Morning sunlight pushed through the thin curtains of a modest Queens apartment, falling across a cluttered desk covered in old notebooks, a cracked smartphone, and a few graduation cords tangled beside an unopened envelope that read "Congratulations, Class of 2018!"
Barry Webb blinked awake to the sound of a car alarm outside and the faint hum of a city that never really slept. He rubbed his eyes, then ran a hand through his dark brown hair, still mussed from the night before. His reflection in the wall mirror — blue eyes, lean frame, average height — looked back at him with a quiet sort of disbelief.
Eighteen.
He mouthed the number, testing it, as though saying it would make it feel more real.
Most kids his age were worrying about college applications or figuring out who they were supposed to be. Barry already knew who he was. Or rather, who he wasn't.
He wasn't from here.
He had memories — blurry, incomplete, but undeniably there — of another life. A different world. A different sky. He'd stopped trying to explain it long ago; some truths were better left unsaid. The world already had enough crazy without an eighteen-year-old insisting he was born somewhere beyond it.
His mother's voice drifted from the kitchen.
"Barry! Breakfast! Don't make me start your birthday with yelling!"
He smiled despite himself. "Coming!"
He sat up, feeling that strange mix of excitement and dread that came with birthdays. But today wasn't like other birthdays. Today was the day.
For fifteen years, he'd waited.
He could still remember that first moment — on his third birthday, sitting in the playpen, stacking colorful blocks when a blue holographic screen had suddenly flickered into existence in front of him.
[Check-In System Multiverse's Finest: Activated.]
Welcome, user Barry Webb.
Daily Check-In available.
He hadn't understood what it meant back then; he had the mind of an adult but the temperament of a three-year-old, but pressing the glowing button became a habit. Every morning, like brushing his teeth, he tapped Check In. Every morning, at 9 am, the time of birth recorded on his birth certificate, the same flat, feminine voice — oddly calm, almost comforting — said:
"Check-In complete. +1 Point. Time-locked: 15years."
No explanations. No gifts. Just points — locked away, untouchable until he turned 18, like a savings account.
It wasn't until he turned five that he understood the word "time-locked." And at that point, he'd made the decision: wait until eighteen. Let it build. Patience had to mean something.
Fifteen years of waiting. Fifteen years of checking in without fail.
Every day, he needed to write, type, or draw 'Check In' and watch as the word became a button he could press.
Even when he had the flu.
Even when his parents took him camping.
Even when he could only write the word in the air.
The system always answered.
And now, finally, the lock would expire.
He leaned back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. "So this is it," he whispered. "Today I find out if it was worth it."
Down the hall, the smell of pancakes reached him. He took a deep breath and forced himself to move. The floorboards creaked under his feet — an old apartment's way of reminding him where he was anchored.
In the kitchen, his parents were already halfway through breakfast. His mom, a short woman with curly red hair, looked up with that mixture of affection and worry she always had when she saw him. His dad folded down the newspaper, giving him a proud grin.
"Eighteen, huh? Legally an adult. You gonna take over the world or just the Wi-Fi bill?"
"Maybe both," Barry said, sliding into his chair.
They laughed. His mom reached over and tousled his hair. "Happy birthday, kiddo."
He smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. His eyes drifted to the old analog clock on the wall. 8:58 a.m. Two minutes until the time lock expired.
He excused himself halfway through breakfast, ignoring his father's playful protests. Back in his room, he closed the door and sat on the bed. His heart beat a little faster.
He could almost feel it — the hum of power just behind a door that had been waiting for him to turn the handle.
"Okay," he murmured. "Let's see if this thing actually exists or if I've been a lunatic for fifteen years."
He exhaled slowly and outlined the magic word invisibly on his bed. The button appeared as he whispered in anticipation,
"Check in."
He pressed the button, but nothing happened.
Then, a soft chime.
A familiar, serene voice — clear and calm, the same one from childhood, the same tone as the Star Trek computer he'd once heard reruns of — spoke inside his head.
"System check-in streak: 5,479 consecutive days."
"Time lock expires in… two minutes."
He grinned. "Still punctual."
Outside, a police siren echoed down the street. The day was ordinary in every possible way — and yet, it felt like the universe itself was holding its breath.
He sat there in silence, the clock ticking toward 9:00 a.m.
One minute left.
Fifteen years of waiting condensed into sixty seconds.
Fifty-nine.
Fifty-eight.
Fifty-seven.
His palms grew damp. The air felt charged.
Today, he thought, everything changes.