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.