Seventeen years old. Three months from graduation. One hour from the end of the world.
Riven Aster sat at the back of Room 304, staring through the window while Mr. Hensley droned on about kinetic energy. Outside, the clouds were unnaturally still. Not frozen — just... waiting.
His pencil tapped rhythmically against the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Mr. Aster," the teacher barked. "Care to explain how kinetic friction differs from static?"
Riven blinked. He could explain it. Easily. But something in his chest twisted — like déjà vu edged with dread.
Before he could answer, the sky cracked.
Literally.
It didn't rumble like thunder. It snapped — loud, sharp, clean — like the Earth itself had been split open. Every student turned. Even Mr. Hensley stopped mid-sentence, chalk slipping from his fingers.
Outside the window, the sky fractured like glass, deep fissures of white light spidering through a cerulean dome.
Then came the voice.
"Simulation corrupted. Resetting World #2403. Initiating new cycle. Players will retain memories. Let the game begin."
Everything stopped.
The birds mid-flight.
The wind mid-gust.
The ticking clock.
Riven stood without realizing it. Something inside him screamed — not fear, not confusion, but recognition.
I've heard that voice before.
Then the world broke.
Desks folded like paper. The floor rippled under his feet like water. People screamed — not in pain, but in glitching static, as if their voices had been converted into corrupted audio files. Students pixelated and dissolved mid-motion.
Riven ran. Not to escape — but to find her.
Sera.
He burst through the door, feet pounding down a hallway that now warped and stretched like a melting hallway in a dream. Fire alarms blared nonsense tones. Reality was unraveling.
He rounded the corner just in time to see her — Sera Wren, his best friend — eyes wide, reaching for him.
She didn't make it.
A pillar of light shot through the ceiling, swallowed her whole, and erased her from existence.
Riven fell to his knees, eyes burning. Not from tears — from the heat of the reset. A wall of code flooded his vision: glowing symbols, unreadable runes, and flashing red warnings.
His body lifted into the air.
A single word rang in his head like a bullet.
"RESET."
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Then came the fall.
He landed hard on something cold. Not pavement — tile. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Everything was quiet except the dull throb in his skull.
He sat up slowly.
The air was wrong.
Smaller chairs. A familiar poster — "Welcome Back, Sixth Graders!"
His hands trembled.
They were too small.
He stumbled to a nearby window, stared into the glass reflection.
Twelve years old. Middle school uniform. Freckles he hadn't seen in years.
"No…"
He bolted from the room. Down the hallway. Past rows of lockers. Out the side door.
The sky was blue.
Too blue.
Too clean.
His chest rose and fell in short, panicked breaths. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. Not again.
He grabbed the first person he saw — a teacher watering flowers.
"Ms. Yana—what day is it?"
She blinked. "September 3rd, sweetie. First day back. You okay?"
September 3rd. Five years ago. The same day the last cycle started.
His hands dropped to his sides. His mind raced. Was this a dream? A punishment? A trick?
"Simulation corrupted… Players will retain memories."
The voice wasn't lying.
Riven turned slowly, looked at the street. Kids with backpacks. Parents chatting. Normal life.
Fake life.
Manufactured reality.
He looked up at the sky.
"…You reset the world," he whispered. "But you screwed up."
Then he smirked.
And said it loud:
"I remember everything."