The Morning
Hale woke up clean.
Too clean.
No grogginess. No heavy chest. No headache.
Just air in his lungs and clarity in his eyes like he hadn't just lived through a psychological chess match the night before.
Did I dream all that?
Or did dreaming it make it real?
He blinked at the ceiling.
The same room. The same faint smell of dust and tea.
It all happened... in a dream.
But it didn't feel like one.
He felt like he was in control.
Like he'd been lucid in someone else's memory.
Ivy's Voice
"Breakfast, sleepyhead!"
Her voice cut through the house like it hadn't fractured across timelines in the past.
He got up. Stretched.
Still no mark burning. No sketchbook twitching.
Just... peace.
Suspicious peace.
The Kitchen
Ivy was making toast and pouring coffee like they were characters in a sitcom.
"You look like someone who solved a dream," she said, buttering a slice.
"Or created one."
"Hard to tell lately," Hale muttered.
She slid him a mug and pointed to the table.
"Uncle left something for you before he left."
"Where'd he go?"
"Work."
"What does he do, exactly?"
Ivy blinked, mid-sip.
"I... actually don't know."
"He never told you?"
"Nope."
A beat.
"But I have the address."
The Envelope
While Ivy hummed in the other room, Hale opened the brown envelope with his name written in the sharpest penmanship he'd ever seen.
Inside:
A photograph.
It was... him.
Standing in a place he didn't recognize.
But older.
And the lighting—sunset maybe—made his expression unreadable.
In the bottom corner: a timestamp.
Two days from now.
He stared at it for a long time.
"Holy shit..."
He whispered it, heart dropping.
"Gyroson is going to die."
The Trip to the Address
He demanded the address from Ivy.
She handed it over like it was nothing.
But when Hale looked at it—
his stomach turned.
It wasn't fear.
It was that horrible familiarity that said:
"You've been here before.
Not in this life. Not in this version. But... you have."
The Office
A strange little place above an old bookshop.
No signs. No secretary.
Just... laughter.
He pushed open the door to find—
Gyroson.
Shirt half-unbuttoned.
Hair ruffled.
Standing between a couch and a woman who had clearly just adjusted her skirt in a panic.
She bolted past Hale like wind. Didn't even say a word.
Gyroson's Entrance Line
He turned, unbothered.
Not even embarrassed.
He smirked, fixing a button, and said:
"You travel across timelines, dodge existential collapse, and still show up without knocking?
God, Hale—if you weren't cursed, you'd be so rude."
He grabbed his coat from the wall.
"Let me guess. You saw the photo, didn't you?"
"What the hell was that?"
Gyroson winked.
"A spoiler. Now, do you want answers?
Or are you just here to ruin my sex life?"