It happens on a Tuesday.
No warning dream.No pressure behind my eyes.No stewards freezing the street.
Just a scream.
I'm walking home with Luna, the city soaked in late-evening orange, when the sound cuts through everything.
Sharp. Panicked. Close.
We stop at the same time.
An alley to our left.
A man stumbles backward into the light, clutching his side. Blood soaks through his fingers, dark and fast. Another figure bolts past him and disappears down the alley.
The man collapses.
Time leans toward me.
I feel it. That familiar pull. Not forceful—inviting.
Easy.
I take one step forward.
Luna's hand snaps around my wrist.
"Ren," she says. Calm. Firm. "No."
My breath comes shallow. "He's dying."
"Yes."
"I can rewind," I insist. "Five seconds. Ten. I can stop it."
"And lose what?" she asks quietly.
I look at the man.
Mid-thirties, maybe. Scruffy beard. Eyes wide with terror.
A stranger.
Rule two.
My hand shakes.
"He didn't do anything," I say.
"Neither did the next one," Luna replies. "Or the one after that."
The man gurgles, trying to speak.
I step closer again.
Luna tightens her grip. "Ren."
I look at her.
Really look.
She's not cold.
She's terrified.
Not of the man dying.
Of me saving him.
"If you rewind for this," she says, voice low, "you won't stop next time."
I glance down at my hands.
They're steady.
Too steady.
I could do it. Easily.
I could save him and barely feel the cost.
That thought makes my stomach turn.
The man's eyes lock onto mine.
Help.
Just help.
My chest aches—not sharply, but dull. Like an echo of something that used to hurt more.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
I don't know if I'm saying it to him… or to myself.
His breathing turns wet. Shallow.
Then stops.
The alley goes quiet.
Time straightens.
The pull vanishes.
I don't rewind.
I don't move.
I just stand there, staring at the body.
Luna releases my wrist slowly.
"You did it," she says.
Her voice isn't proud.
It's careful.
"I let him die," I say.
"Yes."
My throat tightens. "That means I'm becoming what they want."
"No," she says immediately. "It means you chose."
I laugh softly. "That's supposed to make it better?"
"No," she admits. "It's supposed to make it yours."
Police sirens wail in the distance.
Someone shouts.
Life rushing back in.
I finally look away.
My hands are shaking now.
There it is.
Guilt.
Real. Ugly. Heavy.
I press my palms together, grounding myself.
"I feel it," I say hoarsely.
Luna nods. "Good."
"That's sick," I mutter.
"It's survival," she replies.
We walk away before anyone can question us.
The city feels different now.
Sharper. More fragile.
Later, alone in my room, I open the notebook.
My hand hovers over the page.
I add a new line.
4. Today, I chose not to save someone.It hurt.That means I'm still here.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Somewhere out there, the stewards will feel it.
The anomaly that didn't act.
The fracture that held.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"I won't save everyone," I whisper.
The room doesn't answer.
But for the first time—
Time doesn't argue either.