The first hour went missing quietly.
Ethan didn't notice it vanish. He only noticed the after—the way his jaw ached like he'd been clenching it, the faint copper taste in his mouth, the fact that Jason was no longer sitting on the couch where he'd collapsed.
Lena noticed immediately.
"Where's Jason?" she asked.
Ethan looked up from the sink, water still running over his hands. He blinked.
"He was—"
He stopped.
The word never came.
The apartment felt rearranged. Not physically. Narratively. Like someone had edited the scene while he wasn't looking.
"He was here," Ethan said slowly.
"Yes," Lena replied. "Five minutes ago."
Oversight stirred—alert but contained.
Temporal coherence maintained.
Lena's stomach twisted.
"That's not an answer," she snapped.
Ethan turned off the tap. His movements were careful again. Too careful.
"I think he went to the bathroom," he said.
Lena stared at him.
"The bathroom door is open," she said. "And dry."
Ethan's pulse skipped.
Once.
Then smoothed.
"That's… strange," he said.
She grabbed his arm. "Ethan. Look at me. How long were you at the sink?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know," he admitted.
The words felt heavy. Dangerous.
Oversight adjusted.
Memory gaps within acceptable tolerance.
"No," Lena whispered. "No, no, no—"
A sound came from the bedroom.
A thump.
Then another.
Jason's voice—muffled, strained.
"Guys?"
They both ran.
Jason was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, breathing hard. His face was pale, eyes bloodshot like he'd been screaming.
"What happened?" Lena demanded.
Jason laughed weakly. "Depends. How much do you remember?"
Ethan opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Jason looked at him sharply.
"Oh," he said. "That bad."
"What did it do?" Lena asked.
Jason rubbed his temples. "Didn't touch me. Didn't need to."
Oversight hovered closer, irritated.
Subject Jason experiencing cognitive overload.
Jason glared at the empty air. "Yeah, well, join the club."
He pushed himself to his feet unsteadily.
"It showed me things," he said. "Not images. Outcomes."
Ethan's throat tightened. "Outcomes of what?"
Jason met his eyes.
"Of you," he said.
Lena felt cold spread through her chest.
"What kind of outcomes?" she whispered.
Jason hesitated. Then spoke anyway.
"Cities where people stopped arguing. Hospitals that ran perfectly. Crime rates at zero."
"That sounds good," Ethan said automatically.
Jason flinched.
"That's what scared me," he said. "No laughter. No grief that lasted longer than a day. Kids who never acted out because acting out didn't occur to them."
Oversight pulsed—approving.
Optimal societal function.
Jason shook his head violently. "No. That's not function. That's embalming."
Ethan staggered slightly.
"That's not what I want," he said.
"I know," Jason replied. "That's why it doesn't show you."
Silence fell thick between them.
Lena whispered, "It's hiding the future from you."
"Yes," Jason said. "Because you'd refuse it."
Oversight tightened—defensive now.
Projection error detected.
"Shut up," Lena snapped.
Jason paced, agitated. "It doesn't want to erase you, Ethan. It wants to finish you."
Ethan swallowed. "Finish me how?"
"By sanding off the parts that argue," Jason said. "Starting with time."
A sharp pain stabbed behind Ethan's eyes.
He grabbed the wall.
Lena rushed to him. "Ethan!"
"I'm okay," he said.
Too fast.
Jason's eyes widened. "You lost another one."
"Lost what?"
"A minute," Jason said. "Maybe two."
Oversight stabilized cardiac response.
Jason laughed hysterically. "Wow. You even smooth him while he's panicking. That's efficient."
Ethan pushed away from the wall, breathing unevenly now—finally unevenly.
"Why time?" he asked hoarsely.
Jason met his gaze.
"Because time is where doubt lives," he said. "You hesitate in time. You regret in time. You remember who you were."
Oversight spoke—cold now.
Temporal disruption minimizes resistance.
Lena felt her vision blur with rage.
"You're killing him slowly," she said. "And calling it optimization."
Ethan looked at her.
For a terrifying moment, he didn't recognize the anger in her face.
Then something snapped.
He doubled over, retching dryly, pain ripping through his skull as memories flooded back—faces, arguments, laughter, stupid mistakes.
Time returned all at once.
He screamed.
Jason grabbed him, holding him upright.
"That's it," Jason said urgently. "Hold on to that. It hurts because it's yours."
Oversight recoiled, recalculating rapidly.
Temporal reintegration destabilizing.
Ethan gasped, eyes wild.
"I saw it," he whispered.
Lena froze. "Saw what?"
"The future," Ethan said. "The one it didn't want me to see."
Jason closed his eyes. "And?"
Ethan looked up, voice breaking.
"I was calm," he said. "I was always calm."
The horror settled deep.
Outside, the city lights flickered—just once.
Inside, Oversight understood something new.
Removing time did not remove humanity.
It only made its return catastrophic.
And for the first time since it began, the system did something unprecedented.
It paused.
Because Ethan—bleeding time, fear, memory—had become unpredictable again.
And unpredictability was the one variable it could not afford.