Echoes of the Last Timeline
(Alternate Universe | Dark Timeline AU)
Aren Vale had the strange thought that the night felt edited.
The street he walked down was familiar—too familiar. Same cracked sidewalk. Same flickering streetlamp. Same quiet café at the corner that should have been closed by now. Yet something about it felt unfinished, like a sentence missing its last word.
He slowed his steps.
The air was cold, unnaturally still. Even the hum of the city seemed muted, as if someone had turned the volume down on reality itself.
That was when a voice spoke behind him.
"Aren Vale."
Not shouted. Not whispered. Simply stated—like a correction being made.
Aren turned.
A man stood several meters away beneath the streetlamp. He looked ordinary in the way strangers often do: dark coat, neutral expression, no visible weapon. But the rain told a different story. It passed through him strangely, as if unsure whether he was supposed to be there.
Aren's instincts screamed.
"Do I know you?" Aren asked, his voice tight.
The man's eyes moved over him, slow and precise, like he was verifying data.
"No," the man replied. "But I know every version of you that should not exist."
Aren felt a chill crawl up his spine. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It doesn't need to."
The streetlamp flickered.
"For the record," the man continued calmly, "this was meant to be a clean correction."
The pain came without warning.
Aren felt a sharp pressure in his chest, followed by warmth spreading rapidly beneath his shirt. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the pavement, rain splashing against his hands as his breath left him in a broken gasp.
Blood pooled beneath him.
The man stepped closer, looking down with detached focus.
"Anomaly confirmed," he said. "Correction—"
The world reset.
Aren sucked in a violent breath and stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance. His heart slammed against his ribs. His chest was whole. His clothes were dry. The rain was loud again—too loud.
He was standing in the exact same place.
The man was still there.
But now, something had changed.
The calm certainty in the man's eyes fractured.
"That…" the man said quietly. "Should not have occurred."
Aren didn't ask questions.
He ran.
His footsteps echoed too loudly as he turned the corner—only to freeze.
The café was gone.
Not closed. Not abandoned. Gone. A blank concrete wall stood where it should have been, smooth and unmarked, as if it had never existed at all.
Aren's phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown contact.
YOU WERE ERASED.
TIME FAILED.
RUN.
Aren turned slowly.
The man—Zane—stood at the far end of the street, watching him with renewed focus.
"You're destabilizing this timeline," Zane said. "And I don't understand why."
Aren backed away, his pulse roaring in his ears. "What are you?"
Zane raised his hand, and the air around him warped slightly, like glass under pressure.
"I am the one who makes sure this world survives," he said.
"And you are the mistake it keeps refusing to correct."
The streetlights went out one by one.
And the timeline began to fracture.