"You are the sum of edits, and the memory of what was cut."— Fragment from a corrupted Epigraph, [Origin: Misplaced Source]
He couldn't tell what was real anymore.
Not in a dreamy, disoriented way.But in a technical way — like trying to open a corrupted save file, or replaying a conversation only to find the lines have changed.
The desk was still there. Lira's.
Her handwriting, still real — but even it was flickering.
Each time he looked at the page, the words rearranged:
"Met a man today...""Met a margin...""Met myself?"
The ink squirmed when he focused too long.
Aren staggered back.
Not just because of the journal. But because he remembered something that shouldn't be his to remember.
He saw Lira — younger, untainted — sitting at the desk. Writing that entry.
But it wasn't a memory.It was a viewpoint.From her eyes.
And in her mind, he was already fading like a bad dream she couldn't justify.
"Why do I remember this?""Why can I see her memory of me from a timeline that shouldn't exist?"
His voice cracked in the silence.
Suddenly, everything froze.
The journal stopped flickering.
The light went flat — like an old photograph left in sun.
And then, a tone.
Not sound. Not feeling. Something between.
A system tone.
[NOTICE]REDLINE PROTOCOL ENGAGED.UNAUTHORIZED PERSISTENCE DETECTED.
A wall to his right slid open.
But it wasn't a door — it was a scroll bar.
A physical interface into the Archive's timeline engine.
And stepping out of it...
...was a Redactor.
They had no face.Just a black archival mask. Smooth. Featureless.Where a mouth should be: an embedded glyph that pulsed red every time the entity inhaled data.
Their hand was a scalpel made of cursor strokes.And they dragged a clipboard behind them like a weaponized audit trail.
"Version Drift detected. You are a continuity hazard.""Prepare for excision."
Aren ran. Instinctively. Uselessly.
Through file rooms that were his memories.Down corridors with footnotes for walls.Every hallway he passed corrected itself behind him.
But the Redactor didn't run. It paged.
Each time he blinked, it appeared closer.One footstep = one revision.
He crashed into an old section of the Archive.
Section: [OBSCURED]Category: [ORPHANED HYPOTHETICALS]Status: UNREALIZED BUT REFERENCED
"What is this?" Aren panted, coughing digital static.
The shelves were filled with files that never happened — theoretical outcomes, scrapped rewrites, discarded destinies.
He pulled one at random.
FILE: AREN 3.2.6-BETA
Status: "Did not respond well to memory of original death."Notes: "Erased. Reader discomfort exceeded threshold."
He dropped it.
Pulled another.
FILE: AREN 1.0.0-R
Status: "Killed self upon learning he was fictional."Notes: "Emotional weight good. Usability bad."
Another:
FILE: AREN 7.9.2-Q
Status: "Merged with Editor. Narrative collapsed."Notes: "Never let him touch the Scrollpoint again."
"These are me.""I've died a dozen ways I don't remember."
Aren stared at his hands.
They were blinking now.Flickering between art styles.Between fonts.
His outline was fracturing.
"What version am I now?"
"None," said a voice from behind him.
Not the Redactor.
Him. Again.
The other Aren.Not a version.A residue.
He was bleeding black ink from the nose now.Eyes dimmer. Like he had existed too long in the margin space.
"You're not a draft anymore.""You're a consequence."
"Of what?"
"Of surviving a revision cycle.""No one was meant to get this far without choosing a version."
Then the Redactor was here — clipboard raised.
And suddenly, the two Aren's were merged in its crosshairs.
"Dual instances of primary referent detected.""Prepare for synchronization. Noncanonical entity will be removed."
The other Aren grinned.
His smile didn't match his face.
"I'll go.""But not before I tell him."
He leaned in close.
And whispered something into Aren's ear that made his mind fracture.
He didn't even process it.
He just screamed.
And then—
White.
Aren awoke.
In a quiet room.
On a chair made of typewriter keys.
Before him, a single folder.
Labeled:
"Aren 0.0.0-?"
Status: [UNRESOLVED SELF]