Sleep never felt like sleep. It felt like getting mugged by your own brain in a dark alley and waking up without your wallet, your dignity, or a clear explanation. He didn't ease into it. It dropped on him like gravity remembered its job late. One second he was staring at the ceiling, counting cracks like they owed him money, and the next second the ceiling was gone and so was the idea that beds were meant for rest. People said sleep was where the mind healed. Those people also believed effort was always rewarded and the world was fair if you behaved. He kept his shoes on when he slept. Not because he planned to run, but because planning to rest felt like tempting fate, and fate had a bad sense of humor.
When he woke up, standing made more sense than lying down. That alone should've been a warning. Ground under his feet, flat and gray, like someone paused reality mid-render. Buildings around him looked embarrassed to exist, half-finished ideas pretending to be structures. No signs, no ads, no noise. A city stripped of excuses. The sky was there because something had to be above, not because it cared. Time didn't move forward here. It hovered. Like it was waiting to see who would blink first.
Someone else was breathing too loud.
A woman stood a few steps away, staring at her hands like they'd betrayed her. She flexed her fingers, opened and closed them, testing physics the way people test water before jumping. "This isn't real," she said, and said it like she needed it to be true more than she needed air. He didn't answer. Reality didn't need defending. It never showed up to court anyway. She noticed him then, relief hitting her face fast and desperate, the kind that only comes from seeing another human shape and assuming that means safety. That assumption had killed a lot of people, historically speaking.
"Do you know where we are?" she asked.
He shrugged. Not dramatic. Not dismissive. Just accurate. "No."
It wasn't a lie. It was a half-truth, which is what most lies aspired to be when they grew up.
Her name slid into his head without asking. Mira. He didn't question it. Names were cheap here. The place handed them out like flyers. She stepped closer. The ground didn't make a sound because sound was optional. "I was asleep," she said. "I closed my eyes and then I was here. Is this a dream?"
He looked around like the environment might answer for him. "If it is," he said, "it's doing a bad job of being comforting."
She laughed, sharp and wrong. The kind of laugh people use to keep panic from chewing through their ribs. "Dreams are weird," she said. "This could be one."
"Dreams usually lie better," he replied.
More people started to appear. Not walking in. Not falling from the sky. Just… resolving. Like a low-quality video buffering human beings. A man with blood on his shirt who kept checking his chest and finding it intact. A kid too still for someone who should be crying. An old woman kneeling and smiling like she'd finally found the punchline to a joke no one else got. Nobody screamed. Screaming came later, when denial finished unpacking.
Mira hugged her arms. "Why are there so many people?"
"They're sleeping," he said.
"All of them?"
"Yes."
She stared at him. "Then what are we?"
He considered that. Considered how the ground felt slightly wrong under his boots, like it remembered other feet. "Awake," he said.
Something in the distance corrected itself. Not moved. Corrected. The sky dimmed a shade. One of the figures blinked out like a sentence that didn't survive editing. Mira didn't notice. He did. He always noticed when the place adjusted. It was subtle, like guilt pretending to be coincidence.
A pull brushed against him then. Familiar. Gentle. The way gravity feels right before you realize you're falling. It meant it was time to go. Mira grabbed his sleeve, fingers lagging for half a second like her hands were arguing with reality about whether he was solid. "Don't leave," she said. "Please. I don't like this place."
"Most honest thing anyone's said so far," he muttered.
"Will I wake up?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"In my bed?"
He paused. Pauses mattered here. The place leaned into them, listening like a nosy neighbor.
"Yes," he said again.
That was the lie. Or maybe it was the truth in the wrong order. Hard to tell. Time hated being neat.
The ground folded. Not collapsed. Folded, like a thought being tucked away for later. The city smeared. Mira's voice stretched thin, like it had to travel farther than sound should. Then darkness punched in and—
He was back in his room. Same cracked ceiling. Same cheap air. Same weight on his chest like sleep had unfinished business. His phone buzzed once on the table. He didn't pick it up right away. He already knew what it would say. Notifications had a smell to them. This one smelled like consequence.
Local woman found dead in her apartment. Cause unknown.
He turned the screen off. Somewhere, someone was waking up screaming, and someone else was explaining it away as stress, as chemicals, as bad dreams. The world loved explanations. They kept people from asking better questions.
He lay back down. Closed his eyes. The pull returned immediately, impatient now. The place didn't like waiting either.
When he woke again, the city had changed. Or maybe it hadn't, and he had. Hard to say which came first. The buildings leaned differently, like they'd heard a rumor about him. People were already there this time, pacing, arguing, crying, bargaining with nothing. He moved through them without hurry. Urgency was for people who believed in deadlines.
A man stepped into his path. Big guy. Loud confidence. The kind that cracked fast under pressure. "You," the man said. "You were here before."
"Congratulations," he replied. "So were you. Just not like this."
"Tell us what this place is," the man demanded.
He smiled, small and tired. "If I knew," he said, "I'd still lie."
The man reached for him. That was a mistake. Not because of violence. Violence was boring. The mistake was assuming touch meant control. The world corrected again. The man staggered, eyes going wide like he'd just remembered something important he really wished he hadn't. He started screaming then. Screaming came later. It always did.
Time slipped. Or stacked. Or folded. He watched a woman watch her own funeral from a distance she couldn't cross. He watched a kid argue with a version of himself that hadn't been born yet. He watched a dead man learn the future and laugh because it didn't matter anymore. Past, present, future—it all behaved badly here, like siblings who hated sharing a room.
He didn't guide them. That was the funny part. Everyone assumed someone was in charge. He just… existed. The place did the rest. People woke where they were supposed to wake. Some got mercy. Some got clarity. Some got both, which was the cruelest option. Clarity hurt more when you still had time to do something about it.
He woke again. Daylight this time. Sunlight through dirty curtains. A headache that felt earned. He checked the news. Three unrelated deaths overnight. No pattern anyone would admit to. Comments arguing about causes like it was a sport. He ate stale bread and drank coffee that tasted like regret. Ordinary life wrapped around him like it always did, pretending nothing was wrong.
On the street, he passed a man who would die in six years and a woman who had already died twice. He didn't look at them long enough to be polite. Looking too long invited questions. Questions invited answers. Answers invited consequences.
That night, when sleep came, it came fast. No warning. No romance. The city welcomed him back like it had been waiting. New faces. Old fear. Time stacked wrong again. Somewhere, someone was dreaming of a future that would kill them. Somewhere else, someone was dead and still making plans. He walked through it all, hands in his pockets, like a guy killing time even though time was already dead.
He didn't know he was the reason. Not yet. He just knew the world felt louder when he slept and quieter when he woke. And somewhere deep, beneath the habits and the jokes and the indifference he wore like armor, something older listened, patient, counting down to the moment it would stop pretending to be him.
He didn't wake up this time.
That was the first difference.
There was no snap back to the room, no ceiling cracks, no stale air pretending to be oxygen. The city just… stayed. Like reality forgot to push him out. That usually meant trouble. Or progress. Those two were cousins.
People noticed him faster now. Not because he looked important—he didn't—but because the place behaved differently around him. Like a bad crowd sensing who not to mess with, even if they couldn't explain why. Conversations died when he passed. Footsteps slowed. Fear traveled quicker here than sound.
A boy sat on the edge of a broken road, legs dangling over nothing. No drop. Just absence. The kid looked maybe thirteen. Or thirty. Time couldn't count here and neither could faces. "If this is hell," the boy said, "it's kind of low effort."
He stopped beside him. "Hell usually has management."
The boy snorted. "Figures. I died yesterday. Or tomorrow. Hard to tell."
"How'd you die?"
The kid shrugged. "Car crash. Or cancer. Or I never made it home. Pick one. They all feel true."
That was new. Or maybe it always happened and nobody paid attention. He crouched, elbows on knees. "What do you remember last?"
The boy thought. Thought too hard. "I remember knowing something I shouldn't. Like I'd already seen how it ends and it pissed me off."
"Yeah," he said. "That tracks."
Behind them, a woman was arguing with an older version of herself. The younger one was crying, the older one looked tired and mean in that way only survival teaches. Somewhere else, a man was trying to punch the air because it refused to hit back. The city didn't stop them. It never did. It just watched, like a judge who'd already made up their mind.
"You been here long?" the boy asked.
He checked the sky. It hadn't changed color since the last time he noticed, which meant either no time had passed or too much had. "Long enough," he said.
"Do we get out?"
He smiled, because the question deserved a joke and didn't deserve the truth. "Everybody gets out," he said. "Timing's the problem."
The boy frowned. "You sound like you work here."
That one landed closer than it should've. "I don't," he said. "I just don't panic well."
Something shifted again. A ripple, this time closer. Like a bad edit trying to fix itself mid-scene. A group of people froze all at once, eyes unfocusing, mouths hanging open like they'd just remembered a dream they weren't supposed to keep. One by one, they vanished. Not dying. Not waking. Just… reassigned.
The boy watched, wide-eyed. "What was that?"
"Maintenance," he said.
"By who?"
He stood up. "That's the funny part."
The ground tilted. Streets rearranged themselves without asking permission. A clock appeared on a wall that hadn't existed before. The hands were spinning backward, then forward, then sideways like they were trying options. The city was getting sloppy. Or impatient.
A man pushed through the crowd toward him. Older. Clean clothes. Calm face. The kind of calm that came from believing rules still mattered. "You," the man said. "You've been here more than once."
"Yeah," he replied. "Place has good customer retention."
"You're doing this," the man said. Not accusing. Observing. "Things change when you're around."
He laughed. Couldn't help it. "Buddy, things change when anyone's around. That's kind of the whole curse."
"No," the man said. "I've been watching. When you leave, time snaps back. When you stay, it bends."
That drew a few looks. Dangerous looks. Curiosity killed more people here than fear ever did.
He leaned in a little. Not threatening. Just honest enough to hurt. "If I were bending time," he said, "don't you think I'd do a better job?"
The man hesitated. That hesitation cost him. The city corrected again. The man's face drained of color as memories rushed in too fast, too many, wrong order. He dropped to his knees, gasping like he'd run a marathon through his own life.
The boy whispered, "What did you do to him?"
"Nothing," he said. "I just didn't stop it."
That was when it hit him. Not like a revelation. More like an itch he'd been ignoring. The city wasn't reacting to his actions. It was reacting to his presence. Like a scale recalibrating itself around a weight it forgot it was carrying.
That thought didn't feel dangerous. That worried him.
The sky darkened again. This time it didn't pretend to be subtle. People screamed now. Full panic. The good kind. The kind that came with understanding. Futures collapsed into presents. Presents bled into memories. Someone shouted a name that hadn't been invented yet. Someone else begged forgiveness from a person who hadn't done the crime.
He felt the pull again. Stronger. Urgent. Like gravity finally losing patience.
"You coming back?" the boy asked.
He looked at him. Really looked. The kid was already fading around the edges, like a memory deciding whether it wanted to stay. "Depends," he said. "You planning to still exist?"
The boy laughed. Dark, cracked. "Guess we'll see."
The city folded harder this time. No gentleness. No grace. He felt himself dragged upward, sideways, inward. Time stacked like bad cards. For a split second—just one—he saw something wrong. Not the city. Not the people.
Himself.
Not as he was. Not as he remembered. Something older. Quieter. Watching from behind his thoughts like it had been waiting for him to get tired enough to notice.
Then—
He woke up in his room again. Morning. Rain tapping the window like it had gossip. His phone buzzed. Missed calls. News alerts. Three different places. Same time. Same minute. Same kind of death.
He sat up slowly.
For the first time, the joke stopped being funny.
And somewhere, deep enough to pretend it wasn't there, something smiled and thought,The rain outside didn't sound real. It tapped the window like it was checking if he was awake, like a bad actor knocking before entering a scene they weren't invited into. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Waiting had become a skill. If something horrible was about to happen, it usually liked an audience.
The phone kept buzzing. Same headline, different sources. Three incidents. Different cities. Same timestamp. All ruled "unexplainable." That word was doing a lot of heavy lifting lately.
He stood up and almost fell over. Not dizzy—misaligned. Like his body had loaded before his mind finished syncing. He caught himself on the wall. The paint was peeling in the same place as yesterday. Good. Some things still respected continuity.
In the bathroom mirror, his reflection lagged. Just a fraction of a second. Enough to be rude.
"Don't do that," he muttered.
The reflection smiled late. Not a grin. More like a suggestion.
He turned away first. Rule one: never let reflections think they're winning.
By the time he stepped outside, the rain had stopped mid-fall. Drops hung in the air, frozen like someone paused the world to take notes. People on the street were statues—mouths open, phones raised, lives buffering. He walked between them, boots splashing through suspended puddles that didn't ripple.
"Okay," he said. "That's new. Or old. Hard to tell."
A woman stood across the road, not frozen. Older than him. Younger than she should've been. Her eyes were sharp in a way that suggested she'd already died once and didn't enjoy the sequel. She clapped slowly. Sound worked for her. Of course it did.
"You finally broke surface tension," she said.
He tilted his head. "You say that like it's a compliment."
"It's not," she replied. "It's a liability."
"Who are you?"
She smiled without warmth. "Someone who remembers you differently depending on the day."
That answer felt wrong in a familiar way. Like déjà vu with better grammar.
She walked closer. Time unlocked around her steps, frames stitching themselves back together just to keep up. "You stayed too long," she continued. "The city noticed. Now other things will too."
"Define things."
She gestured at the frozen crowd. "Rule-keepers. Thieves. Collectors. Governments pretending they're still human. And a few idiots who think demons solve organizational problems."
He snorted. "They usually just create middle management."
Her eyes flicked, sharp. "You joke when you're cornered."
"I joke when I breathe."
"That's worse."
The rain resumed all at once. People gasped, screamed, resumed their bad decisions. The world pretended nothing happened. It was very good at pretending.
She stepped past him. "You should move."
"Why?" he asked. "Am I about to be arrested, recruited, or worshipped?"
"Yes."
He followed her without deciding to. That bothered him more than it should've. They cut through alleys that didn't match the map, doors that led to rooms too big for the buildings they were in. Time slipped again, subtly, like a pickpocket with ambition.
"You're not in charge," he said finally.
She laughed. "Neither are you. That's the joke. You're just… the reason the punchline exists."
They stopped in a room with no windows. One table. Two chairs. A third shadow that didn't belong to either of them.
"Sit," she said.
He didn't. The shadow moved anyway.
Memories pressed in. Not his. Or maybe his—just not from this order. Organs on steel trays. Hands that weren't gentle. A man counting money like prayer. A woman screaming until she learned silence was cheaper. The images didn't hurt. That was the worst part.
"Careful," he said. "You're leaking."
She stiffened. "You shouldn't be able to see that."
"Yeah," he replied. "I get that a lot."
The shadow resolved into a shape. Not a monster. Those were lazy. This thing looked administrative. Thin smile. Eyes like filing cabinets. "Asset confirmed," it said, voice layered, plural. "Soul fragmentation stable. Retrieval probability increasing."
She drew something from her coat. Not a weapon. A rule. The air around it bent away like it knew better.
"You're early," she snapped.
"We've been late before," the thing replied. "It didn't end well."
He laughed, sharp and sudden. Both of them looked at him.
"Sorry," he said. "It's just—this is the part where you explain what I am, right? And then I pretend I don't care?"
The thing studied him. "You are a remainder. A consequence that learned to walk."
"Cute," he said. "Do I get a badge?"
"You get hunted," it replied.
"That tracks."
The room shook. Not from force. From contradiction. Two timelines tried to occupy the same second and neither wanted to apologize. The shadow flickered. The woman cursed.
He felt it then. The other presence. The one behind his thoughts. Not taking control. Not yet. Just leaning closer, like it wanted front-row seats.
For a moment—just a cruel, shining moment—he understood. The city. The dreams. The fear. The nightmares killing people who thought they were safe because they'd bought pieces of someone else's suffering.
It wasn't revenge.
It was gravity.
He stepped forward. The shadow recoiled. The woman stared.
"Oh," she whispered. "You're waking up."
He smiled. Not because it was funny.
Because it finally made sense why it never was.
And somewhere, far enough back to pretend it wasn't steering, something inside him thought: