The world did not explode so much as fold.
Panels of reality curled inward like burning film, peeling away to reveal bare, raw static underneath. The walls of the Sanctuary dome twisted in geometric spasms; data-sheets fluttered like dying moths caught in a furnace. Somewhere within the chaos, the hum of the Kernel became a shriek — a thin, metallic sound, like a machine begging for mercy.
Arin took a step backward as the rift widened.
The figure stepped through without hurry, as though walking from another room rather than another timeline. He wore no armor, no tech. Just a dark coat and an expression that didn't belong in this world: calm, clinical, and cold enough to frost the air.
His eyes were wrong; faintly luminous, not with light, but with memory. Or the absence of it.
Lyra's breath hitched.
The Architect's calm came crashing down like a sheet of glass.
In his stomach, Arin felt something primal, something nauseating.
Because the man was him.
Not older by years — older by outcomes. A version sharpened by choices Arin had not yet made. Or refused to make. Or ran from. He didn't know.
"I have questions," Arin said, his voice taut, hands shaking. "A lot of them. Starting with—"
The man raised a hand.
The Kernel froze.
Reality stopped mid-collapse. Glitch fragments froze in air like petals trapped in ice. The Architect went perfectly still —not dead, just paused. Lyra froze, too, mid-breath, eyes wide, her hand halfway toward her weapon.
Only Arin moved. Only Arin breathed.
"You— stopped everything?" Arin whispered.
"Of course," said the older version, with a casual tilt of the head. "The Kernel listens to me now."
"Why?"
Future-Arin smiled.
It was not a comfort.
"Because I broke it."
Arin's breath hitched. "Who… are you really?"
"I'm you," said the man simply. "Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Literally."
He stepped closer.
"I'm what you become when you choose the reboot."
Arin stumbled back. "I didn't choose anything!"
"Not yet."
The man's voice cooled.
"But you will. You always do."
Arin felt a spike of anger rise through the fear. "You can't just walk in here and expect me to believe this. Why would I ever choose something that turns me into… whatever you are?"
Future-Arin's expression didn't shift-but something inside his aura did. A tremor of something almost human.
"You think the loop is torture now?"
His voice dropped.
"Try remembering every version of yourself. Try remembering every version of her."
His eyes flicked toward Lyra's frozen form.
Arin followed the gaze — and felt a strange, electric dread thread through him.
"What about her?"
Future-Arin didn't answer.
Not directly.
Instead he stepped past Arin, into the frozen nodes of light. His fingers hovered over one panel; the screen flickered alive — ignoring the Kernel freeze entirely.
The panel showed a scene like a grainy surveillance recording.
Arin watched himself.
Not this self — another.
Older by experience. Younger by mistake.
He watched Lyra raise her weapon.
He watched himself fall.
He watched the loop snap.
Arin's breath collapsed in his chest. "She… she killed me."
"In that loop," Future-Arin said. "In dozens. Sometimes she hesitates. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she doesn't.
A quiet pause.
"She always follows her programming."
Arin felt his stomach twist, his throat go tight. "You came here to warn me?"
"No," Future-Arin said. "I came to stop you."
"Stop me from what?!"
Future-Arin turned — and the glow in his eyes intensified.
"From choosing delete."
Arin froze. ".Delete?"
"Yes. The noble sacrifice."
The words were spat with disdain.
"The brave, dramatic ending. The thing the Architect's been grooming you toward. The thing Lyra will eventually convince you is the 'right' path."
Future-Arin stepped closer, her voice low, intimate.
"But listen to me, very carefully, because I am the only person in this world who is not lying to you."
Arin held his breath.
Future-Arin leaned forward.
"If you delete yourself… you kill everyone."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"Explain," Arin whispered, his throat dry.
"Deletion doesn't end the loop," Future-Arin said. "The Kernel collapses. The world collapses. Everything collapses. All cycles, all people, all versions — gone. The system doesn't 'free' anyone. It burns the archive. It wipes the drives. 'Delete' is exactly what it sounds like."
Arin felt a chill run through him. "Then why would the Architect tell me—"
"Because the Architect wants control. Because Lyra is programmed to enforce stability. Because everyone in Sanctuary is terrified of an unstable Anchor. Because they fear you."
Future-Arin's voice hardened.
"And fear makes people want simple endings."
Arin swallowed. "And reboot?
Future-Arin stepped back, clasping his hands behind him.
"Reboot continues the world. Saves lives. Restarts cycles. Resets broken structures. It preserves possibility. It preserves everything."
He looked almost soft as he said:
"It gave me time to learn who I am."
"And that is?" Arin asked.
Future-Arin's smile vanished.
"A survivor."
Arin rubbed his temples. "So let me get this straight. Delete kills everyone. Reboot saves everyone. You rebooted. You lived. Why come back?"
Future-Arin's expression finally cracked —
Revealing something jagged underneath the calm.
"Because your choice affects me too."
Arin's heart trembled. "What do you mean?"
"You reboot this time," Future-Arin said, "and I remain intact. I stay real. I stay alive. I stay… me."
Arin blinked.
And then he saw it.
The actual reason:
"You're scared."
Future-Arin didn't flinch — but his eyes sharpened.
"You're afraid I'll delete myself," Arin said slowly. "Because if I delete… you're deleted too."
Silence.
Deadly, heavy silence.
Then—
One nod only.
"I'm not here to kill you," Future-Arin said quietly. "I'm here to make sure you don't kill me."
Arin stepped back, his hands shaking. "You're telling me you're trying to protect both of us—"
"No," Future-Arin replied softly.
And this time, his voice carried the edge of a blade.
"I'm trying to survive. If it means manipulating you, convincing you, breaking you… then that is what I'll do."
Arin's blood ran cold.
"Don't choose delete," Future-Arin said, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
Arin jerked away.
Future-Arin's hand hovered in the air, before it slowly curled into a fist.
"I didn't want it to be like this," he muttered. "But if you won't listen—"
The Kernel flickered.
Reality resumed.
Lyra gasped, stumbling as if ripped from underwater.
The Architect fell to his knees.
The drones outside screamed.
Arin saw one thing:
Future-Arin was gone.
Gone, in the way a glitch disappears: in an instant, without physics.
Only one distortion was left in the air, like a tear stitching itself slowly shut.
Lyra stumbled toward Arin. "What… happened? Something froze. The Kernel— it— Arin, what did you see?"
Arin said nothing.
He didn't know what to say.
Because every answer would break someone. His heart was still hammering with the echo of a voice that should not exist. And because, within the dying glimmer of the imploding tear in reality, Arin saw one final image— A message left behind— Just three words: DON'T TRUST HER. Arin's lungs locked. Not because of the message. Because of whose handwriting it was. His own.