Chapter 2: Day 1 α part 2

The jolt of the train leaving the station was a familiar sound, a grounding sensation. It was a stark contrast to the internal landscape still reeling from the timeline jump and the choice I just made.

Rose was now somewhere else on this train, unaware of everything that happened in the reset timeline. My stomach twisted slightly. Was it for the better? Or just another layer of complexity I'd woven around us?

The Alter Ego was active, a silent, separate thread of my consciousness tasked with a delicate, ethically dubious mission. I could only hope it wouldn't make things worse.

A book suddenly lowered beside me, revealing a familiar face. "Lost in thought, Rey? Contemplating your existential angst, or just wondering if you left the stove on?"

Ash settled into the seat next to mine, his movements economical, his expression holding its usual blend of mild amusement and keen observation.

Even in the standard school uniform – blazer, shirt, tie, trousers – Ash managed to look meticulously put-together. His tie was perfectly knotted, his shirt crisp, his blazer immaculate, fitting him with a tailored precision that hinted at bespoke adjustments.

Combined with his sharp features, neatly combed dark hair, and piercing grey eyes, he projected an air of quiet intellect and seriousness. His leather satchel looked expensive and well-organized.

Ash was, technically, a peer – same age, same school – but carried himself with an air of someone much older. He was already a published author, a prodigy whose sharp, insightful novels had earned him a place working alongside my parents at their publishing house.

His intelligence wasn't just academic; it was perceptive, cutting through pleasantries to the heart of things. He often seemed to see more than others, a trait I was truly jealous of, especially now.

"Morning, Ash," I managed, trying to shake off my lingering thoughts. "Just the usual Monday morning fog."

Ash settled back, his eyes doing a quiet, methodical sweep of his surroundings. "It's interesting, isn't it?" he murmured, more to himself than me initially. "The stories playing out, if you look past the surface."

He gave a subtle nod towards a man a few rows ahead. "Take him, with the newspaper. Notice how tight his grip is? He's not really reading, though. His focus keeps flicking over the top edge, towards the woman on her phone. He reacted when she laughed – folded the paper sharply. Looks like classic jealousy, trying hard to seem unaffected."

His gaze shifted to a woman closer by, staring out the window. "Or her," he continued quietly. "See the faint, pale mark on her ring finger? The ring's gone, but the skin remembers. She keeps touching the spot unconsciously. And her eyes... they're distant, unfocused. I caught the light on what looked like dried tear tracks earlier. That suggests a recent split, a connection severed but still felt."

He glanced towards the front of the car. "And the well-dressed man who was on his phone. Immaculate, except if you looked closely, there was a tiny smudge of bright lipstick on his collar. Out of place. The way he angled himself away to whisper, 'Call you later, promise,' then hung up abruptly when the conductor passed... That's the careful maneuvering of someone hiding something, likely infidelity."

Ash turned his gaze back to me, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. "Everyone's wrapped up in their own narrative, mostly unaware of the others playing out right beside them. All these threads, tangled together on the same train. To write good stories, there is no better than observing people’s day-to-day struggles and secrets."

He met my eyes directly. "And then there's you," his smile held a touch of empathy now, "with that faraway look. Tells me there is a significant story unfolding in your head too. Am I right?"

I forced a chuckle, hoping it didn't sound as hollow as it felt. "Just thinking about… some story I just read." An obvious deflection, but the best I could manage. "Speaking of which, how's the new manuscript coming along?"

Ash's expression brightened, the observant gaze replaced by the enthusiastic sparkle in his eyes. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a sheaf of papers bound by a simple clip.

"Hitting some interesting conceptual hurdles, actually." He tapped the cover page, which bore the working title: The Chrono-Regret. "It's about a protagonist who can rewind time. Essentially, a personal 'undo' button for life."

My breath caught. The air felt thin. Rewind time. The Chrono-Regret. The universe had a truly twisted sense of humour.

"Sounds… powerful," I said carefully, my voice sounding distant even to myself. "Almost invincible, maybe? If you can just erase any mistake, where's the conflict?"

"Exactly the question I'm wrestling with," Ash agreed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes alight with intellectual curiosity. "How do you create meaningful stakes for a character who can effectively live the same moment over and over until they get it 'right'? It risks making struggle meaningless."

"Maybe it does," I ventured, the phantom weight of the erased conversation with Rose pressing down on me. The rewind hadn't erased the shame, the self-loathing, or the desperate plea for condemnation. It had only wiped the slate clean for her.

"Maybe some problems can't be fixed just by repeating them. Maybe the feeling, the consequence for the user, remains."

"Perhaps," Ash mused, tapping a finger against his chin. "But I think the limitations aren't necessarily external, but inherent to the power and the person wielding it. I've been exploring a few vulnerabilities."

He ticked them off on his fingers. "One: Secrecy is paramount. If anyone discovers the ability, they could exploit it, manipulate the user, or set traps across timelines." My skin prickled. The thought of my parents, or Iris, or anyone knowing…

"Two: The 'instant kill' vulnerability. If an enemy could somehow neutralize the user the very instant they trigger the rewind – say, a perfectly timed attack that kills them before the temporal shift completes – they could theoretically lock the user in an inescapable loop of death." My stomach clenched at the gruesome image. It felt terrifyingly plausible.

"Three: Psychological fragility. Constant rewinding, bearing the weight of multiple realities, could lead to madness, dissociation, or a complete loss of purpose. The power becomes useless if the user loses their reason." The fractured 'I' from the kitchen flashed in my mind, the chorus of screaming awareness. I wasn't immune.

"And four," Ash concluded, tapping the manuscript, "the memory paradox. The true strength isn't just rewinding; it's retaining knowledge across resets. So, any attack targeting the user's memory – amnesia, manipulation, false memories – would cripple the core function of the ability, rendering them powerless even if they could still rewind time itself." Like Rose. Like what happened to Rose.

His analysis was chillingly astute, a theoretical dissection of dangers that felt intensely personal and real. It was like he'd peered directly into my mind, plucked out the [Save & Load S] skill, and stress-tested it for weaknesses.

"Hypothetically," I began, choosing my words with excruciating care, "if someone did have powers like that… or, you know, any kind of overwhelming power… what advice would you give them?"

Ash leaned back, considering my "strange question" with genuine intellectual interest. "It ties into something else I've been thinking about. Time travel aside, any great power usually invokes the classic line: 'With great power comes great responsibility,' right? But I think that's incomplete. It implies responsibility is a burden imposed by power."

He paused, gathering his thoughts, his gaze sharpening. "I see it differently. Power doesn't just grant ability; it grants perspective. It allows you to perceive dangers and responsibilities that were always there, but previously invisible."

He gestured out the train window towards the passing cityscape. "Think about it. A caveman's primary concerns are immediate: find food, avoid predators, seek shelter. His 'power' – his physical strength, his basic tools – is limited, so his scope of responsibility is too."

"Now, fast forward to us. We have the power to see an asteroid hurtling towards Earth, an existential threat the caveman couldn't even comprehend, let alone worry about. The asteroid was always a potential threat, floating out there in the cosmic dice roll, but only with greater power – telescopes, computation, potentially space travel – do we gain the awareness of that responsibility."

He met my gaze, his expression serious, the earlier amusement gone. "So, my advice, hypothetically? Don't focus solely on the power itself; it’s just a tool, however grand. Focus on the expanded awareness it brings."

"Problems don't vanish; they scale alongside the power. The challenges evolve. Maybe the mantra should be: 'With more power comes the realization of more responsibilities.' The weight isn't just in doing good, but in recognizing all the things you now could potentially address, and grappling with the choices that awareness forces upon you."

"Ignorance might be bliss, but awareness demands action, or deliberate, conscious inaction – which carries its own weight."

His words struck a deep chord, resonating with the swirling guilt and confusion within me. Iris's departure, Rose's accident… they weren't just personal failures anymore. With these powers, with this new awareness Ash spoke of, they felt like anchors dragging me towards responsibilities I wasn’t sure I could handle.

The train slowed, brakes hissing as it approached our station. The spell of intense conversation broke.

As we gathered our things, Ash clapped me lightly on the shoulder. "Heavy stuff for a Monday morning, huh? See you in class."

He offered a wry grin, perhaps sensing the depth of my reaction. "And I hope that story you read has a happy ending." With that, he blended into the throng of students heading for the doors.

I stepped onto the platform, Ash's words echoing in my mind: Awareness demands action. But what action? The rewind with Rose had felt like cowardice disguised as strategy. The Alter Ego felt like manipulation, however well-intentioned. And Iris… the thought of her leaving still felt like an open wound I had no idea how to close.

The school lobby buzzed with the usual Monday morning chaos – slamming lockers, overlapping chatter, the rush of students heading to first period.

I navigated through the throng, still mentally wrestling with Ash's insights, when a blur of motion came from my right. Instinct, honed by years of sparring, took over before conscious thought.

A quick jab, aimed playfully but precisely at my shoulder. I pivoted slightly, deflecting the punch outward with my left forearm using a simple Pak Sau block, simultaneously stepping forward and inside the attack’s range.

My right hand snapped up in a low, palm-heel strike aimed towards the attacker's chest – halted millimeters away as recognition clicked.

Leo grinned, retracting his fist smoothly. He had the kind of easy, athletic build that came from years of dedicated martial arts, evident even beneath his uniform.

Tousled sandy-blond hair framed a face dominated by bright, competitive blue eyes – a clear inheritance from his famous parents. He wore the uniform with a characteristic casualness, blazer open and tie loosened, projecting an aura of restless energy and natural charisma.

"Not bad, Rey. Reflexes still sharp after the weekend?"

I dropped my stance, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Had to be, with you around." My gaze flickered to his lead hand during the jab. "New trick? That rapid-fire setup felt different. Incorporating some Wing Chun chain punching?"

Wing Chun emphasized efficiency, simultaneous block-and-strike techniques, and maintaining a strong center line – elements subtly present in his opening move.

Leo's eyebrows shot up in pleased surprise. "Sharp eye! Dad's been showing me a few things. Said it might help with my close-range speed. Didn't think you'd pick up on it that fast."

A flicker of genuine admiration crossed his face. "Guess that's why the score is what it is."

Leo and his twin sister, Arya, were practically fixtures in my life. Children of a famous action star mother and a renowned martial arts choreographer father – stunt expert extraordinaire – they practically radiated charisma. Both inherited their parents' striking good looks and athletic grace.

Our parents had become friends through movie projects years ago, leading to us kids growing up together.

Leo, with his easy confidence and competitive spirit, had quickly become my best friend and fiercest rival in the dojo run by his father. Our ongoing sparring record was a testament to that: 389 wins for me, 388 for him, and 254 draws. That single win separating us was a constant source of friendly antagonism.

"Honestly, you two," a voice cut in, laced with weary amusement. Arya leaned against a nearby pillar, effortlessly chic even in her school uniform.

Like Leo, she was strikingly attractive, possessing the same sharp features and vibrant blue eyes, but hers held a cooler, more watchful quality. Her long, sandy-blond hair, identical in shade to her brother's but worn sleek and smooth rather than tousled, framed her fair skin elegantly.

Where Leo wore his uniform loosely, Arya’s was impeccable, hinting at a deliberate, composed nature. She carried herself with a quiet poise that hinted at the same underlying athleticism as her brother but manifested as controlled grace rather than overt energy.

Despite her complaining tone, a small smile played on her lips. It was a familiar routine.

Arya was… complicated. She possessed the same stunning looks as Leo – sharp features, expressive eyes, an aura of cool confidence – but where Leo was open and straightforward, Arya often felt like a puzzle.

One moment she could be incredibly sweet, offering surprisingly insightful advice, the next she'd be distant, her words carrying a subtle chill.

I remembered a time, years ago, when she was all bright smiles and easy laughter, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. Now, that innocence was overlaid with something guarded, almost melancholic at times.

We were still close, undeniably dear friends, but a subtle distance had grown. I suspected it had something to do with Rose, with the accident and its aftermath, but I wasn't sure. Maybe it was something else entirely.

Arya pushed off the pillar, her voice carrying easily over the lobby noise. "You know, watching you two... it's inspiring. Inspires me to ask, seriously, can I be put down as the beneficiary on both your life insurance policies?"

"Just as a formality. For when one of you finally misjudges a spinning kick and connects with a structural support beam."

Leo and I paused simultaneously, turning identical raised-eyebrow looks towards her.

"Oh, so you're just waiting to cash in, are you?" Leo challenged, walking towards her, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. "Sitting there like a patient vulture, just waiting for the inevitable accident?"

"I knew it," I added, playing along. "All that seemingly supportive sisterly/friendly concern? Just biding your time until one of us accidentally performs unscheduled aerial acrobatics into a locker."

Arya grinned innocently, tilting her head slightly. "Wouldn't dream of it. But hey, if the worst should happen during one of these... intense fellowship sessions... wouldn't you want your favourite, most supportive person to be taken care of?"

"Most supportive person," Leo mused, circling her slowly, "who would obviously never, ever subtly encourage the intensity? Like, maybe 'accidentally' mentioning to Rey that my footwork looked sloppy last week?"

"Or whispering to Leo," I joined in, nodding thoughtfully, "that I mentioned his horse stance looked 'a bit Shetland pony-ish'? Just enough to add that extra little spice to our usual friendly disagreement over technique."

Arya gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "Me? Manipulate my dearest friend and brother into a potentially fatal misunderstanding for financial gain? Never! My plan would be far more meticulous."

"Oh, do tell," Leo prompted, leaning against the pillar beside her. "We need to know what defensive strategies to employ."

"Okay, so..." Arya ticked points off on her fingers, her eyes gleaming with mock-serious calculation. "Phase one: subtle psychological warfare. I'd 'accidentally' leave open tabs on both your laptops to articles fiercely debating the historical superiority of Leo's blended style versus Rey's specific discipline. Plant those insidious seeds of doubt about who's really better."

"Hmm, classic destabilization," I acknowledged with a nod. "Undermine the mutual respect. I like it. Continue."

"Phase two: environmental tampering," Arya went on, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Not obvious stuff. Maybe... loosening one specific screw on a floor mat in the sparring area. Just one. Enough to cause a tiny, unpredictable wobble during a crucial exchange."

"Or perhaps introducing a new brand of floor polish – advertised as 'extra grip' but actually having a slightly lower coefficient of friction under certain angles. Plausible deniability is key."

Leo shuddered theatrically. "Devious. So you engineer an 'accident' during a 'friendly' exhibition match you probably convinced us to have for charity?"

"Naturally!" Arya declared. "Big crowd, lots of tearful witnesses to the 'tragic accident.' I'd be ringside, looking utterly distraught, maybe clutching a framed photo of the three of us from that disastrous camping trip where Leo set his marshmallows on fire. Performance is everything."

"I'd ensure you both signed updated insurance forms literally minutes before the match – 'just tidying up some boring paperwork,' I'd say with my most innocent smile."

"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed despite myself. "You've really thought this through. The meticulousness is... honestly, kind of terrifyingly impressive."

"So the final blow happens," Leo summarized, "we're both dramatically incapacitated, Arya feigns soul-crushing heartbreak, collects the double payout, buys a private island, and lives happily ever after?"

Arya smiled smugly, giving a small, dismissive flick of her wrist. "Pretty much. Maybe I'd name my yacht 'The Happy Accident'."

A beat of silence, then all three of us burst into laughter, the easy camaraderie momentarily pushing aside the morning's heavier thoughts. This – this ridiculous, over-the-top banter – was our normal.

As the laughter subsided, the first bell shrieked through the lobby.

"Saved by the bell," Leo grinned, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Rematch discussion later?"

"Count on it," I replied, heading towards the stairs with them.

I slid into my usual seat near the window just as the first bell rang, the classroom settling into a low murmur. My gaze involuntarily drifted to the desk beside mine.

Rose was already there, organizing her books, her chestnut hair catching the morning light.

Seeing her sent a fresh pang through me. The memory of the reset timeline –my raw confession, her quiet pity – felt incredibly vivid, separated from this moment by only an act of erasure.

The knowledge that the Alter Ego was, even now, subtly working within her subconscious felt like a heavy, secret weight. Awareness demands action, Ash had said. Was this the right action? Or just a more complicated form of avoidance?

Rose looked up, catching my eye. For a split second, I saw a flicker of something – frustration? Relief? – before her usual reserved expression settled back into place.

She offered a small, hesitant nod. "Morning, Rey," she said, her voice quiet.

"Morning, Rose," I replied, trying to sound casual, normal. Inside, my nerves felt frayed.

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of her notebook cover. She glanced towards the front as the teacher walked in, then seemed to reconsider saying anything more substantial.

Instead, she let out a soft sigh, more weary than frustrated. "Mondays..." she murmured, almost to herself, her gaze distant for a second. "Just feels like one of those days where everything's slightly out of sync, you know?"

She offered a brief, fleeting glance in my direction, as if sharing a common, minor complaint about the start of the week, before focusing on arranging her pens.

My heart gave a guilty thump. Her words were vague, easily dismissed as typical Monday morning malaise. But knowing what I knew from the erased timeline – that she had intended to speak to me, potentially about something significant – made her simple comment feel loaded.

Her feeling of being "out of sync" felt like an unintentional echo of the connection I had severed by rewinding time. Had I inadvertently caused this vague sense of unease for her by disrupting the timeline where she'd planned to approach me? The thought twisted the guilt deeper.

"Yeah," I managed, the single word feeling heavy and inadequate. "They can definitely feel like that."

She released a quiet breath, barely audible, and immediately straightened in her seat, her attention visibly captured by the teacher beginning the lesson.

The air between us felt thick with unspoken words, missed connections, and secrets only I carried. The weight of Ash's words about responsibility pressed down harder than ever. Fixing things, it seemed, was going to be far more complicated than just hitting 'load'.

Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Evans, reached the front. Tweed jacket, slightly askew glasses, the usual air of someone who genuinely loved unpacking stories. He taught Literature, and today, it was back to Arthur Miller.

"Alright, people, let's settle," Mr. Evans called out, clapping lightly. "We're delving deeper into 'The Crucible,' Act III. John Proctor's moment of crisis."

He began pacing, launching into the dynamics of the courtroom scene, the mounting hysteria, the pressure on Proctor. My mind, however, kept tuning out. Various things kept happening in the span of a single morning. It was a lot to juggle before first period.

"...so Proctor knows the truth," Mr. Evans was saying, gesturing emphatically. "He knows Abigail is lying, driving this whole nightmare. But revealing it means destroying his own reputation, confessing his affair. A devastating choice."

He paused, scanning the room, and his eyes landed on me. My posture must have screamed 'checked out.'

"Mr. Amaranth?" he prompted, noticing my distant expression. "Care to share your thoughts on Proctor's difficult position?"

"He holds the key, potentially, but using it comes at immense personal cost. What drives that hesitation, do you think? Is it just fear for his name?"

Caught off guard, I straightened up. The class turned slightly. "Uh," I stalled, trying to pull my thoughts back to the play. "Well, yeah, his reputation is definitely part of it. In that town, your name is everything."

"Indeed," Mr. Evans nodded. "But is it only about reputation? Or is there something else at play when faced with doing the 'right' thing versus the 'safe' thing, especially when the 'right' thing might unleash chaos or hurt people you care about, even if indirectly?"

His question nudged something within me. It wasn't a lofty philosophical concept, just the messy reality of consequences.

It resonated with my own paralysis regarding Rose – telling her the full truth felt 'right' in a moral sense, but the erased timeline showed it could cause immediate pain and confusion. Using the Alter Ego felt ethically grey, 'safer' for now perhaps, but manipulative.

"I think... maybe it's not just about his name," I said, thinking aloud, the words connecting to my own situation. "It's about control, maybe? Or the lack of it. Telling the truth, doing the big, dramatic 'right thing'... it blows everything up. You lose control of the narrative, of how people see you, maybe even make things worse for others in the short term."

I glanced briefly at Rose, who was listening with mild curiosity, the way one listens to any classmate answering a question.

"So maybe," I continued, focusing back on Mr. Evans, "the hesitation isn't just selfishness or cowardice. Maybe it's also the fear that your 'right' action could backfire horribly."

"That trying to fix one thing breaks something else. Sometimes... knowing what's right is easy. Figuring out how to act on it without causing more damage... that's the hard part. Maybe Proctor's frozen because he can't see a 'clean' way forward, where doing good doesn't also cause harm."

There was a moment of quiet as my words settled. It wasn't a profound revelation, just an acknowledgment of complexity, of the potential tangle of good intentions and bad outcomes.

Mr. Evans adjusted his glasses, looking thoughtful. "The fear of unintended consequences," he mused. "Yes, that adds another layer to Proctor's struggle, doesn't it? The burden isn't just the truth itself, but the potential fallout of revealing it. An interesting point, Mr. Amaranth. Thank you."

He turned back to the class, moving the discussion along. But his question, and my attempt to answer it, lingered.

It didn't solve anything, but it framed the problem differently. It wasn't just about having power or knowing the truth; it was about navigating the messy, unpredictable aftermath of using either.

And right now, I still had no clear map.