I used to dream of resets.
Even back in the orphanage, I'd close my eyes and pretend I could blink time backward. Back before Sister Elna forgot my name. Before the others realized I was different. Before I got blamed for breaking the projector or stealing bread or letting the bird out of its cage.
They'd scream. I'd flinch. They'd hit Reset.And I'd still remember everything.
That's how I found out I was the only one who couldn't.
Kids bounced back from scraped knees and shame like nothing happened. I stayed bruised, limping behind, holding memories no one else wanted to share.They called me a glitch.A fluke.A bug in the system.
When I turned sixteen, the reset age kicked in for everyone else. They got their free weekly anchor codes. I got a letter:
"You are not eligible for Reset Protocol."
No explanation. Just a stamp and a signature.
I didn't cry. What would be the point?
At seventeen, the orphanage kicked me out. They called it "graduation." What they meant was: you're old enough to suffer alone now.
I slept behind a laundromat for two nights before I found a job sorting recycled data cores at a warehouse. I didn't complain. Couldn't afford to. When you don't get a second chance, you learn to get things right the first time. Or at least close enough that no one notices.
The job paid barely enough to keep me in a concrete cube that called itself an apartment. One cracked window. No heating. The walls were thinner than my patience. But it was mine. And no one could Reset that away.
School? I scraped through it. Not with brilliance or charm, just with the relentless pressure of survival. I didn't party. Didn't experiment. Every mistake for me was forever.
And I made one.
I let myself believe in the internship.
Six months of unpaid work, half of which I spent fetching coffee, editing reports, covering for people who'd screw up then rewind and pretend they didn't. I cleaned up their messes and took the blame more than once. And still, I didn't quit.
Because maybe if I proved I was useful enough, they'd keep me.
Then the email came....
The email came with a single-line subject:
"We regret to inform you."
Sterben Mensch stared at the screen in silence. He didn't blink. He didn't curse. His shoulders didn't even move.
He closed the laptop.
The tiny apartment he rented smelled faintly of burnt coffee and secondhand vinyl. A reset pod across the street let out a jingle every few minutes as people stepped in, disappeared, and came back ten minutes earlier, slightly less embarrassed, slightly less bruised. A second chance for them.
He didn't have that.
Sterben grabbed his coat.
His internship, six months of unpaid overtime, grunt tasks, and fake smiles gone in a digital breath. He didn't ask why. He already knew: he wasn't like them. No resets. No rewinds. One shot at everything. The HR rep probably felt bad. Probably hit Reset right after firing him so she wouldn't have to remember it.
Sterben took the stairs two at a time.
He didn't mourn. He didn't have the luxury. He had rent to pay. And next month's rent. And the month after that. No safety net, no backup timeline, no digital anchor to yank him back to "before."
"It doesn't get better," he muttered to himself as he stepped into the cold. "But I'll do what I can."
He walked. One foot in front of the other. The city buzzed like a machine that didn't care who got caught in its gears. Holograms flickered above Reset Centers. Teens laughed as they hurled themselves off parkour rooftops, then hit Reset before they hit the ground.
Sterben pulled his hood tighter.
He was halfway across 7th Avenue when it happened.
A girl burst out of the alley like a thunderbolt. Her eyes wide. Her breath ragged. She sprinted without looking, without direction.
She slammed into Sterben full force.
They both staggered.
A hard, black briefcase tumbled from her hand and hit the pavement. It bounced once, clicked and popped slightly open.
Sterben caught her by the arm to steady her.
"Are you-"
"Run," she whispered.
Then she was gone, disappearing into the blur of city lights.
Sterben stood frozen, staring at the open briefcase lying at his feet.
From inside, something pulsed softly with blue light.