The rain wouldn't stop that night.
Lightning crawled across the sky, painting short flashes over the glass walls of the penthouse. The world below looked distant, a blur of lights and motion that no longer concerned Isabella Miller. She sat alone in her marble-white living room, a crystal glass of wine trembling in her hand.
Her phone still lay on the floor, its screen cracked, her husband's last message frozen on display: "Don't wait up. I'm with someone who makes me feel alive."
The words repeated in her mind like a curse.
Julian Peterson—her husband for eight years—hadn't even tried to hide it. Everyone in the city already whispered that the golden couple of Manhattan was rotting from the inside.
She felt nothing now. No anger. No tears. Only exhaustion.
The rain grew heavier. She stared at her reflection in the glass wall. The woman who looked back seemed like a stranger—elegant, controlled, successful, but hollow. Every choice she had made had led her here.
Her father's voice echoed in memory.
"Marry into the Petersons, Isabella. It will secure our position. Love fades, but power lasts."
She had obeyed. She had sacrificed the only man who ever saw her for who she was—Ethan. The man who once swore he would wait for her. He didn't. She couldn't blame him. She had let her father's ambition chain her, and she had smiled through every betrayal until her heart cracked.
Now, as thunder rolled, she pressed a hand to her chest. Pain burned deep and sharp. The glass slipped from her grip and shattered. Her knees buckled. The world blurred.
For a brief second, she thought she heard her father's laughter again, proud and cruel, echoing through the years.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
---
Silence.
No pain. No heartbeat. Only stillness.
Isabella opened her eyes—or thought she did. There was no ceiling, no floor. Only weightless white mist stretching forever. Her body felt light, unreal, as though she were standing inside a dream.
She looked down and saw nothing but faint outlines of herself. Her heart began to race even though she wasn't sure she had one anymore.
"Is this… death?" she whispered. Her voice echoed far away, swallowed by the emptiness.
Something stirred in the mist. A faint ripple, like water disturbed by a drop. Then came a sound—soft, mechanical, genderless.
"Subject confirmed. Isabella Miller. Age: 35. Time of death: 23:47."
She spun around. "Who's there?"
The voice ignored her question. "Soul integrity… eighty-six percent. Emotional residue… high. Regret index… critical."
"What is this?" Isabella shouted. Her voice cracked. "Am I dreaming?"
A faint sphere of blue light appeared ahead of her. It hovered in silence, pulsing like a heartbeat. Threads of light formed around it, weaving complex symbols she couldn't recognize.
She stepped closer, mesmerized. "What are you?"
"Designation: Fate Adjustment Interface, Unit 00. You may refer to this entity as 'System.'"
The mist began to clear, revealing endless fragments of floating images—faces, cities, wars, celebrations—thousands of lives flickering around her like shattered glass suspended in air. Each fragment showed a moment in time. A child crying. A woman reaching for someone who vanished. A man standing before a burning house.
"What is this place?"
"Temporal holding layer. Between life and death. Between decision and consequence."
Her breath trembled. "Then I'm… dead?"
"Affirmative."
The truth hit her like a cold wave. She wrapped her arms around herself. "So this is it. My punishment for wasting my life."
The system's tone did not change. "Punishment or opportunity depends on selection."
"Selection?"
"Your final conscious request before cardiac failure was detected: 'If I could make things right again.' This statement qualifies for the Reversal Program."
Her pulse quickened—or it would have, if she still had blood. "Reversal Program?"
"A series of temporal missions. You will travel through multiple timelines and inhabit other individuals at critical moments. Your objective is to correct their fates. Each successful alteration reduces your regret index and restores a segment of your personal fate."
"Wait. You're saying I'll… possess people?"
"Temporal inhabitation. Limited duration. Ten successful missions required to unlock personal rewrite."
"Rewrite?"
"The ability to alter your own past. To change the events that led to your death."
For a long moment, Isabella stood in silence. Her thoughts tangled. The offer sounded impossible, absurd—and yet, deep inside, something stirred. Hope. Fear. Desperation.
"I can change everything?" she whispered. "I can fix what I ruined?"
"If you complete ten missions successfully."
She stared into the endless mist, remembering Ethan's smile, her father's commands, the years she wasted living a lie.
"Then I'll do it," she said. Her voice was steady now. "Send me wherever you want. I'll fix what's broken."
The system pulsed once. The mist brightened. "Acknowledged. Program initiation in progress. Mission One loading. Timeline anchor establishing."
"Wait—what happens next?"
"Synchronization commencing. Do not resist."
Light exploded around her. The fragments of time shattered and rushed toward her like a storm. Her body dissolved into streaks of color. She tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the rush of energy.
Her last thought before losing consciousness was a promise to herself.
I won't waste this chance.
The light consumed her. The system's final words echoed through the void.
"Welcome, Isabella Miller. Fate adjustment begins now."