Chapter 1:

  A Future of Beckoning

  [Location: Unknown Universe | Cityscape | Dream Vision]

  —Aevonir—

  …Year 2077…Unidentified Universe…

  Zach awoke in a world that wasn’t his. Again.

  The ceiling above him was cracked glass, and beyond it, twin suns bled orange across a green sky. Wind rustled outside, though there were no trees. Just metal—rusted, brittle towers bending under the weight of forgotten time. A scent like burned copper hung in the air.

  This wasn’t a dream. This was Aevonir.

  Every time he slept; the universe reset itself around him—not metaphorically, but literally. His mind, a cosmic lens, refracted reality, each slumbering blink redrawing the rules, reshaping existence. And yet… this one felt different.

  As he stood, brushing dust from his jacket, a flicker passed him.

  Someone.

  It was barely a blur, like a shimmer of heat or light, and it passed within inches of him. His heart stuttered. Time twitched.

  Glitch.

  The world tilted. A sudden pulse struck behind his eyes like a needle in his skull.

  "Agh—!" Zach staggered, one knee hitting cracked pavement. His hands trembled. Something was off. The air grew heavier. The buildings… flickered. For a moment, the entire skyline blinked.

  Then it stopped. Silence again.

  Shaking off the pain, Zach began to move—slowly, cautiously—through the alleyways of this bizarre, rust-covered city.

  Thirty minutes in, it happened.

  He saw himself.

  Across the street, leaning casually against the glass of a coffee shop—him. Same jawline, same jacket, same scar running across the left temple. The other Zach was older, calmer. Focused. He was flipping a coin between his fingers like he’d done it his whole life.

  “Is this… the future me?”

  Zach ducked behind a half-buried service station, peering through a crack in the wall. The café buzzed with quiet life. Androids served foam-laced drinks. Screens pulsed across chrome walls. His future self-walked in, ordered a latte, and sat near the window.

  Zach watched. Breath shallow. Mind racing.

  “What the hell is this place?”

  That’s when the sky cracked.

  A ball of fire slammed into the café like a god’s hammer.

  Glass shattered. Screams erupted. Flame scorched across polished metal and ceramic. Zach threw his arms up, shielding his face, dust and heat pressing in around him.

  From the heart of the crater rose a figure—made of ice.

  Perfectly smooth. Crouched. Humanoid. Female form. Hair like frozen rivers curling down its back. Her eyes opened: glowing, emotionless, locked instantly… on him.

  Not the other Zach.

  Him.

  Zach took a step back.

  “No… no, that’s not possible—”

  Pain.

  A searing, white-hot migraine sliced through his skull like a shard of glass.

  "AHHHHH!" he screamed; voice ragged.

  The ice figure lifted her hand. A hum of frost-pulsing energy charged in her palm. She unleashed a Plasma Ice Cannon, and Zach only just dropped to the ground in time. The beam scorched past him, splitting the street into molten fragments and frigid dust.

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  He rolled. Gasped. Stood.

  She was already preparing another shot.

  Zach didn’t think. He ran.

  Dodging debris, vaulting over twisted pipes, sprinting toward her with reckless desperation. Just as he closed the gap—

  GLITCH.

  His foot hit nothing. The ground beneath him fizzled—static like a broken transmission.

  He tumbled through the flicker, body warped, limbs stretching like reflections in shattered water.

  Then—

  Silence.

  His molecules vibrated like a song at the edge of hearing. His atoms pulsed beyond control, beyond gravity.

  And then—he was gone.

  Ripped from this future. Yanked from this timeline.

  Flung back.

  Back to his now. Back to where the story truly begins...

  **The Awakening**

  [Location: Velrouxian Universe | The Veyne’s Residence | Early Morning]

  —The Present—

  …Year 2048…Velroux…HOME.

  He fell.

  Through time, through frost and flame, through dimensions he couldn't name—

  Until everything collapsed into nothingness.

  Then, a blink.

  A gasp.

  And he awoke.

  Zach bolted upright, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His sheets clung to him like the echo of something ancient—something wrong. His heart thundered in his chest, pounding like it was trying to outrun the memory of a place that shouldn’t exist.

  Was it a dream?

  No.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  It wasn’t even a universe.

  It was the future.

  That same pressure behind his eyes still lingered, soft now, like a distant headache. A reminder. A residue. He could still smell the scorched chrome, hear the scream of splitting glass, feel the tremor of ice meeting plasma.

  But all he saw now was the slant of morning sunlight cutting through his curtains. The pale blue walls of his room. The stack of comics by the nightstand. The blinking red digits of his cracked alarm clock:

  8:03 A.M.

  “Sh*t—” Zach hissed, kicking off the covers.

  He had twenty-two minutes before the train left. And he sure as hell couldn’t afford another Uber—

  not after blowing the last of his cash on that limited-time chain necklace that made him look half like a rapper and half like a runway model with no contract.

  His stomach growled. On cue, a voice floated from the kitchen:

  “Zachary...”

  It was his mom. That tone—sweet with a side of hurry.

  “I didn’t finish the omelet—mixed fried eggs and spicy Samosas. It’s on the stove!”

  “YES, MOM!” he shouted back, already halfway to the bathroom; towel slung over his shoulder.

  “I left it in the microwave!” she added, her voice fading as she rustled through bags and keys.

  “Save some for your dad if you can, please! I didn’t have time for breakfast—running late again!”

  He heard the door creak, followed by her heels click-clacking against the concrete outside.

  Zach shook his head, chuckling softly.

  Nathalie Stephanandra Veyne.

  His mother was an enigma.

  A woman who could juggle business deals before her first cup of coffee. CEO of Blac’ Corp, head of operations, multimedia powerhouse, and part-time philosopher. She was the kind of woman who looked young enough to audition for Strictly Come Dancing, but wise enough to host a global webinar on surviving life's sucker punches with style.

  Zach admired her, even if she never slowed down.

  He turned the shower knob, steam rising like a ghost.

  But behind the comfort of routine, that feeling still crawled at the edge of his mind—

  That frozen figure…

  Those eyes...

  And that other version of himself—calm, collected, real.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror, watching the steam cloud around it.

  “Was that… really me?” he whispered. “Or just someone I’m going to become?”

  Somewhere in the future, something had started.

  And somehow, even here in the present, time was listening.

  **Morning Rush**

  —The Present | Velroux, 8:10 A.M.—

  Zach emerged from the steam-drenched bathroom, towel around his waist, hair still dripping. A glimmer of that dream clung to the corners of his thoughts, fading like condensation on glass. But then—

  Something odd.

  A strange humming noise from under the floorboards. Faint, metallic, almost melodic.

  He paused, frowning.

  But just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

  Must be the plumbing.

  Or maybe the radiator again—he made a mental note to check it later. But somewhere in the back of his mind, it wasn’t just noise. It felt like a sound meant only for him.

  Shaking it off, he threw on his denim jacket over a dark-gray thermal, then snatched the chain necklace from its velvet pouch on his desk. It gleamed gold in the morning light—subtle, clean, modern. The kind of piece that said: “I’m broke, but I’ve got taste.”

  In the kitchen, the scent hit him first.

  Pepper. Onion. Crispy turmeric edges.

  Zach opened the microwave to reveal the omelet, perfectly browned, wrapped around diced peppers and chili-spiced cheese. Nestled next to it were three Samosas—triangular pockets of heaven, filled with curried lentils and meat, still warm.

  He grabbed a plate, poured himself a splash of iced orange-ginger tea from the pitcher his mom left, and slid onto the barstool counter by the window.

  Outside, Velroux had already begun to thrum with its chaotic rhythm. Vendors hollered over the hiss of street grills. A preacher on the corner of Delta and Rue Moiré waved a cracked Bible. A neon billboard blinked warnings in seven languages—cybernetic overlays crawling across its face like vines.

  This was the Velroux he knew—gritty, loud, poetic in its own dysfunction.

  He took a bite of the omelet. Spicy. Soft. Divine.

  His phone buzzed. A message from his mom:

  Steph Veyne:

  "Pls don’t forget to drop off the scan chip at Archive Block 13 before sundown. Also, remember: your dad’s birthday dinner tonight."

  Zach responded with a thumbs up and a heart. He wiped his mouth, stuffed the last Samosa into his mouth, grabbed his satchel, and bolted out the door.