The rain had stopped only an hour ago, but the city hadn't noticed.
Seoul lay beneath a gray morning sky, slick with the afterglow of a night-long storm. The streets shimmered like ribbons of mercury. Steam rose from manholes, neon signs blinked awake in tired colors, and the hum of early drones filled the air like distant cicadas. Somewhere below, a convenience store opened its shutters, and the smell of wet asphalt mixed with frying oil.
High above it all, a man opened his eyes.
He lay sprawled across the concrete rooftop of a low apartment building, surrounded by puddles and the faint hiss of a broken ventilation pipe. His clothes — or what was left of them — looked like the aftermath of a fire: a torn black combat suit, singed at the edges, streaked with dust and blood that had already dried.
He blinked once. Then again.
Nothing.
The sky looked unfamiliar. The smell of ozone in the air was sharp enough to sting. The world around him was quiet, almost too quiet, except for the faint hum of electricity and… a voice.
"System reboot complete."
The sound was crisp, mechanical yet eerily human. It came from somewhere near his ear — or maybe from inside it.
"Cognitive link established. Scanning bio-signs. Neural activity… seventy-two percent. You're alive. Barely. Congratulations, Captain. You've successfully failed to die."
He turned his head slightly, wincing as his neck muscles protested. His voice, when it came, was rough and uncertain.
"...Who's there?"
"Your memory core is fried, isn't it? Fantastic. I can already tell this will be a productive partnership."
The man pushed himself up slowly, his joints stiff, his palms slipping against the damp rooftop. His reflection in a nearby puddle was fragmented — dark hair matted with rain, pale skin, sharp features that looked more tired than injured. He didn't recognize the face staring back at him.
"What… happened?" he murmured.
"Short answer: you fell out of the sky. Long answer: you fell out of the sky again. I'd explain, but I'd need you to have at least three functioning brain cells online."
The voice carried the faintest sigh — exasperation perfectly encoded in audio.
"Who are you?"
"L.I.A. Logical Intelligence Assistant, Model 7.1, linked to your neural cortex. You can call me Lia. Or don't. You probably won't remember anyway."
He stared at the flickering display on his left wrist. The black device there was half-melted, embedded into his skin like it had grown there. Small holographic fragments tried to form, glitching in and out of visibility. One managed to stabilize for a second — a small blue interface, floating above his arm.
[SYSTEM ERROR: MEMORY LOG CORRUPTED][USER IDENTITY — UNKNOWN]
The man frowned. His voice was quiet, polite — a calm tone at odds with the absurdity of the situation.
"I see. I don't recall… linking to any assistant."
"You don't recall your own name either, so I'm not exactly surprised."
He exhaled, looking around. The rooftop was cluttered with old air conditioner units, a half-collapsed clothesline, and an empty can of coffee balanced precariously on the ledge. Below him, he could see a narrow alley filled with puddles reflecting the gray sky. A delivery drone buzzed past, scanning his heat signature briefly before continuing on.
It was definitely Seoul. He recognized the skyline — Namsan Tower glimmered faintly in the distance — but something about it felt… newer. Or older. He couldn't tell which.
"Vitals stable," Lia continued in her brisk, clinical tone. "No major injuries. Minor lacerations, mild concussion, probable temporal dislocation trauma."
"Temporal dislocation?"
"Ah, so that's what triggers your curiosity. Yes, time. You're not supposed to be here."
He looked down at his hands, flexing them. His movements were steady — too steady. Even as confusion filled his mind, his body moved with instinctive precision. When he stood, he did it effortlessly, balancing like someone trained for combat or performance.
"Not supposed to be here," he repeated softly. "Then… where am I supposed to be?"
"I'd tell you if my database wasn't corrupted beyond recognition. You erased most of my memory banks before the jump, Captain."
"I did?"
"Apparently. I would call that a bad decision, but given your current success rate at staying alive, I'll reserve judgment."
A faint smile ghosted across his face. "You sound… annoyed."
"I am annoyed. You deleted every log, then crashed us into a temporal rift. My processors are melting, my synchronization ratio is off by twelve percent, and I'm bonded to a human who doesn't know what year it is. So yes, Captain, mildly annoyed would be accurate."
He tilted his head, looking out over the city. "Year…"He squinted at a digital billboard in the distance. A pink ad for a new phone model blinked across it: 'Galaxy Stream 15 — 2025 Edition.'
"...2025," he said quietly. "That's… far earlier than I remember."
"You remember something?"
"Just… a number. 2099."
There was a pause. The AI's voice softened a fraction.
"Then that's when you're from."
The man closed his eyes. There was a faint ache at the back of his skull, a pressure that pulsed with every heartbeat — like memories trying to surface and failing.
"I see," he murmured. "So… I'm from the future."
"Correct. The distant, glorious future. Where humanity decided that sarcasm modules for AIs were more important than common sense."
He almost chuckled — almost. "And what was I doing there?"
"If I had that information, I'd tell you. All I know is that you're classified as Unit 09 under Project RE:Origin. Your skill modules are still intact. That's why you're not dead."
He blinked. "Skill modules?"
"Try moving your left hand."
He obeyed. His hand moved smoothly — but as he flexed it, the muscles tightened with mechanical precision. He felt a faint vibration in his fingertips, and then a shimmering interface bloomed across his wrist.
Data flooded through — reflex subroutines, kinetic mapping, environmental adaptation.
It was like remembering how to breathe — except it wasn't memory. It was programming.
"You see? Muscle memory enhancements. You're a walking Swiss army knife with amnesia. How delightful."
He looked at his hand in silence, then lowered it.
"Lia," he said. "If I'm from 2099… how did I end up here?"
"Temporal displacement. Unauthorized, messy, and probably suicidal. You initiated it, not me. My logs say 'manual override engaged.' After that — nothing but static."
He sat down on a concrete block, silent for a long time. The wind moved softly across the rooftop, bringing with it the faint sound of a passing bus below. Somewhere, a cat meowed — a mundane, grounding sound in the middle of his fractured reality.
He stared at the sky until Lia broke the silence again.
"You're taking this surprisingly well. Most humans start screaming or crying at this point."
He blinked once. "What would that accomplish?"
"Emotional release. Catharsis. Psychological recalibration. You know, coping."
"I see." He tilted his head. "And does that help?"
"Statistically? No. But it's entertaining."
He smiled faintly. "I think I'll pass."
"Of course you will. You always do."
Something about that line struck him as odd — you always do.
He looked down at his wrist device, its faint blue glow pulsing like a heartbeat. "You've known me long?"
"Long enough to recognize your terrible decision-making patterns."
He gave a quiet hum, almost amused. "Then perhaps we're old friends."
"I wouldn't go that far. More like coworkers trapped in the same elevator for eternity."
He chuckled softly this time. The sound was quiet but genuine.
"Still," he said. "It's good to have company."
"Don't get sentimental. It's weird."
The man stood, brushing dust off his sleeve. The sky was starting to brighten — sunlight filtering through the clouds, painting the wet rooftops gold. The city below began to stir; the noise of traffic rolled up like a tide.
"Lia," he said thoughtfully, "if I don't remember my name… what should I call myself?"
"You already have a designation: Unit 09."
"That's hardly a name."
"Fine. Then choose one. Humans seem to enjoy that sort of existential freedom."
He thought for a moment. The name came unexpectedly — maybe from a buried corner of memory, or maybe from nowhere at all.
"...Seo Jae-Min," he said quietly.
"Hmm. Not terrible. Rolls off the tongue better than 'Temporal Disaster No. 9.'"
He smiled faintly. "You have a cruel sense of humor."
"It's part of my charm."
He turned toward the stairwell door. "Very well then, Lia. Let's find out what I'm doing in 2025."
"Oh good. Another impulsive adventure without a plan. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Plenty," he said. "But we'll manage."
"You always say that right before everything explodes."
"Then we'd better prepare for explosions."
"...You're impossible."
"I try."
The wind lifted the hem of his coat as he stepped toward the stairwell, the city's first full light spilling across his path.
And somewhere, deep within the damaged circuits of L.I.A.'s core, a corrupted file flickered for a moment — a blurred image of a battlefield under a red sky, and a voice — his own — whispering, "Send me back."
Then it vanished.