my katana against her chest.

"One… two… three…" The professor began counting.

Sashenka groaned, glaring up at me before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

"Four… five! Match over!"

Silence filled the gym for a beat before a few murmurs broke out. I exhaled, stepping back and offering Sashenka my hand. She took it, shaking her head as she got up.

"Damn," she muttered. "Guess you aren't as rusty as people think."

I smirked. Damn right.

I glanced at my friends who were silently cheering then to Liviya with a prose of envy. 

That's her problem now. 

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2,949 words

Next Chapter

To the stray dogs. 🥃

To a new year, everyone. I hope you'll all still be here with me in the years to come.

-Nix Nephili 🌙

GODS

Restless

Content: NSFW. Ango x Reader (reader has a pussy but no gendered pronouns used for reader) Fingering, mutual masturbation, kissing. Approx 1.1k words.

A/N: this is the third time I've uploaded this story. I keep posting it and deleting it because I get in my own head about it. But it's staying this time. I love Ango dearly and it's only right he should be my first fic of 2025 since I robbed him of the chance to be the last one of 2024.

Ango was no stranger to sleepless nights. His busy mind often whirred with information, memories, his never-depleting to-do list. But for once, he wasn't the one struggling to sleep. 

You'd been restless for a while, sighing and shifting around in bed, throwing the covers off you only to pull them back on ten minutes later. Repeating the process again and again. 

Feeling you roll over for the umpteenth time, he reached across to the nightstand and squinted at the pale blue glow of his phone's screen. The display gradually came into focus– 02:17am. A little less than two hours before he was due to get up.

“Can't sleep?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and middle finger.  

A silence descended between you, broken after a few seconds by your quiet, weary voice. “I'm sorry I woke you up.”

“Don't be.” In the darkness, he sought you out, slipping his arm across your stomach and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Is something the matter?”

You shook your head. Maybe that was was a lie, maybe you just didn't want to get into it, but he didn't press the issue. If there was something you'd tell him in your own time. He spent more than enough time prying information from people who didn't want to talk; he wouldn't ever do that to you.

You were soft and warm in his arms, familiar, yet strange… you saw each other almost every day— when he wasn't sleeping at the office, that is— but time together was a rare commodity. Stress, exhaustion, and countless distractions chipped away at any chance you had for intimacy lately.

Goodness, he could hardly remember the last time the two of you had kissed. Not properly. A quick peck on his way out the door, and that was it. 

Suddenly his mind was whirring too. 

Yearning, longing, aching, he pressed his lips to the bare skin of your shoulder, his fingertips skating over the sensitive skin beneath your navel in languid spirals that made your breath stagger.

“Shall I help you get to sleep?” he asked.

The shift in the air was gradual, your breaths shallow, the exhausted little groan you made right before you nodded your head making his cock twinge. 

And then his fingers dipped down below the waistband of your panties, to the exquisitely soft skin of your pussy. You weren't wet, not yet anyway, but he'd see to that.

There weren't many things about himself Ango was especially proud of, but fingering you was certainly one of them. He was patient, consistent, his long, deft fingers caressing your lips, his thumb gently teasing the supple skin around your clit.

“Ango~”

“Hm?” He loved that sound, the way you sighed his name. “More? Or should I slow down.”

You shook your head. “No, it's perfect. Don't stop.”

He had no intention of stopping. Not until you were completely wrung out.

It didn't take long before you grew needy, shifting your hips to steer his touches. And far be it from him to deny you. 

Slipping his fingers down to your entrance, he gathered your silken slick on their tips, his breaths hard won, every cell in his body yearning to bask in the glow of your pleasure. 

By the time he began to caress your clit, it was engorged and so sensitive, his patience rewarded by the sound of his name tumbling from your lips once more. 

Oh, that sound made him ache. His name never sounded prettier than when you uttered it, gasped into the air with such desperation he couldn't help but feel his ego inflate just a little.

“There,” he whispered against your temple, rubbing hastened circles over your clit as you shuddered in his arms. “Close your eyes. You don't need to do anything except feel,” his breaths fanned across your cheek, warm and staggered as his own arousal flooded through him and his voice faltered, “and… kiss me.”

His plea was answered less than a moment later, your lips seeking his, eager and soft, clumsy in the dark. Your kisses made him dizzy, a coil deep in the pit of his belly tightening with every hungry swipe of your tongue against the inside of his lips. 

You didn’t stop kissing him as he reached two fingers down to enter you, the pad of his thumb still working your clit. Once, years before he met you, Ango had attempted to repair an antique watch, only to find his hands far too large for the task. But for you, his fingers were perfectly suited. Thick and long, and fully devoted to your pleasure, stroking your inner walls and your clit in time with one another. 

And though you hadn't even touched him, he was achingly hard, the damp patch at the front of his boxers a testament to how much he adored pleasuring you. 

He could tell you were close, the way your thighs quivered, the way your pussy clenched around his knuckles. But he wouldn’t speed up, not until you asked him. He’d let your pleasure build until you couldn’t take his constant pace a moment longer–

The sudden shock of your hand wrapping around his clothed cock made his breath catch in his throat, his thighs almost instinctively clamping together from the unexpected intensity. 

“Cum with me,” you said, slipping your other hand inside his underwear to stroke his dick. You knew his body as well as he knew yours. A dozen or so strokes and he was already on the precipice. 

Fuck, the heat between you then, the desperation. Gasping and groaning in the dark. The warmth of your lips, your body, your breath. Your name moaned against your mouth as his orgasm drew near. The world began and ended with the two of you in that moment and nothing else mattered. Brow pinched, lips slack, shivering against you as the first pulse of your orgasm brought about his own. 

Ango couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. He couldn't even open his eyes, but he could most certainly feel his cock throbbing and leaking onto your belly, your palm milking him from the base as you arched into your pleasure. And then the collision of your lips, your whispered “fuck,” the gentle come down in your arms as your heavy limbs tangled effortlessly with his.

“L-let me get a washcloth,” he murmured, but it was only a half-hearted attempt at chivalry. You didn't mind the mess and neither did he. 

Besides, you were both fast asleep within seconds, and there wasn't a worry– or an alarm for that matter– that could wake you.

Today's Sigma is: being teased

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

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I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

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The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

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1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.