The Peculiar Patterns of Project X-9
Chapter 1 The Race
Atlas Finch was eight years old when his life quietly broke apart and then stitched itself back together without asking for permission.
The move from Australia to the United States wasn't framed as something dramatic. No tears at the airport, no last long looks at the ocean. His parents treated it like a checklist item. Boxes. Papers. Flights. Meetings. Always meetings.
Atlas learned early that "family matters" usually meant his parents wouldn't be home.
The new house was bigger than their old one. Too big. The kind of house that echoed when you walked through it, like it was waiting for more people who never showed up. Atlas dragged his backpack inside and chose the bedroom closest to the stairs, just in case. He liked being able to hear footsteps even if they rarely came.
That afternoon, while his parents argued softly in the kitchen about schedules and flights, someone knocked on the front door.
Atlas froze.
Knocks weren't normal. Not here. Not yet.
He opened the door slowly and found a girl standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of her oversized jacket. She had light hair pulled into a messy braid and eyes that looked way too confident for someone his age.
"Hi," she said. "You must be Atlas Finch."
"...Yeah."
"I'm Freya Larsen. I'm nine. My family's from Denmark." She paused, then added, "Our parents are business partners. Which means we're supposed to be friends or something."
Atlas blinked.
She smiled like she already knew he would.
They sat on the porch steps for a while. Freya talked. Atlas listened.
She explained things fast, like she didn't expect interruptions how her family moved a lot, how business dinners were boring, how this town looked normal but wasn't. Atlas didn't know what to say, so he nodded and kicked a pebble across the concrete.
Then Freya leaned closer.
"I want to show you something," she said. "Someone, actually."
Atlas frowned. "Who?"
"A friend of mine. He's... weird."
Weird didn't scare Atlas. Empty houses did. So he followed her.
The park was a few blocks away. Old trees. Faded swings. The kind of place adults forgot existed.
Someone was already there, sitting cross-legged on the grass near the sandbox.
He was small. Smaller than Atlas. Messy black hair. Too calm.
"This is Kenshin," Freya said. "Kenji Kenshin Tanaka. But he hates his full name."
"I don't hate it," the boy said without looking up. "I just don't need it."
Atlas stared. "He's... younger than us."
"I'm seven," Kenshin said. "From Japan."
Atlas crossed his arms. "Freya said you can grant wishes."
Kenshin finally looked up.
His eyes were strange. Not glowing. Not scary. Just... focused. Like he was reading something invisible.
"You don't believe that," Kenshin said.
Atlas stiffened. "I didn't say"
"You don't," Kenshin continued. "But you want it to be true."
Freya stayed quiet.
Atlas swallowed. "Can you really do it?"
Kenshin tilted his head. "Do what?"
"Grant any wish."
Kenshin thought for a moment. Then he smiled small, careful.
"I don't grant wishes," he said. "I change outcomes."
Atlas didn't understand. But something in his chest hurt all of a sudden.
"...Then do it," he said. "Change mine."
Kenshin's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in concentration.
"You want to be happy," he said softly. "Not later. Not eventually. You want it to have always been that way."
Atlas's throat tightened.
"My parents are never home," he whispered. "They're always leaving."
Kenshin nodded, like he'd already seen it.
"I can fix that," he said. "But it won't start from now."
Freya's eyes widened. "Kenshin"
"I know," Kenshin replied. "I'll rewrite the path. Not the future."
Atlas felt dizzy.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Kenshin said, reaching into his bag, "that the past will decide differently."
He pulled something out.
A pair of old goggles.
Scratched lenses. Worn straps. They didn't look special. They looked forgotten.
"This is how I do it," Kenshin said. "I call it The Race."
Atlas opened his mouth to ask
And the world turned white.
There was no sound.
No falling.
No pain.
Just blank.
Then
"Atlas?"
He blinked.
His mother stood in the doorway of his room, coat still on. His father was behind her, phone in his pocket instead of his ear.
"We're not going on the trip," his mom said. "It got canceled. We'll stay home tonight."
Atlas's heart slammed.
"What?"
His dad smiled. "Thought we'd order food. Watch a movie. You okay, champ?"
Atlas couldn't breathe.
He looked around. Same room. Same house.
But something was wrong.
Or right.
Too right.
A voice spoke behind him.
"See?" Kenshin said calmly. "Outcome achieved."
Atlas turned.
Kenshin stood there, goggles hanging loosely from his hand.
"My power comes from these," he continued. "From The Race."
Atlas stared at the goggles, feeling something deep and uncomfortable twist inside him.
"What... is it?"
Kenshin paused.
Then said, almost casually:
"It's not a thing," he said. "It's just what happens when something is already finished."
The light outside dimmed.
And somewhere far beyond the house, the park, even the sky
something shifted.
End of Chapter 1.