The city they arrived in had already made its decision.
It just didn't know it yet.
From the air, the skyline looked fractured—not from a single catastrophe, but from **many small endings layered on top of each other**. Buildings leaned at incorrect angles. Streets bent where Rift scars still bled faint blue light. Emergency wards flickered inconsistently, like a heartbeat that couldn't decide whether to continue.
Rowan stared out the skimmer window, pale.
"Okay. This place feels… bad."
Kael nodded once.
"Designation: **Grayfall Sector**. Regression probability spike detected twelve days ago. Local timeline integrity is at thirty-seven percent."
Lyra inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
"That's barely stable."
Aiden said nothing.
He was already feeling it.
The air carried a familiar pressure—
not the Echo's presence exactly,
but the **afterimage of despair** left behind when someone reached the end of their will.
"This city hasn't fallen yet," Aiden said quietly.
Kael glanced at him.
"No. But it's leaning."
The skimmer descended toward a cracked rooftop landing pad. Drones scattered as the engines powered down.
As soon as the hatch opened, Aiden felt the Harmony Core tighten—not in warning, but in **recognition**.
Someone here was like him.
Not identical.
But close enough to hurt.
Lyra stepped out beside him, boots crunching against fractured concrete.
"Aiden," she whispered, "he's scared."
Aiden nodded.
"He's exhausted."
Rowan followed, scanning nervously.
"Please tell me we're talking emotional exhaustion, not 'about to nuke reality' exhaustion."
Kael closed the hatch behind them.
"Both."
They moved through the streets on foot.
Grayfall felt abandoned—not empty, but paused. Civilians hid behind reinforced doors and shuttered windows. Guild presence was minimal. Too risky. Too unpredictable.
Aiden crouched near a scorched wall where faint symbols glimmered and faded.
"Regression residue," he said. "Recent."
Lyra knelt beside him.
"He's been looping hard. Probably triggering stress regressions."
Kael frowned.
"That would destabilize memory coherence. He could be losing entire timelines."
Rowan winced.
"Great. So he's not just suffering—he's forgetting why."
Aiden stood slowly.
"That's when the Echo speaks loudest."
Lyra's hand brushed his arm.
"We still have time."
Aiden wasn't sure.
The Harmony Core pulsed again—this time sharper.
"He's close," Aiden said. "And he's not hiding."
They followed the pull through broken streets, past collapsed transit lines and half-healed Rift scars, until they reached the city's central plaza.
Or what used to be one.
The ground was cratered. Statues lay shattered. A temporal distortion hung above the square like heat haze, replaying fragments of the same moment over and over—people screaming, buildings collapsing, someone shouting a name that no longer existed.
Rowan swallowed.
"That's… not healthy."
At the center of the plaza—
someone stood.
He looked young.
Too young to have seen the world end more than once.
Kneeling amid broken stone, hands pressed to his temples, his body flickered faintly—like a bad signal trying to stay in phase with reality.
Aiden felt it instantly.
The pull.
The same hollow ache that used to live behind his own eyes.
Lyra gasped softly.
"He's—he's barely anchored."
Kael tensed.
"That's him. Regressor signature confirmed."
Rowan whispered, "He looks… normal."
Aiden stepped forward.
Normal had never meant safe.
The boy looked up slowly.
His eyes were hollow—
not empty,
but **tired past the point of hope**.
"You're late," he said hoarsely.
Lyra froze.
Aiden stopped a few steps away.
"Late for what?"
The boy laughed weakly.
"For stopping it."
The air around him warped—memories leaking out in jagged flashes.
A burning skyline.
A collapsing bridge.
A scream cut short.
Aiden's chest tightened.
"How many times?" he asked gently.
The boy's voice cracked.
"Enough."
Lyra stepped forward instinctively.
"We can help you."
The boy's eyes flicked to her—sharp despite the exhaustion.
"You can't," he said. "You're still trying."
Aiden felt the Echo's **absence** like a held breath.
Which meant it was close.
Kael muttered under his breath.
"This is exactly the profile."
Aiden ignored him.
"What's your name?" Aiden asked.
The boy hesitated.
"…Eren."
Lyra's fingers curled.
"Eren. You don't have to decide anything right now."
Eren laughed again—this time bitter.
"That's what it said too."
The Harmony Core flared violently.
Aiden's voice hardened.
"Who said that?"
Eren's gaze drifted upward—to the distortion hanging above the plaza.
"It did."
The Echo wasn't here yet.
But it had already spoken.
Aiden took another step forward.
"Eren. Listen to me."
The boy flinched—then looked straight at him.
"You're like me," Eren said suddenly. "But different."
Aiden nodded.
"I broke my loop."
Eren's eyes widened.
"…You can do that?"
"Yes."
Hope flickered—then died.
"And did it stop?" Eren asked quietly. "Did the world finally stay saved?"
Aiden hesitated.
Lyra squeezed his hand.
"Tell him the truth," she whispered.
Aiden looked back at Eren.
"No," he said. "But I stopped letting it decide who I become."
Eren stared at him.
"That sounds exhausting."
Aiden smiled faintly.
"It is."
Silence stretched.
The distortion above them pulsed.
Kael tensed.
"It's coming."
Eren closed his eyes.
"I don't want to do this again," he whispered. "I don't want to choose."
Aiden stepped closer—slowly, carefully.
"Then don't choose alone."
Eren opened his eyes.
For the first time—
he looked afraid.
The distortion above the plaza deepened.
Not expanding.
Not descending.
**Condensing.**
Aiden felt it like a pressure behind his eyes—
the familiar sensation of probability narrowing,
of futures being weighed and discarded.
Lyra's Anchor Core flared in response.
"It's focusing," she whispered. "On him."
Eren pressed his palms harder against his temples.
"I told it I was done," he muttered. "I told it I couldn't keep going."
Aiden's jaw tightened.
"And it answered anyway."
The air shifted.
A presence slipped into the plaza—not with force, not with spectacle, but with the confidence of something that believed it was already owed obedience.
**"Eren."**
The voice was calm.
Warm.
Almost kind.
Lyra stiffened.
Rowan whispered, "Oh no. That's the nice voice. I hate the nice voice."
Eren's shoulders slumped.
"It came back," he said dully. "It always does."
Aiden stepped forward, placing himself deliberately between Eren and the distortion.
"You don't get to talk to him."
The presence paused.
Then—
**"Aiden Crowe."**
The Echo's attention slid sideways, curious rather than hostile.
**"You arrived earlier than projected."**
Aiden didn't flinch.
"You underestimated how much I hate bullies."
The Echo ignored the insult.
**"Eren is nearing convergence,"** it said.
**"Intervention is inefficient."**
Lyra snapped, "He's a person!"
A faint hesitation rippled through the distortion.
**"So are variables,"** the Echo replied.
**"Until they collapse."**
Eren laughed weakly.
"See? It makes sense when it says it."
Aiden felt the Harmony Core tighten—
not in anger,
but in resolve.
"You told him he could stop," Aiden said. "That he didn't have to choose."
**"Correct."**
"And you lied."
**"No,"** the Echo said gently.
**"I offered certainty."**
Lyra stepped closer to Aiden.
"You offered surrender."
The Echo's presence sharpened slightly.
**"Surrender is simply a choice without further cost."**
Aiden exhaled.
"There's always a cost."
Eren looked between them—confused, torn.
"It said if I let go… if I stopped fighting… it would end the loops."
Aiden nodded.
"It would."
Eren's breath hitched.
"…Then why not?"
The question hung in the air.
Heavy.
Desperate.
Real.
Aiden didn't answer immediately.
He turned fully toward Eren, lowering his voice.
"Because it doesn't end _your_ suffering," he said. "It ends _your choice_."
Eren frowned faintly.
"I don't feel like I have any choices left."
Aiden knelt so they were eye level.
"I know," he said quietly. "That's when it comes. That's when it sounds reasonable."
The Echo watched silently.
Lyra felt her chest ache.
"What happens if he agrees?" she asked.
The Echo answered.
**"Stabilization."**
Aiden shook his head.
"Overwrite."
Eren's eyes widened.
"You'd… erase me?"
**"No,"** the Echo said.
**"You would become consistent."**
Rowan snapped, "That is the worst sales pitch I've ever heard."
Eren swallowed.
"You said I wouldn't feel this anymore."
**"You won't."**
Aiden stood.
"And you won't feel _anything_ else either."
Silence.
The distortion pulsed again.
The Echo spoke more firmly now.
**"Aiden Crowe, your interference degrades probability."**
Aiden smiled faintly.
"That's the point."
Lyra stepped forward, her Anchor Core glowing brighter.
"Eren," she said gently, "we can't promise it gets easy. We can promise you won't disappear."
Eren stared at her.
"You're… anchored."
She nodded.
"He keeps choosing not to vanish," she said, nodding at Aiden. "And I choose to stay."
Aiden felt the Harmony Core respond to her words—steady, reinforcing.
Eren's hands trembled.
"What if I fail again?"
Aiden didn't hesitate.
"Then you fail with someone watching your back."
The Echo shifted.
**"This path increases entropy,"** it warned.
Aiden met its presence head-on.
"Good."
The Echo's attention narrowed.
Not angry.
Concerned.
**"Eren's trajectory ends in collapse,"** it said.
**"My intervention prevents greater loss."**
Aiden shook his head.
"You're afraid."
The presence flickered.
**"Incorrect."**
"You're afraid of _unpredictability_," Aiden said. "Of people choosing badly. Of stories you can't close cleanly."
Lyra whispered, "Of hope."
The distortion shuddered.
Eren looked up sharply.
"Is that true?"
The Echo did not answer immediately.
That hesitation was enough.
Eren stood slowly, legs unsteady.
"I don't want to disappear," he said. "Even if it hurts."
The Harmony Core surged.
Lyra's Anchor flared.
The Echo's presence sharpened—urgent now.
**"Reconsider."**
Aiden stepped between Eren and the distortion.
"No."
The Echo's voice cooled.
**"Then escalation is required."**
The distortion thickened violently—
tendrils of probability lashing outward,
reality bending at the edges.
Kael drew his weapon.
"Here it comes."
Aiden didn't move.
He spread his arms slightly—shielding both Lyra and Eren.
"You don't get him," he said quietly. "Not today."
The Echo's presence pressed harder.
Then—
It stopped.
Paused.
Analyzing.
The distortion wavered.
Finally, the Echo spoke:
**"This outcome is inefficient."**
Aiden met its gaze.
"Get used to it."
The presence withdrew.
Not defeated.
Not convinced.
But denied.
The distortion unraveled, snapping back into nothing.
The plaza fell silent.
Eren collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
Lyra rushed to him immediately.
"It's okay," she whispered. "You're still here."
Aiden exhaled slowly, every muscle aching.
Rowan let out a breath he'd been holding.
"I think… we just told fate to back off."
Kael lowered his weapon.
"…You did."
Eren sat on the broken stone, shaking.
"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.
Aiden crouched beside him.
"Good," he said. "That means it didn't decide for you."
Eren looked up.
"You're not leaving, are you?"
Aiden glanced at Lyra, then back at Eren.
"No."
Lyra smiled softly.
"We'll help you stabilize. One step at a time."
Rowan nodded.
"And I'll complain loudly the whole way. Very therapeutic."
Eren laughed weakly.
For the first time—
the plaza felt lighter.
Above them, probability shifted—
not cleanly,
not efficiently,
but **alive**.