PROLOGUE

"What are you doing here?"

Yisrael Slattery stood stiffly, his hand lingering near the device on his desk as Richard Solomon strode into the lab, trailed by Mayu Kawamoto, Yisrael’s fiancée—or so he thought.

“Abysmal Enterprises,” Richard said smugly. “It’s mine now.”

Yisrael’s gaze flicked to Mayu, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And you, Mayu? What are you doing here? Surely you didn’t come all this way just for me.”

“Don’t try to be funny,” she replied, her voice sharp, her expression unreadable.

Yisrael sighed, placing the half-finished contraption on his desk with care. He took a moment to steady himself, staring at the ground before breaking the silence.

“Why?”

Richard chuckled, the sound low and victorious. “Because, my friend, it’s for your own good.”

Yisrael’s eyes narrowed. “Whose idea was this? Or were you both in on it from the start?”

Richard held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, Yisrael—”

“The FBI, perhaps?” Yisrael cut him off, his voice rising. “Let me guess. There’s a squad waiting just outside to haul me away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richard snapped. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Harder?” Yisrael barked, his anger boiling over. “I’m going to bury you for this. You stole my designs. My work. You can’t even make it function—because I never revealed the power source.”

“Stole?” Mayu’s voice cracked like a whip, stepping forward with venom in her tone. “Richard bought your designs. Your company. What you make belongs to him now. You work for him, Yisrael. That’s the reality.”

“Reality?” Yisrael laughed bitterly. “I poured my life into this invention. My money, my time, everything! It’s mine. And now you want to take it? From me?”

His hand hovered over the glowing device, his expression hardening.

“This invention,” he said, his voice low, “is nearly complete. When it is, it will shatter the barriers of time itself. Rewrite history.”

Richard’s cigar had gone out. He pulled it from his lips and stared at Yisrael, his confidence faltering. “Now, look, old friend—”

Yisrael’s gaze shifted to Mayu. His voice softened, filled with disbelief.

“I trusted you. I loved you.”

Her face twisted, her beauty vanishing beneath a mask of fury.

“And I loved what you could give me,” she hissed, reaching into her purse.

The movement was quick, practiced. Yisrael barely registered the glint of steel before a sharp pain bloomed in his chest. His body froze, and his knees buckled.

The world spun as he crumpled to the floor, the device glowing faintly on the desk above him. His vision blurred, but he could still hear their voices.

“Are you insane?” Richard shouted.

“Keep your composure,” Mayu snapped. “With this, we hold time itself in the palm of our hands.”

Yisrael’s fingers twitched, reaching weakly for the desk. Pain shot through him, but his hand found the device. His thumb pressed a hidden button as his vision darkened.

The glow brightened, filling the room with an intense, pulsing light.

A sudden flash blinded them all.

CHAPTER ONE

Someone once told me, “Time is the fire in which we burn.” Living in this fractured world, I can’t help but agree.

After the seven-day famine that scarred humanity, I found myself returning to my hometown—a small, quiet place in California. It had been five years since I’d left for film school in Mahwah, just outside Manhattan. I was lucky to have left when I did. A news alert had told me of the nuclear bomb that flattened that entire sector, turning skyscrapers into ash, leaving the streets to crumble like tissue paper.

Even now, despite the devastation and society’s endless war with itself, I know what happened will eventually be rewritten. It always is.

The tramcar hissed as it came to a halt, its doors sliding open with a groan. A wave of dry, late-summer heat hit me as I stepped out into the dusty streets. Around me, a crowd moved about in the kind of detached rhythm only desperation could create.

My eyes caught a sign on the wall, half-obscured by the shimmer of water sliding down its cracked surface:

NEW SHORE, CALIFORNIA
A PLACE OF BEGINNING THAT STARTS AT THE END.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Despite the decay, despite everything, this was still home. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I pressed forward, weaving through the busy streets.

Billboards loomed above, their electronic faces flickering with advertisements for the latest iteration of the Catch 22.

“We guarantee nothing,” said a woman with a sleek smile in one ad, “except the chance to create a perfect future.”

The screen shifted to showcase the sleek device—Catch 22 vXI—its polished chrome edges gleaming against a black backdrop.

“From Time Drifters Inc., the Catch 22 version eleven will allow you to alter your past to shape your future as you see fit.”

Then, the ad shifted tone. The CEO of Time Drifters appeared, his face calm yet commanding.

“We guarantee safety and security for all,” he said. “But remember: misuse the Catch 22, and you’ll face the penalty of erasure. Use at your own risk.”

The warning lingered, and for a moment, the crowd around me seemed to pause.

“Unbelievable,” a man beside me muttered. He shook his head, his hat casting a shadow over his face. “Real time machines... Makes you wonder what life would be like without them. For all we know, time could be changing around us this very moment.”

“Fair point,” I replied, glancing at him. “But now that they’re mass-produced, people can make them illegally. It’s only a matter of time before something catastrophic happens.”

The man smirked bitterly. “And that’s why they erase illegal users, right? Heard they trapped one poor guy in the Jurassic Era. Imagine that—living out the rest of your days running from dinosaurs. Then again, how would we even know he existed if he’s been erased?”

He paused, looking out at the crowd. “Time’s a paradox we’ve turned into a playground.”

As he started to walk away, I caught his parting words.

“Good day to you. Doubt we’ll meet again. They’re probably already after me—I used an illegal one myself. Took Bill Jobs’ place at Micropple.”

He tipped his hat, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Guess they’ll send me back to kill myself. Funny, isn’t it?”

He melted into the sea of people, leaving me standing there, replaying his words in my head. Time’s a paradox we’ve turned into a playground.

I couldn’t argue with him. Not really.

The thought clung to me as I continued down the street, the weight of everything pressing in on me. The world, fractured as it was, carried on.

And I walked home, trying to remember what it felt like to belong to it.

CHAPTER TWO

I stepped onto the porch, the worn wood creaking beneath my feet. It wasn’t a fancy mansion like the homes of parents who used the Catch-22 to climb the social ladder, but it was ours. The door groaned as I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The kitchen smelled faintly of detergent and tea. My mother stood at the sink, washing dishes, while my father sat at the table, his tea cup cradled in his hands. Five years had passed since I’d last seen them, yet they looked exactly the same.

“Oh, Shari! You’re home!” my mother exclaimed, her face lighting up as she hurried over to embrace me. Her arms wrapped around me tightly, as though she needed proof that I still existed.

“It’s been so long,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “How was the five-year program?”

I smiled at her, taking in the warmth of her familiar presence. “It was great. I enjoyed every moment of it.”

“Well, I’m proud my daughter had the chance to get out and see the world,” my father said, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Better than being cooped up in this small town.”

I hesitated before asking, “Did you hear about the nuclear fallout in Manhattan? It happened just a few days ago.”

They both stared at me, confused. My father shook his head. “A nuclear fallout? In Manhattan?”

Their confusion made my stomach churn. There had never been a war in history—at least, not in this history. My chest tightened as I realized what the man on the street had meant: you never know when time has changed, even if it’s right in front of you.

“Chloe stopped by earlier,” my mother said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I told her you were coming home. You should go see her—she’s been going through a lot lately.”

“I will,” I promised.

Chloe Mai had been my best friend since childhood. We did everything together—until I left for film school, that is.

After dropping my bag in my old room, I headed down the street to her house at the corner of the neighborhood. It had always been one of the liveliest homes, filled with laughter and noise. But now, as I knocked on the door, the house seemed quiet—almost lifeless.

The door creaked open, revealing Chloe in the doorway. She was dressed in shorts and a white tee, her face tired and pale.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice sharp.

“Well, that’s one way to greet a friend you haven’t seen in five years,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Her eyes widened in astonishment. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she threw her arms around me, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

“Come inside,” she said, pulling me in.

We settled in the living room, catching up on the years we’d missed. As she talked, I couldn’t shake the eerie quiet of the house. Her home had always been full of life, but now it felt like a hollow shell.

Eventually, she told me what had happened. Her father had died of heart disease the year after I left, and her mother had abandoned her, taking her siblings to be with another man.

The weight of her words settled on me like a stone. I wished I’d been there to support her.

As she carried her glass of water to the kitchen, I noticed something poking out from under the couch cushion: a syringe. My stomach sank. I stared at it, dreading what she might have been doing to herself.

When she returned, I acted like I hadn’t seen anything.

“Despite you being gone,” she said, her voice soft, “I made a friend. Her name’s Amber Rose. We met in school.”

I nodded, relieved she’d found some support, though a pang of jealousy hit me unexpectedly.

“I haven’t seen her in about a week,” Chloe continued. “I went to her house, but her dad said she’d gone missing. He even hired private investigators, but there’s no trace of her. It’s like she just vanished.”

Her words lingered, sending a chill through me. The thought crossed my mind—could Amber have been erased? But no, that wouldn’t make sense if Chloe still remembered her.

I reached across the table, taking Chloe’s hand in mine. “We’ll find her,” I promised. “Together.”

CHAPTER THREE

Two nights had passed since I promised Chloe we’d find Amber, and so far, we’d uncovered nothing. I sat on my bed, staring out the window, lost in thought. My phone buzzed suddenly, pulling me back to reality. Chloe’s name flashed on the screen.

“Shari,” she gasped, her voice frantic. “Meet me at my house in ten minutes. There’s something you need to see.”

Her tone sent a chill down my spine. I grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door, my mind racing with possibilities—had something happened to Chloe? Did she finally find a clue about Amber?

When I reached Chloe’s house, she was waiting on the steps. Her face was pale, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief. She stood as I approached.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Follow me,” she said quietly.

She led me to a crumbling, boarded-up house at the edge of the neighborhood. The faded “FOR SALE” sign on the lawn swayed in the wind. We slipped around back, where she slid open a warped glass door and stepped inside. The house was eerily silent, the air thick with dust and decay. Leftover belongings littered the floor—forgotten remnants of a hurried departure.

I followed Chloe into the garage. The space felt oppressive, as though it held secrets it didn’t want to give up. A dartboard hung on the wall, a single dart embedded dead center. A dusty desk sat against the far wall, cluttered with folders. Chloe pointed at one in particular.

“Look at this,” she said.

I opened the folder. A photo of a man in a lab coat stared back at me. Scrawled across the back of the photo were the words:

ABYSMAL ENTERPRISES
FOUNDER: YISRAEL SLATTERY, 1970

“What is this?” Chloe asked, her voice trembling.

“I... don’t know,” I admitted, flipping through the rest of the folder. Its title sent a shiver down my spine:
ABYSMAL ENTERPRISES: MESSING WITH TIME BEFORE SOCIETY DID.

Before I could process what it meant, Chloe opened a cabinet and pulled out a television. She plugged it in, revealing a live feed of surveillance footage from around the house. My stomach twisted.

“This is getting weird,” I muttered.

Chloe found the control panel and began rewinding the footage. As she did, I noticed a box perched precariously on top of an old washer. I stretched to grab it but froze when Chloe let out a bloodcurdling scream.

I turned to see her staring at the monitor, trembling. “What?” I demanded, rushing to her side.

She pointed at the screen. The timestamp on the footage showed late at night. A girl walked across the frame, her figure unmistakable—Amber Rose. Chloe’s hand flew to her mouth as the footage continued. Amber backed toward the door, her movements frantic. A dark figure loomed closer, a glint of steel in their hand.

Amber tried to speak, her hands raised in a plea, but the figure lunged, stabbing her repeatedly. Blood pooled beneath her as she crumpled to the floor. Chloe let out a strangled sob.

But the horror didn’t end there. The attacker stood, their face finally visible. My breath caught in my throat—it was Amber. Or... someone who looked exactly like her. The doppelgänger stared down at the lifeless body, then turned to speak to someone just out of the camera’s view before vanishing into thin air.

The recording stopped.

“What... just happened?” Chloe whispered, her voice barely audible.

I couldn’t answer. My mind raced as I rewound the footage, pausing at the final frames. A shadowy figure stood in the background, barely visible—a silhouette facing the camera.

CHAPTER FOUR

A week had passed since Amber's disappearance, and the investigations had all but subsided. The reports listed her as missing, her family had moved away, and life in our small town returned to its usual rhythm. But Chloe and I knew the truth—something far darker than anyone could imagine.

As I walked through the quiet streets, a strange feeling gnawed at me. It was as if I were being watched. I turned around several times, scanning the empty sidewalks and shadows, but no one was there. The unease lingered as I sat on a bench, staring blankly at the Time Drifters advertisement playing repeatedly on the large screen above.

A cheerful family strolled past me, their voices pulling me back to reality.

"Daddy, when can I have one of those time thingies?" the little girl asked, pointing at the screen.

"Not now, sweetheart. Maybe one day. Hopefully, we’ll already be rich by then," her father replied with a chuckle.

They disappeared down the street as I stood up, shaking off the unease, and headed home. The steps to my porch creaked underfoot, and I entered the house, greeted by the muffled sound of my parents watching the news. I slipped into my room, collapsed onto my bed, and stared at the ceiling.

My mind wouldn’t rest. Amber’s murder. Time bending in impossible ways. My guilt for leaving Chloe alone for five years. The thoughts swirled in a relentless storm until sleep finally pulled me under.

In the depths of my slumber, the spinning thoughts turned vivid. Fragments of memories and fears collided. Time twisted and folded. Then, amidst the chaos, I felt something shift. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, and growing louder.

I jolted awake, my breath catching in my throat. The room was silent, but the footsteps stopped beside me. Slowly, I turned—and froze.

A silhouette loomed over my bed, a knife glinting in the dim light. My pulse thundered in my ears as the figure lunged. I rolled away just in time, the blade tearing into the mattress instead of me. My heart sank as I saw the face of my attacker.

It was me.

I stared at her, stunned, as she stood over me—a perfect reflection, down to the smallest detail. Her expression was eerily calm, but her eyes burned with grim determination.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice my own. "I have to do this. It’s the only way to save the future. It’s best for both of us."

She raised the knife again, and I grabbed her wrist, stopping her mid-swing. The moment our skin touched, an unbearable heat surged through me. Sparks erupted where our hands connected, and a searing pain tore through my arm.

It felt as though we were fusing—two forces colliding, resisting, and threatening to rip apart reality itself. Memories that weren’t mine flashed through my mind—fragmented glimpses of another life, another me.

We both screamed as the energy built, swirling into an unstable vortex. The air crackled and burned as a powerful shockwave erupted, slamming me into the floor.

And then, nothing.

Darkness enveloped me, but as consciousness faded, her voice echoed in my mind:

"This is only the beginning."

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, I woke up in my bed, unharmed. It felt almost as if last night had been nothing but a vivid nightmare. But the memory of seeing myself—another version of me—trying to kill me was too real to dismiss. It was horrifying, and it reminded me of what the man had said during our brief encounter. Wherever he was now, I hoped he was alive.

He had warned me about Time Drifters Inc., about how they could force someone to turn against themselves. The thought lingered like a bad taste in my mouth. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I tried to make sense of it all. Had it really happened? And if it had, did it mean I had used an illegal time machine? If so… when?

My mind swirled with questions I didn’t have answers to, and I forced myself to push them aside. Dwelling on it wasn’t going to help. I needed a distraction.

Downstairs, I found my dad standing in the kitchen, struggling with the microwave.

"Still trying to figure out how to update it?" I asked, attempting to sound casual.

"No, I know how to update it," he grumbled. "The problem is it won't even turn on. Apparently, there was a town-wide blackout last night, and now nothing's working."

Frustrated, he banged his head on the cabinet above and let loose a string of curses. I slipped outside, hoping some fresh air would clear my head.

The town was alive with confusion. Neighbors stood in clusters, speculating about the blackout while kids ran around, oblivious to the tension. Parents paced with their phones, trying to reach the electrical companies. The atmosphere was strange—like something heavy was hanging in the air, just out of reach.

I decided to check on Chloe. My unease grew with every step toward her house, my mind racing with what-ifs. What if the same thing that happened to me had happened to her?

As I neared her street, a little boy darted into the road, chasing a ball. My stomach dropped when I saw a car barreling toward him, tires screeching out of control. He didn’t notice.

I screamed, but no sound came out. Instead, I was hit with a vision—a vivid flash of the boy’s body being crushed under the car, his small frame twisted and broken, blood and bone scattered across the pavement.

I blinked, and the vision was gone. Panicked, I shouted at the boy to stop. He didn’t listen. The car swerved, and the scene I had just envisioned played out before me, horrifyingly real this time. The boy lay lifeless in the street, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.

I clutched my chest, overwhelmed with guilt and helplessness. I reached out a hand, wishing with everything I had that I could undo what just happened.

And then… the impossible happened.

The car reversed. The wheels moved backward over the boy’s mangled body, and his remains began to reform, piece by piece. Time itself rewound, resetting to the moment before the accident.

I stood frozen, watching the scene unfold in reverse. Somehow, I had bent time to my will. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The moment froze as I held the boy in place, time still enough for me to pull him out of harm’s way.

The car sped by, missing him entirely. The boy looked at me with wide, frightened eyes before running off without a word. My heart pounded as I continued toward Chloe’s house, my mind reeling with what I had just done.

When I reached her door, I stopped in my tracks. A loud thud echoed from inside, like something heavy had fallen. I dropped my bag, my pulse quickening.

Fumbling through the bag, I noticed something unusual—a small metal disk I didn’t recognize. But there was no time to investigate. The front door was unlocked.

"Chloe?" I called out as I stepped inside. No answer.

I moved cautiously, my voice trembling as I called her name again. The house felt eerily still, the air thick with dread.

When I entered the living room, I froze.

There she was, lying on the floor. Her lifeless body sprawled across the carpet.

CHAPTER SIX

Chloe’s lifeless body lay in front of me, her face pale and twisted in a way that made my stomach churn. The room was silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of my breathing. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her for long—she was my best friend, the person I’d shared everything with. And now she was gone.

My eyes dropped to the scattered narcotics beside her. Morphine, painkillers, and other substances littered the space like a toxic trail she’d followed to this end. I couldn’t fathom how she had reached this point. Why? Was it because of everything we’d been through recently, or was it the weight of something else entirely?

I felt a tightness in my chest, suffocating me. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I couldn’t bear the guilt of not having noticed the signs. I felt useless, angry at myself for being too wrapped up in my own confusion to see how much pain she was in.

But then, like a snap of reality, something inside me broke. My thoughts cleared for a brief moment, and I remembered the strange power I’d discovered—the ability to bend time itself. A breath caught in my throat as I realized what I had to do.

I couldn’t let Chloe die like this. Not like this. Not before I could make things right.

I reached out to her, my hand trembling, and time began to reverse.

It was subtle at first. A feeling, almost like a ripple passing through the air. The clock’s hands shifted backward, and I watched as the moment of her overdose unraveled in reverse. The pool of her blood, the way her body had crumpled, all faded away. I could feel the weight of my power, the strain it took to manipulate time, but I held on. I wouldn’t let her die.

Her body shifted and stretched, and I saw her come back to life in the moments before she had overdosed. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a split second, she seemed confused—lost in the blur of the past and present.

I kept my focus, pushing further back, retracing the moments that led her here. I saw her fumble with the narcotics, opening the bag and preparing to inject herself. A bitter sadness flooded me, knowing she had made this decision in such a state of despair. My chest tightened as I saw the exact moment where she had become unconscious from over-drinking, her body collapsing as she succumbed to the numbness.

Finally, I stopped. My hand reached for the narcotics she had carelessly dropped beneath the cushions. I grabbed them swiftly and shoved them into my bag, making sure they were far from her reach. I didn’t want to wake her yet—not while she was still caught in the haze of her own confusion.

I turned, the weight of the situation sinking into me like a stone. I couldn’t stay here—not with her so vulnerable. I needed to leave, to get away from this place for a moment and figure out what to do next.

I stepped out of the house, my mind spinning with a thousand questions. Why had Chloe gotten so far down this dark road? Why hadn’t I seen the signs? Could I have done something earlier? Was I to blame for not noticing?

As I walked home, the weight of my actions felt heavy. Time was a gift and a curse—something I couldn’t fully understand or control. But I knew one thing: I had to do whatever it took to save her.

And somehow, deep down, I knew that this wasn’t over. There was something bigger at play, something I hadn’t yet fully grasped. But I would figure it out. For Chloe. For both of us.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As I walked toward my house, I was met with an unsettling sight—crowds of black vehicles, dozens of them, lined the entire street. I recognized the emblem on one of them:

TIME PATROLLERS

Keeping Time Safe Since Time Began.

My heart sank as I hurried inside, only to be greeted by two investigators speaking to my parents. Their expressions were stern, full of suspicion. They were looking for me, questioning everyone around in their hunt for any sign of illegal time machine use.

It was all starting to hit me. Last night hadn’t been a dream. It was real. The things I’d done, the power I had, it was all real. And now, my ability to manipulate time—without a machine—was raising serious questions.

The investigators fired off a series of questions, their tone cold and methodical. Every answer I gave seemed to lead to more inquiries, as if they were trying to catch me in a lie. I could feel the pressure mounting with each passing second.

But then, a thought occurred to me—if I reversed time, maybe I could throw them off my trail, maybe I could make it all disappear.

I stepped outside, focusing on the power I had, and began to reverse time. But then I froze. Standing at the end of the driveway, I spotted a line of Time Patrollers waiting. The trap had been set.

I realized then—this had all been part of their plan. They were trying to get me to prove I was using an illegal time machine, forcing my hand.

Without thinking, I dropped the reversal and ran straight for Chloe’s house.

When I arrived, I found her sitting in her living room, looking lost, still grappling with everything that had happened. I rushed in and quickly filled her in on what was going on, explaining everything as best as I could. I told her I had the perfect way to prove my innocence: I would ask her a question, and she’d answer it like she had the first time I asked after the time reversal.

Before she could respond, Time Patrollers burst through the door. I grabbed Chloe’s hand, pulling her with me as we dashed out of the house, hearing their footsteps pounding behind us.

They were relentless, showing up at every turn, tracking us like hounds.

“Amber’s old place,” Chloe suggested, out of breath. “We can hide there.”

I didn’t argue. We had no choice but to run.

Hours passed as we crouched in the dark, abandoned house. I couldn’t feel relief. Not after everything that had happened. My mind was consumed with the thought of my parents. They were dead—killed because they’d been harboring someone suspected of illegal time manipulation. My chest tightened at the thought.

I wished I could’ve done something, anything, to save them. But what good would it have done now?

At least they didn’t have to experience this decaying society we lived in.

Then, I remembered the file I’d discovered in the garage a week ago. I turned to Chloe. “Stay here,” I said. “I’m going to check something.”

She nodded, but I could see the worry in her eyes.

I made my way to the garage, Chloe following close behind. I pulled the file from the desk and began scanning its contents, trying to find something—anything—that would make sense of the strange time machine I had.

“What is it you’re looking for, Shari?” Chloe asked.

“Answers,” I replied.

We pored over the paperwork, piecing together the mystery. The name “Yisrael Slattery” kept popping up—an inventor tied to the Catch-22 time machine. According to the files, Slattery had disappeared after its construction, his name fading into obscurity. But there was more—Slattery was also a co-founder of Abysmal Enterprises, a company he’d been cheated out of, according to the records.

I felt a pang of sympathy for him, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was understanding what had happened.

Then Chloe froze. Her finger pointed to a photo in the corner. There was a metal casket, and inside it—frozen in suspended animation—was Slattery.

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Something wasn’t right. Chloe’s face drained of color as she recognized the room in the photo. It was the same as the garage—my garage. The dartboard, the exact spot where we stood. She pointed to where the dart still pierced the bulls-eye.

I pulled the dart from the board, my heart racing. As soon as I did, the ground beneath us shifted. The floor groaned, and suddenly, three cryo-chambers rose from beneath the garage floor. Two of them contained bodies, frozen in time.

“Shari,” Chloe whispered, her voice shaking. “Come see this.”

I walked toward her, dread swirling in my gut. Inside one of the chambers was Yisrael Slattery, his body encased in ice, but his eyes opened. He wasn’t surprised.

"I guess it’s time now, isn’t it?" he said, his voice raspy. "What year?"

“3098,” I answered, my voice barely a whisper.

"Why build the Catch-22?" I asked, my pulse pounding in my ears.

"Catch-22? That’s what they’re calling it now? Last time it was the Anex300," Slattery replied, climbing out of the chamber with a slow stretch.

“I built it so I could travel back to 1970. To take revenge on the company that betrayed me. It became too much of an influence in the world,” he said, his tone bitter.

Slattery moved to the next chamber, and with a swipe of his hand, he wiped the frost from the glass, revealing another body—Amber Rose.

Chloe shook her head, disbelief written across her face. “No. No. No. No. This isn’t real.”

But it was.

Slattery opened the chamber. “What you saw in the video,” he said, his voice soft, “was Amber attempting to end her life in another timeline. I stopped that from happening. I placed her in cryo-sleep while I returned to the past."

A cold chill swept through the room. Chloe was speechless, the weight of it all crushing her.

Slattery continued. “It’s the butterfly effect. Alter one thing, and the entire world changes. But if you loop it, if you keep it going long enough… it’s all in your hands. Time is the fire in which we burn.”

I couldn’t help but wonder: if Amber had gone back to end her life, did that mean my future self had returned to kill me? Would I be the next person in a cryo-chamber? The questions kept swirling, but nothing made sense.

“Why?” I asked. “Why all of this?”

Slattery seemed lost in thought, not answering. Chloe had gone to Amber, who had just woken, her mind clearly fractured.

“What's going on? Where am I?” Amber asked, her voice shaking. “How am I alive? She… she stabbed me! I stabbed me! How could she…?”

Amber’s trembling hands reached out, her gaze locked on the metal disk in my bag. “Give me that! I need an answer!”

Before I could react, she lunged at me, grabbing the time machine. I struggled to keep hold of it as the Catch-22 began to glow bright, a loud hum echoing through the room. Time began to warp, first a day, then a night, then a day again, over and over. The machine roared with energy, and I braced myself for whatever would come next.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amber and I found ourselves two weeks in the past, right before her disappearance. The vacant look in her eyes had been replaced by something far more unsettling—insanity. Her grip on the time machine loosened, and in a swift motion, she pulled a knife from a drawer near the door before stepping out into the night. I rushed to her side, desperate to stop her, to reason with her, but her eyes were cold—like she was already gone, lost in some dark place.

I begged her, over and over, to return with me, to come back to our time. But it was as if the weight of her grief had shackled her, and no amount of pleading could reach her. In her eyes, I saw nothing but sorrow, weariness—the kind that comes from battling demons too heavy to bear.

I let her go. My heart twisted as I watched her walk toward her fate, unable to stop her. I stayed hidden behind the front steps, trying not to make a sound, barely breathing as I watched past Amber face the knife. She drove it into herself, the pain etched on her face, over and over, until her body crumpled to the floor.

A hollow laugh escaped past Amber’s lips as she turned to face me, a sickly smile twisting her features.

"I can see why she did it," she whispered, the light flickering in her eyes.

Amber’s form began to distort, fading into a blur, as if time itself had no place for her anymore. I stepped forward to help her, but just before I crossed into view of the security camera, I hesitated. I knew if I stepped into the frame, the timeline would be altered forever.

Suddenly, the garage door creaked open, and Slattery entered with Chloe. They froze at the sight, Chloe’s eyes wide with horror as Slattery assessed the scene.

"I’m taking her back to the future," Slattery muttered, his tone cold and determined.

I grabbed his arm, pleading with him. "Don’t! If you do this, time could collapse on itself. You don’t understand—"

But it was too late. He picked up Amber’s lifeless body, and I felt an overwhelming pull in my chest to undo it. Without thinking, I stretched my hand out, and time started to reverse, snapping back to the moment before Amber’s fatal decision. The camera, mercifully, remained off as I worked, and Amber’s past self remained unaware of the horrors to come.

I managed to stop her—stopping the knife from ever touching her skin. The past Amber stood frozen, eyes wide in confusion, watching in disbelief as she witnessed herself, trapped in her own torment. I reached out, wanting to comfort her, but it was Slattery who stepped forward, pulling the past Amber into a cryo-chamber to preserve her in this moment of non-existence.

He turned to me then, pulling the Catch-22 from my bag. "We’re going back to our time," he said, the chill in his voice matching the icy air of the cryo-chamber.

The machine hummed to life.

The world around us twisted and distorted as the time machine activated. First, it was a night, then a day. Then a day again, then a night. The cycle began to grow faster, spinning out of control. A week. Another week. A year. It was as if time itself was fracturing, warping as the machine screamed its protest.

We arrived back in our time—weeks later, the echoes of the fractured timeline still reverberating in my bones. Amber lay in cryo-sleep, her body frozen in a state of suspended animation, forever caught between two fates.

Slattery gave a long sigh. "Time for me to leave," he said, his face unreadable.

The door to the garage creaked open, and a group of Time Patrollers entered, their weapons raised. They surrounded us like a cage, the oppressive weight of their presence suffocating. Behind them, a man in a grey suit, leaning on a cane, walked forward. His cigar glowed ominously in the dim light.

I looked at Slattery, and the recognition in his eyes sent a chill down my spine.

"Long time, Richard," Slattery said, his voice clipped with a hint of old bitterness. "Nice to see a conniving friend still running the family business after all these centuries."

Richard's smirk was cold and knowing. "Well, I couldn’t let you have all the fun in the future, could I?" He flicked the ash from his cigar, his eyes locking onto mine. "While still being CEO of a company I took from you, I figured I'd have to play this game on more than one lifetime."

I felt the air shift as the CEO of Time Drifters Inc. gestured to his men, signaling them to close in. But before they could make their move, Slattery quickly activated the Catch-22. A brilliant flash erupted from the machine, filling the room with a blinding light.

The machine screamed.

Time fractured again.

First, a day. Then a night. And again, the cycle repeated. A week. A month. A year. Decades collided—2055, 2019, 1999, 1986, all merging into one chaotic storm. The machine’s roar seemed to echo across the ages, bending reality itself.

I had no idea where—or when—we would end up next.

CHAPTER NINE

We ended up in 1970, inside the very lab Slattery had always wanted to return to. The moment we arrived, I realized Chloe was no longer with us, and a sickening fear gripped my chest. I dared not entertain the thought of what might’ve happened to her. Slattery, however, seemed unfazed as he began explaining everything to his past self. It was clear this wasn’t the first time they'd conversed. Slattery from 1970 remained calm and composed, almost like he’d been expecting this. He gladly agreed to be placed into cryo-sleep, while the Slattery from the future finished his work.

Then, Richard and another woman entered the lab. I quickly hid in the corner, watching as the three of them began arguing. Slattery, however, didn’t show any sign of concern. He was in complete control—this was exactly what he wanted. Every move, every word, every action, all carefully orchestrated. Everyone here was a pawn, playing their part just as he had planned.

I spotted the original Catch-22 resting behind him. When the woman injected Slattery with a syringe and he collapsed to the floor, I knew the time had come. I couldn’t let this future unfold. I stopped time long enough to destroy the machine. There would be no society in the future that could manipulate time like this, no world where time was nothing more than a playground for the whims of a few.

I set the time machine to return me home—back to the future with Slattery.

A week passed. Then another. A year. A decade. A century.

The machine roared.

When I finally returned to the future, I felt a sense of relief. But that relief quickly turned to confusion as I realized the Catch-22 was no longer in my hands. Did I do it? Had I really stopped everything? I rushed outside, my heart pounding, eager to see a world without time travel—one where things were normal, the way they were meant to be.

I breathed in deeply, but there was something off about the air. A chemical taint so subtle, so faint, that only a slight stir in my senses warned me. The walls, the furniture, the sky outside—they all had this strange, unnatural quality to them. The colors bled together—white, grey, blue, and orange, scattered across the space like paint spilled on a canvas. My hands twitched with unease. Somewhere, someone was using a high-pitched whistle, a sound so faint that only dogs could hear it. It gnawed at my nerves, a silent scream inside me.

Beyond the house, I could feel the movement of people in the streets. An entire world, just beyond the walls, yet it felt wrong—disjointed. I couldn’t place it, but I could sense it: something was terribly off. The world, it seemed, was shifting, like chess pieces caught in a dry wind.

"I feared this would happen," Richard’s voice broke through my thoughts. I turned to see him limping toward me, his expression grim. "Time has stretched itself too far, causing a tear in its continuum. I remember you... from 1970. You’re the reason time travel was made possible. You’re the sole cause of everything. It all started with you."

He pulled the Catch-22 from his pocket—the same one I had destroyed. My mind raced. How had it come back into his possession? I replayed the events in my head and realized—when I reached for Slattery back in 1970, the Catch-22 must have fallen from my bag as we traveled back to the future. One small action had caused this. I hadn't considered the consequences.

The world was collapsing, unraveling from within. Time itself was erasing, and Richard’s lifeless body—still holding the machine—was slowly turning to dust before my eyes. The thought gripped me: How could this be fixed? What could I do to save the future now?

I knew I had one option left, but whether it would be enough... I wasn’t sure.

First, a night and a day. A week. The machine roared.

CHAPTER TEN

The night was thick with silence as I crept through my room, every step careful, as though the floorboards might betray me. The only light came from the sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally. My heart pounded in my chest, its rhythm quickening with every cautious step. I was close now, so close.

I approached my bed, and there she was—I was there, lying under the covers, fast asleep. The sight of my own form, peaceful, unaware, sent a shudder down my spine. A deep breath filled my lungs, but the air seemed heavier than before. My hand shook slightly as I pulled the cold steel from my pocket. The knife felt too real, its sharp edge gleaming in the dark, as I raised it above her—me.

I paused for a moment, standing there over the body of someone I’d once been. The silence around us was suffocating, and the weight of the moment hung like an iron chain. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of what I was about to do, or of the part of me that was willing to carry it out.

With one swift motion, I lunged, aiming the blade at my own stomach. But before the point could even graze the skin, I felt the bed shift. She moved faster than I could comprehend, twisting out of the way just as the knife buried itself into the mattress with a loud thunk. I froze, staring down at her—the me I could never quite escape from.

Her eyes flickered open, and for a split second, time seemed to slow. There, in the dim glow of the room, she looked up at me with wide, startled eyes. The familiar look—confusion, fear, and something else—flickered across her face. It was my face, but I had never looked at it like this before. The mirror had never reflected this desperation. The desperation of what I was about to do.

The room felt colder, heavier. My pulse roared in my ears, and I could hear the faint tremble in my voice as I spoke.

"I'm sorry about this," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My tone was steady, but deep down, I knew how hollow it sounded. I had said those words before, and they hadn’t made a damn bit of difference. "I have to if the future is to be saved. It’s best for the both of us."

I raised the blade again, but this time, she was quicker. In a blur of motion, she grabbed my wrist, halting me midair. The pressure of her grip was like a vice, and before I could pull away, a strange heat began to radiate from where her hand met my skin. It burned—more than that—it seared. Sparks crackled around us, shooting like electric tendrils into the air. The energy that pulsed from our touch was almost unbearable.

I tried to pull back, but something was happening. The pain—the burning sensation—felt as though it was merging the past and present in a violent collision. I could feel the threads of who I was, who I used to be, intertwining with the person I had become, each layer of memory and emotion clashing like waves against jagged rocks. I couldn’t tell where I ended, where she began.

We both screamed, but the sound was muffled, drowned out by the sound of something else—something far worse. The energy that swirled around us was unstable, growing more chaotic by the second, and I realized too late that we were about to lose control. I could feel it in my bones: the rush of power, the overwhelming sensation of the world shifting.

A crack of pure force split the air as the energy exploded outward in a shockwave of unimaginable power. The walls shuddered, and everything around us seemed to bend and warp, distorting as if reality itself was breaking apart. The force of it was enough to knock me off my feet, but I couldn’t move. The world around us dissolved into nothingness.

And then, darkness.