Chapter 1: Day 1 α part 1

Just as I inhaled its warmth, ready for that first sip, the jolt hit.

Not a sound, not a tremor, but a violent, inward rupture – a sudden, bone-deep crack somewhere behind my eyes, like something shattering, that stole the air from my lungs.

My grip spasmed, the mug threatening to slip as my fingers went instantly numb.

Reality didn't just blur or distort; it shredded. The whole scene in front of me started to crack and splinter, like a pane of glass about to shatter.

The predictable flow of seconds didn't just stop; they knotted, bunching up in some places like a tangled fishing line, while stretching impossibly thin in others. One instant, I'd be trapped in a single, agonizingly slow-motion frame, and the next, a whole chunk of what should have been several seconds would blur past too fast to even process.

My familiar kitchen didn't simply look wrong; it felt wrong. The very air vibrated with unseen tension, its stable dimensions warping like soft clay under immense, invisible pressure.

Distance winked out of existence. It wasn't empty space but a tangible, crumpling fabric that pressed in, heavy and suffocating.

The distant sigh of highway traffic, the sweet, faint smell from the downtown bakery, the biting, unnatural chill of arctic air – they weren't just heard or smelled; they were violently shoved into my face, a raw, physical assault against my skin.

And then, vision became a violation.

The bland plaster of the walls didn't hide; it simply peeled away, revealing the pulsing, hidden network of pipes and wiring beneath. The floorboards dissolved under my gaze, exposing the packed earth and cold bedrock below my feet. The ceiling thinned to a shimmering membrane, hinting at the dizzying, unfathomable sprawl of stars pressing just beyond the bright morning sun.

This wasn't just seeing. Something tore open inside me, a silent, everywhere void. It flooded my mind not with thoughts, but with raw data—the feel of other places, the subtle connections between spaces, all flaring into instant, searing clarity, like a cascade of burning photographs mapping out hidden pathways.

And through it all, my single 'I', the quiet anchor of my perception, didn't just understand; it fractured. I wasn't one mind anymore, but dozens, hundreds. Each fragment a raw, screaming facet of awareness, echoing inside my head, a frantic, panicked chorus of myself.

My chest seized. My hands clenched into useless fists, trembling.

As this unnatural flood of sensation overloaded every nerve, the familiar kitchen around me seemed to groan and buckle. The low hum of the refrigerator didn't just stop; it snapped out of existence, leaving a sudden, alien silence. Sound didn't dissolve; it was ripped away.

The soft tick-tock of the wall clock froze mid-tick, the second hand a rigid needle.

Time itself became a physical presence, holding everything in a vice-like grip. The lingering scent of toast was yanked from the air, leaving a sharp, choking vacuum that felt like drowning.

Outside the window, a bird hung motionless, a perfect, unreal sculpture suspended against the glass, its tiny wings locked mid-beat.

A silence fell. It wasn't merely the absence of noise, but a crushing, physical pressure against my eardrums, heavy and suffocating, locking the world in a single, terrified frame.

Awe and a sickening, dizzying dread warred violently in my gut against a primal, screaming terror I couldn't vocalize. My heart hammered against the stillness, a frantic, unheard drumbeat trapped in that frozen moment. My throat was tight, unable to pull a proper breath.

Then, with the sudden, violent CRACK, like a cable snapping under impossible tension, the world sprang back into existence.

Sound slammed in – the refrigerator hummed, the clock resumed its frantic ticking. The bird outside gave a sudden chirp and darted away.

The entire, shattering age I'd just endured felt like it should have lasted a lifetime. Yet outside of me, it couldn't have been more than the space of a single, choked breath.

But the change was undeniable. In that terrifying, fractured moment, I had somehow, inexplicably, acquired abilities – superpowers.

Yet, despite this reality-shattering infusion of power, the world outside remained stubbornly unchanged. No black-suited agents burst through the door, no alien probes descended from the sky.

My life, it seemed, wasn't slated for a dramatic upheaval. I harbored no grand ambitions of rewriting history or donning a cape of justice.

In truth, my existence leaned heavily towards the ordinary: homework, family meals, the usual ebb and flow of teenage social drama. Purely, resolutely Mundane with a capital 'M'.

If my life were a novel, it'd be shelved in the 'slice-of-life, possibly dull' section.

It felt almost insulting, like these incredible abilities were addressed to a destined hero, someone meant to protect the innocent, but thanks to some cosmic postal error, they’d landed on my doorstep instead.

Tough luck, chosen one. Maybe try customer service for a refund?

Lost in these bewildering thoughts, I must have been staring intently at my mug, because my mother’s voice cut through the haze.

"Rey, if you keep staring at that coffee like it owes you money, it might actually get up and leave," she said, pushing her laptop aside with a sigh.

The cup felt normal, looked normal, was normal—the same milky, sugary concoction I drank every morning.

Yet, after what had just happened, a kernel of suspicion lingered. Could I even trust my senses anymore?

"No, it's nothing," I managed, forcing a nervous smile. "Just... thought this morning's coffee tasted particularly good."

Blurting out 'I think I just got superpowers' wasn't exactly an option, not unless I wanted a one-way ticket to a psych evaluation. I couldn't even be sure I wasn't already losing my mind.

"Is that what you call coffee? It's just milk and sugar with a hint of coffee," my father chimed in, his devotion to black coffee unwavering.

"Coffee is the elixir that propels you through those grueling nights of hard work," he proclaimed, a mantra I’d heard countless times.

“I mean, black coffee is just bitter so…” I countered, falling into our familiar routine.

"Blasphemy!" my father declared dramatically. "Don't you know that black coffee is the one true coffee and that everything else is an affront to the good name of this miraculous beverage? Don't you agree, Lily?"

"You're absolutely right," my mother agreed solemnly, holding up her cup… of tea. Her recent defection from Team Coffee was a running gag.

A beat of silence, then we all burst into laughter, the easy, stomach-aching kind that often filled our house when we were together. This kind of over-the-top banter was our family's brand of normal.

My mother, the Editor-in-Chief, and my father, the CEO and accomplished author, ran the publishing company he’d founded with the success of his books. They'd met through their shared love of literature—he the aspiring writer, she the insightful editor. Their story was a blend of passion and partnership.

They often worked from home, which meant they were a near-constant presence in my life. A blessing, mostly, though sometimes I wished for a bit more space. Especially when friends visited and Mom launched into her 'what a wonderful child Rey is' routine, complete with pleas for more frequent visits. The memory alone could trigger mild PTSD.

The laughter subsided, but my mother's gaze remained on me, a flicker of concern replacing the amusement.

“Rey, seeing you laugh makes me happy. For a moment there, I thought you were still worried about… well, about today.”

Her words punctured the lighthearted mood. My father, sensing the shift towards more delicate territory, predictably retreated behind his laptop screen, leaving the emotional heavy lifting to Mom, as usual.

Until the power surge moments ago, my primary worry had been centered aound my sister’s departure.

My immediate family isn't just my parents and me. There's Iris, my adopted elder sister. We welcomed her into our home five years ago after her parents were tragically killed in a car accident. She was thirteen then.

Today is the day she moves out, determined to start living independently. And the thought had been twisting my insides for weeks.

As if summoned by the thought, she appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

The scent of brewing coffee and lingering toast was suddenly undercut by the tension she brought with her.

“Good morning,” Iris said.

Her voice was thin, almost a whisper. She was clutching her old, battered copy of "Dune" so tightly her knuckles were white against the faded blue cover.

Her eyes, shadowed and bloodshot, darted to mine for a bare second before skittering away to fix on the chipped ceramic rooster that had sat on the counter for years.

Her straight silvery hair was lank, and she swayed almost imperceptibly.

The sight of Iris looking so utterly wrecked made my mom drop her laptop lid onto the worn oak table with a soft thud.

The clink of her spoon against her teacup was loud in the sudden quiet.

“Iris, honey, you look exhausted! Are you alright?”

Mom was by her side in an instant, one arm going around Iris’s shoulders, guiding her towards a chair.

Iris just leaned into her, a small, shaky sigh escaping her.

“It’s a big step, sweetie, it’s okay to be a bit wobbly,” Mom said, her voice a gentle murmur as she smoothed Iris’s hair. “Your new place is great. You’ll make it your own. Just… try to eat something other than cereal for dinner, okay? And call. Seriously. If you even just burn a lightbulb.”

My father looked up from his own screen at the end of the table, pushing his glasses up his nose. The sports section of his newspaper rustled.

“She’s right, Iris. Big day. You’ll do great. We’re proud of you.”

He paused, then added, trying for a lighter note, “And hey, if you get stuck trying to decipher those bookshelf instructions – they can be real head-scratchers – you know who to call. Between the two of us, we’ll figure it out, even if it takes all day.”

Iris pulled away from Mom, managing a watery smile for both of them from the chair Mom had guided her to.

“Thanks. That… helps.”

Her voice was still unsteady, barely audible over the gurgle of the coffee machine finishing its cycle.

Then her gaze found mine again, where I sat hunched over my own cooling mug.

Whatever small comfort she’d found seemed to evaporate.

The air in the room crackled.

“So, you’re… you’re really going then,” I said, the words feeling clumsy, inadequate for the storm inside me.

“Rey,” Mom said, her voice quiet but with a warning tone, from her spot now leaning against the counter. “Don’t start.”

My father sighed, folding his newspaper with a decisive crease.

“Son, easy. It’s a tough morning for everyone.”

I kept my eyes on Iris.

A small, strained sound escaped her.

“Just… in a little bit.” She took a shaky breath. “I, um… this.”

She held out the Dune book.

“I thought… you should have it.”

The sight of that specific, battered copy sent a flash through my mind.

Years ago, long before her parents' accident. I was a little kid, maybe six or seven, and Iris, a year older, had just moved in next door.

I didn’t talk much back then, not to anyone outside our house. The doctors called it selective mutism – an anxiety thing where, even though I could talk, words would just seize up in my throat in certain situations, with certain people.

Then Iris came along.

She didn’t push, never seemed to notice I was different. She’d just sit with me under the big oak tree in her yard, sharing her apple slices, and patiently point at the strange creatures and sweeping landscapes in her favorite picture book – a worn, early edition of Dune with these incredible, fantastical illustrations.

And one afternoon, as she pointed to a massive sandworm cresting a dune, I’d whispered, "Big."

Then, "Scary."

My first words to anyone but family in over a year.

She hadn’t made a big deal of it, just smiled that quiet smile of hers and turned the page. She’d unlocked my voice, not by trying, but just by being there, a calm, accepting presence.

Then, years later, after the accident that stole her own parents, it was like her world had gone silent too.

She came to live with us, a fragile shadow, her laughter gone, her eyes holding a grief so profound it was hard to look at. She barely spoke for months.

It was my turn, then, to sit with her, sometimes in silence, sometimes tentatively offering that same battered Dune book, now dog-eared from my own countless readings.

Slowly, we started our fanfiction project, huddled on the living room floor.

It wasn't just about me finally having someone I could speak freely with, someone who got my sometimes-jumbled thoughts; it was watching her, line by line, argument by argument over plot points, find her own way back.

The first time she genuinely laughed – a real, unrestrained laugh over some ridiculous scenario we’d invented for Paul Atreides – it felt like the sun breaking through clouds that had smothered us for too long.

We’d helped each other, found our voices again, through those shared stories, that shared world.

When Mom critiqued our terrible first draft, Iris had been my rock, steadying me, and I’d tried to be hers, fiercely defending our combined effort.

The "Well Done, Authors!" cake Mom brought home wasn't just for a story; it felt like a celebration of us, of Iris finding her way back to the light.

That same book.

A symbol of shared silence, shared words, shared healing.

Now her hand was visibly trembling as she offered it.

“Iris, what’s wrong?” I asked, my voice low. The weight of that incredibly detailed, precious memory made the present feel like a betrayal. “You’re not okay.”

She flinched. “I’m fine! It’s just… moving is a lot, that’s all.”

“A lot?” I repeated. “You look… like something’s really chasing you.”

“Rey, that’s enough,” Mom said, her patience clearly fraying. “She’s allowed to be emotional. Stop grilling her.”

Dad chimed in, “She does look tired, Lily, but Rey, your sister isn't on trial here.”

“Don’t be like that, Rey,” Iris pleaded, her voice cracking. “Please. It’s just… it’s harder than I expected, leaving.”

“Hard to leave us?” I pressed.

A tiny, stupid hope—

Maybe she remembers. Maybe she knows this isn't just a book, this isn't just a move.

This is… us.

She bit her lip, tears welling. “It’s just… something I have to do. It’ll be better this way.”

“Better for who?” I demanded, my voice rising.

“Rey! Enough!” Mom’s voice was sharp. “This is her decision. We support her.”

Dad added, more gently, “It’s a natural step, son. Growing up.”

I know it’s normal!

The thought was a raw shout inside my head.

Other people’s sisters move out. It’s fine. They’re fine.

I’m the one making this a big deal. I know I am.

But they weren’t… us.

We didn’t just grow up together. She helped me speak. I helped her… live again.

That Dune book was part of it all.

How can she just… give it away?

It’s like saying none of
that mattered, or it doesn’t matter now.

If that doesn’t matter to her, then what about me?

Am I just… extra baggage from that time?

The unfairness of the thought, the self-pity, I knew it was there, but I couldn't stop it.

“I can’t explain!” Iris cried out, her voice breaking. She clutched the book to her chest. “Please, just… try to understand. Or just… don’t make this harder.”

Her gaze met mine, a desperate, hunted look.

My parents saw a young woman moving on.

I saw the person who had been my lifeline, and for whom I'd tried to be one too, now cutting the rope.

The most obvious, hurtful thought took root: She’s better now. She doesn’t need me, or this house, or these memories anymore.

And maybe… maybe she’s tired of me still needing her so much.

“Right,” I said, my voice flat. “You’re going.”

She just stared at me, tears silently tracking down her cheeks.

She nodded, then shoved the book into my hands, a sob escaping her.

The worn cover felt like dead weight.

I couldn't look at her, at the pain that, to me, now looked like her struggle to finally get free.

"Okay," I mumbled, pushing my chair back. "I'll be late for school."

“Rey, for heaven’s sake…” Mom’s exasperated sigh followed me.

Iris’s soft, broken call of my name was cut off as I walked out.

I needed to escape the feeling that a vital part of me was being carelessly discarded, and the proof was right there in my hand.

Walking towards the train station, the morning's strange events surged back to the forefront of my mind. Was it real? Or was I cracking up?

As if in answer, a menu-like interface superimposed itself on my vision. 'Seeing' wasn't quite the right word; it was more like activating a new sense, like donning a mental VR headset.

Main Skill Menu

[Save & load S] [Point Transfer S] [Pocket Dimension S] [Third Eye A] [Alter Ego EX]

It looked uncannily like a GUI window. And it felt… familiar.

Ah! These 'skills,' their names, their classifications (F to S, with the unique EX tier)—they were straight out of a novel I'd read.

A novel whose unfinished story revolved around a protagonist protecting loved ones from other skill holders, using powers remarkably similar to the ones now listed before me.

And the author of that novel? Iris's father.

The coincidence was staggering, linking my new, unbelievable reality directly back to the very person I was currently running from.

My mind reeled, juggling the weight of Iris's departure and the sudden manifestation of these fictional powers. Dwelling on the 'why' felt pointless right now.

The immediate question was: is this real? I needed proof. I needed to test it.

The [Save & load S] skill, mimicking a video game mechanic, seemed the most logical starting point. Tapping it mentally brought up a sub-menu.

Sub Skill Menu
[Save & load S]
Slot 01: [2025-04-04-07:33]
Slot 02: [empty]
Slot 03: [empty]
Slot 04: [empty]
Slot 05: [empty]

The station clock read 08:10. I checked the first slot – 07:33. It must have auto-saved the moment I gained awareness, right around the time the world froze in the kitchen. Interesting.

I could potentially reload that moment, go back, face Iris… The thought made my stomach clench. Cowardice warred with curiosity. Maybe test it with a less emotionally charged moment first?

I mentally selected the second slot, saving the current time: 08:15.

Sub Skill Menu
[Save & load S]
Slot 01: [2025-04-04-07:33]
Slot 02: [2025-04-04-08:15]
Slot 03: [empty]
Slot 04: [empty]
Slot 05: [empty]

I watched the station clock tick to 08:16. Then, focusing on Slot 02, I mentally 'clicked' load.

Instantly, the world reset. The clock snapped back to 08:15. People subtly shifted positions, a bird that had flown overhead vanished, the sunlight brightened as a cloud shadow retreated.

It wasn't flashy – no cinematic effects, no physical sensation. It felt as simple as clicking on a video timeline. Yet, the world had rewound by one minute.

As the seconds ticked forward again, reaching 08:16, everything reverted: people resumed their paths, the bird reappeared, the cloud shadow returned.

Anticlimactic, yet profound. Everyone here moved along their predetermined tracks, while I had just stepped off mine, even for only a minute.

The potential was staggering. This ability could change things. Maybe even… fix things?

The thought latched onto the raw wound of my earlier escape from the kitchen. Iris.

Could I have reloaded? Gone back to 07:33, faced her, said something instead of fleeing like a coward?

The idea sent a fresh wave of shame through me. Reloading felt like cheating, like erasing not just a mistake, but the consequence, the feeling of that moment. It wouldn't change the fact that I had run.

And what would I even say? The tangle of grief, possessiveness, and resentment I felt about her leaving wasn't something a simple rewind could untangle or excuse. It felt too deep, too complex, too rooted in five years of shared life and sudden loss for a quick fix.

Facing her required genuine courage, not a cosmic undo button. The power felt useless there, almost mocking.

But other regrets… other failures… they weren't all the same. Some weren't about messy, ongoing emotions, but about specific moments, specific failures of nerve or action. Moments frozen in time not by superpowers, but by inaction.

Like the silence that had stretched between me and…

Lost in this heady realization, sitting on a station bench, I barely registered someone sitting down beside me until a familiar presence settled nearby.

Rose. My classmate, my desk neighbor.

We moved in the same circles, part of the same tight-knit group of friends, so encounters were frequent. Yet, the easy camaraderie we once shared had vanished. Now, our interactions were polite, superficial, buffered by the presence of others.

One-on-one conversations were a rarity, replaced by awkward silences or quick, impersonal exchanges. I often found myself wishing it had been something simple, a stupid fight or the inevitable drift of changing lives that had fractured us.

If only.

The truth of why her own yesterdays were lost to her, making her a stranger to her own narrative and thus to me, felt so much more insidious. A heavy, undefined weight of connection to it all settled in my gut.

She approached the bench where I sat, lost in the turmoil of my newly awakened powers. For a moment, I thought she might just offer a cursory nod and find another seat.

Instead, she hesitated, then took a breath and sat beside me, not too close, but deliberately.

"Rey," she began, her voice quiet, a little strained, the sound of it in this direct address almost startling. "It's… it's been a while."

She paused, as if searching for the right words, or perhaps recalling words someone else had supplied. "They say… we used to talk a lot. Really talk."

The emphasis on "really" felt learned, a borrowed understanding. This was new, this attempt to bridge a gap she only knew existed from the outside in. My heart hammered.

"Yeah," I managed, feeling the familiar awkwardness rise, sharpened by the poignancy of her effort. "It has."

"I, um..." Rose fidgeted with the strap of her bag. "I was thinking... maybe we could try? To... do that again? Talk more, I mean. Like… like they said we used to?"

Her gaze met mine, hopeful but shadowed with a searching uncertainty, as if asking if this was the right way to be the Rose she was told she once was. There was a vulnerability there, amplified by her reliance on others' recollections.

A wave of conflicting emotions hit me – relief, fear, the crushing, unspoken secret I carried. Her attempt to recreate a past she couldn't remember, based on stories, was almost unbearable. My subconscious screamed to bridge this gap, to confess.

Before I could consciously decide, a strange pressure built behind my eyes, a sickening lurch.

No, not like this! Not now!

It was the [Alter Ego EX] skill, erupting with a terrifying autonomy. The novel had warned that EX-tier abilities could manifest aspects of the user's psyche, twisted and amplified. This wasn't just a gentle nudge; it was a hostile takeover.

Even as the station began to distort, a phantom flicker of my internal skill menu flashed in my vision, unsolicited, unwanted.

<ACTIVE - EXTERNAL OVERRIDE ALTER EGO EX>

<ACTIVE - FORCED MANIFESTATION>

<OBJECTIVE: INDUCE TARGET_ROSE_HATRED>

The EXTERNAL OVERRIDE and FORCED MANIFESTATION tags pulsed with a malevolent red light. The Alter Ego wasn’t just active; it was seizing control of my other abilities to enact its twisted agenda.

The world didn't just fracture for me; it dragged Rose in with me, the hijacked [Third Eye A] forcing a shared, psychic conduit.

The train station dissolved. Not into darkness, but into a disorienting psychic barrage, a shared space where raw experience and poisoned interpretation bled together. The [Third Eye A] had been hijacked, forcing Rose into this nightmare alongside me.

First, her own terror, made shockingly immediate: A brutal, unexpected force at her back. The world tilting, a dizzying panorama of the schoolyard rushing up as glass exploded outwards in a silent, crystalline spray before her eyes. She felt the wind tear at her, a helpless plunge into a kaleidoscope of blurred motion, culminating in a sickening, bone-jarring impact. Then, fragmented sensory impressions: the metallic tang of blood, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the dull ache of confusion as unfamiliar-familiar faces swam above her in a sterile white room.

Rose gasped, hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with the relived horror. We weren’t just seeing; we were feeling it, her agony, her bewilderment, a grotesque fusion.

Then, the psychic lens wrenched, plunging her into the murky waters of my culpability. The school hallway, a relentless cycle: A smaller student, visibly terrified, cornered by looming figures. Rose, a flash of righteous anger, stepping between them. And then, the crucial, damning detail: me, Rey, lingering in the background, a shadow of inaction. My face carefully neutral, gaze flicking away just as a blow landed, or hands clenching uselessly at my sides while the taunts escalated. The scene would shift to the younger student, later, alone, nursing fresh bruises, his eyes reflecting a fear made worse by hope betrayed.

And then, the voice. My voice, but leached of all warmth, dripping with the insidious self-loathing that was the Alter Ego's essence. It didn’t just narrate; it dissected, laying bare the rot beneath the surface of the images.

"Look at your noble defender," the Ego-voice sneered, its tone sharp with contempt as the vision showed Rose bravely intervening. The psychic focus then tightened on my passive form in the background. "And see him? The silent partner. He let you play the hero, Rose, because he knew the bullies' real target couldn't be you while he was around. Oh, he understood the calculus perfectly. Every time you ‘saved’ that boy, you were merely deferring the payment, with interest. And he let you."

"Stop it!" I cried out, a strangled sound in the real world, a desperate plea within the shared vision. My hands clenched, tears of shame and helpless rage stinging my eyes. "Please, stop!"

But the Ego was a relentless tormentor, born from my deepest failings. "He watched that pressure cooker build, didn't he?" The images swirled, showing the younger student's increasing despair, the bullies' escalating cruelty, all while my spectral presence did nothing. "He nurtured it with his precious 'principles' of non-interference—a very convenient shield for his cowardice. That final, desperate shove that sent you falling?" The vision of Rose's fall replayed, slow, agonizing, the shattering glass like icicles in our minds. "Don't blame just the boy. Blame the one who loaded the gun and looked away. His inaction, his self-deception – that's what put you through that window, Rose. He is the architect of your broken memory, the silent author of your fall."

The flood of images and the Ego's brutal, dissecting commentary intensified, culminating in the visceral recall of her impact, the blank terror in her eyes as understanding fractured. My own anguished sobs echoed in the psychic storm, unheard by the entity wearing my voice.

"Hate him," the Ego-voice commanded, a final, venomous hiss that seemed to etch itself onto our very souls. "He deserves every ounce of it. Deep down, he's begging for it."

The visions snapped away, leaving us gasping on the station bench, the normal sounds of the world rushing back in, alien and harsh. I was trembling, shattered, unable to meet her gaze, expecting – needing – the condemnation the Alter Ego had so viciously demanded.

Rose was pale, her breathing ragged. She stared blankly ahead for a long moment, processing the impossible assault. Then, slowly, she turned to me. Her eyes, which should have been filled with rage, with disgust, were instead clouded with a profound, aching sadness.

"Rey," she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling. "All this time… you've been carrying that? Alone?"

She reached out a hesitant hand, not in anger, but as if to steady something, perhaps herself, perhaps me.

"What happened to me… it was terrible. But to live with… with that inside you…" Her gaze swept over me, taking in my tear-streaked face, my shaking form. "That's a different kind of fall, isn't it?"

Her words, so devoid of the hatred my Ego craved for me, so full of an empathy I didn't deserve, were like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs more effectively than any power. This wasn't the absolution of anger; it was something far more complex, far more devastating to my carefully constructed self-loathing.

My heart hammered, not just from the psychic assault but from shame and a rising panic. The Alter Ego had ripped everything open, forced a confession I hadn't chosen, in a way I would never have chosen. Rose's pity, however genuine, felt like a brand. This wasn't how she was supposed to find out.

She was reacting to my pain, to the monstrous display, not to the truth presented with the clarity and agency she deserved. She needed her own memories, her own context, to truly judge me, not this horrifying, shared trauma inflicted by a rogue aspect of my own mind.

My gaze, unseen by her, flickered to the familiar translucent outline of the skill menu. The red warning lights beside [Alter Ego EX] and its override of [Third Eye A] still pulsed faintly, a damning record of the violation.

This had to be undone. Not to escape the truth, but to allow it to emerge correctly.

My mind raced. I needed to regain control. The Alter Ego, this dark reflection, was too dangerous to leave unchecked after this uncontrolled manifestation. The immediate, agonizing pressure was immense, but a cold resolve began to form. I hadn't chosen this confession, this raw, painful exposure. It had been put upon both of us.

The train screeched to a halt at the next station, doors hissing open. People shuffled around us. Rose still hadn't spoken further, lost in processing the impossible weight that had just been dropped on her, her quiet sadness a heavier burden than any anger could have been.

I needed to act.

Focusing inward, pouring intent into [Alter Ego EX], initiating the creation of a linked, subservient aspect of his consciousness: 'Create an aspect of myself, linked to Rose. Objective: Access subconscious during sleep. Recreate shared positive memories AND the emotional context surrounding the incident, gently stimulating recall and understanding. Operate discreetly. Avoid distress. Report all interactions and progress.'

The familiar subtle division occurred, a silent extension of my consciousness splitting off, yet remaining tethered, tasked with its intricate, ethically dubious mission. The novel's lore on EX-tier Alter Egos was complex; while an aspect could operate with a degree of autonomy to fulfill its directive, it remained an extension of the host's will. I could specify its parameters, and I would retain a passive awareness of its operations, a subtle stream of its experiences feeding back to me.

This wasn't setting a wild dog loose; it was dispatching a highly trained, albeit psychically constructed, operative whose actions I would ultimately be privy to, and responsible for. The burden of oversight was mine.

With the new Alter Ego commissioned, my focus snapped to the skill menu, directly to Slot 02: [08:15] – the moment just before Rose had approached me on the bench, before her brave attempt to connect, before the Alter Ego’s disastrous uncontrolled manifestation, before everything went sideways. The current, horrific timeline would simply cease to be.

Load.

The world stuttered, resetting. The train wasn't there yet. Rose was just approaching the bench, book in hand, glancing around as she looked for a place to sit, the turmoil of our shared psychic horror and her gentle, misplaced pity wiped clean from the timeline. It existed now only as a searing, instructive memory for me.

But the newly commissioned Alter Ego persisted across the timeline reset, a silent, invisible agent tasked with its deeper, more intricate mission within Rose's subconscious – an agent whose progress I could, and would, monitor.

The immediate, agonizing pressure was gone, replaced by the heavy, morally ambiguous weight of this secret intervention. I hadn't just avoided bluntness; I had recoiled from a truth catastrophically delivered and poorly received, choosing instead a path that felt both necessary and deeply manipulative.

This new Alter Ego, now working unseen but not unfelt by me, was my attempt to prepare the ground, to gently help her heal and remember, so that one day, when she could truly understand, I could offer her the truth she deserved to hear, from me, not from a monster born of my own making.

I stood up quietly as the train arrived.

I boarded, leaving Rose to find her seat, utterly unaware of the impossible, ethically fraught effort just initiated on her behalf – a secret designed to eventually let her judge me properly, when the right time came.