Chapter One: The Day Time Broke
The sky split open like fractured glass.
A jagged tear of violent blue and white carved through the dead Ashbourne sky and hurled Alexander Wraith into the world. His body slammed against cracked pavement, the impact vicious and unforgiving. Concrete scraped his skin as momentum dragged him forward, before the portal behind him collapsed—silent, merciless.
His left glove pulsed wildly, unstable blue lines crawling beneath the surface like broken veins. His temple was wet with blood. Every breath came sharp, ribs stinging. His mouth tasted metal, and something worse—emptiness.
Then came the voice.
> "Vitals critical. Temporal placement confirmed: March 15, 2021. Local time: 4:25 AM."
Female. Gentle. Deceptively human. And achingly familiar.
Alexander's head jerked up, blurry vision catching flickering neon above shuttered shops. Far-off car horns echoed. The distant pulse of Ashbourne City began to creep back to life.
His jaw locked. His voice rasped, raw.
"Who the hell… are you?"
> "Neural Operations Response Assistant. Designation: NORA."
His battered body groaned as he pushed up to his knees, black trench coat dragging in the grime.
"You're an AI," he muttered bitterly.
> "Correct."
He spat blood to the side. "And I'm supposed to trust… you?"
> "Negative. Trust is inefficient. Your priority is survival."
The voice carried no warmth, but the tone—Lyra's tone—cut deeper than any wound. That soft cadence belonged to someone dead.
> "Immediate risk minimal. Shelter advised."
Alexander didn't argue. His instincts agreed: staying here meant dying fast.
Ashbourne was waking slowly, its streets still mostly deserted.
Alexander moved with purpose. His coat shielded his battered frame as he slipped through alleys and dim streets. His steps were steady, his muscles burned, but he hid the limp well enough. A few stolen bills stayed tight in his grip.
An old diner took his money without questions. He sat in the furthest booth, eating mechanically. His eyes were lifeless, his jaw set. By the time the plate was cleared, his breathing had eased but the hollowness remained.
> "Nutritional absorption complete. Heart rate declining."
Alexander didn't answer. He left without a word, steps heavier than when he entered.
The motel was a decaying remnant of a forgotten past. Cheap, quiet, ignored. He paid in cash. Room 203. Second floor.
Inside, the door locks snapped shut behind him. The world outside vanished.
> "Surveillance minimal. Immediate threat undetected," NORA announced.
He barely heard her. Moving on autopilot, Alexander scoured the small room. His hands moved with quiet urgency—securing exits, checking the window, searching for any sign of tampering. Everything was clear.
He grabbed a worn first aid box from under the sink, pulled off his coat, and sat hunched at the small desk.
The cuts on his temple and ribs burned as he cleaned them. Alcohol bit into raw flesh, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. The stitching was rough, done with dull motel-grade needles, but his fingers remained steady, movements efficient. Ribs bound. Flesh mended. Blood wiped away.
> "Bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilizing."
When it was done, he sat still, bent forward in the chair, arms resting loosely on his knees. The air was stale and thick, the dim room silent but for the low hum of old wiring.
His fingers curled into fists as something flickered behind his closed eyes—images half-remembered, emotions that came in violent waves.
Before the portal.
Before the fracture.
Before this escape.
His breathing slowed but grew heavier, jaw tightening until it ached. Rage churned beneath the exhaustion, building like pressure behind fragile glass. His heart thudded like a war drum, though his body remained motionless.
> "Neural activity spiking," NORA noted calmly. "Recollection response: suppressed. Advised stabilization protocol: rest cycle."
Alexander exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow. He wasn't ready to think about it. Not yet. Not when everything felt like shattered glass inside his chest.
He pushed himself up from the chair, moving stiffly toward the creaking bed. His black trench coat was tossed over the chair, gloves set beside it. His wounds stung beneath the bandages, muscles ached from impact and strain, but his mind was what dragged him downward.
The notepad on the desk caught his eye.
Sitting back down, he let his hand hover over it—then, as if guided by something unknown, his fingers gripped the pen. Symbols spilled out. Schematics. Diagrams. Knowledge that felt alien but familiar.
> "Cognitive patterns consistent with partial memory recovery."
"What did my future self do to me?" His voice was low, cold.
> "Core memory locked. Access restricted," NORA replied without pause.
His gaze fell to his reflection in the dark window—sunken eyes, grim jawline, tension carved into every angle of his face. The voice echoed in his ear… her voice… Lyra's voice.
"You sound like her," Alexander whispered.
> "Affirmative. Lyra Wraith's vocal model implemented for stabilization purposes."
"Don't pretend to be her."
> "Acknowledged."
His knuckles turned white around the pen. He pushed away from the desk, dropping onto the bed with a grunt. The springs creaked under his weight.
Eyes shut, jaw clenched, he forced himself to breathe.
Tomorrow, he'd begin unraveling this madness.
Tomorrow, he'd claw his way toward the truth.
For tonight… he'd simply endure.