November 14th, 2032
Alma had just clocked out from his fifteen-hour shift at Jody's Shop. It was a little past nine, and the streetlights did little to cut the darkness swallowing the old Washington sidewalk. Tonight, he walked alone. Jasmine had gone out with Roseanne—a restaurant, some sightseeing, maybe shopping if the mood struck. Alma had hesitated but eventually agreed. He didn't want to cage her, yet she was still a child, and he her guardian. Protecting her was the first responsibility in his life. Everything else was a distant second.
A week earlier, when Roseanne took Jasmine shopping, Alma had been left alone with thoughts he'd rather not have. Fear, anxiety, dread—they came in waves. He never quite sank, but the waters never receded either.
And within that storm was a thought he had avoided best: himself.
Spear and Shield had become familiar, almost comforting. Mirage was less understood but manageable. Gale had proven itself—anger made manifest. Yet understanding how they worked didn't matter as much as understanding why they existed at all.
Every path of that question led back to the HatMan.
Maybe the creature had left more than nightmares. Maybe it had carved itself into his soul. But if that were true… why did every moment still feel like his? Why were these eyes seeing the world as he understood it? Unless the trick was deeper. Unless the trick was actually… nothing here is real at all.
Alma turned into a darker stretch of walkway. The city seemed to close around him, leaving him with that dreaded thought. Once he thought about it, he could never stop. The many paths of fate were stretched before him, yet he had chosen a specific one. It was gnawing, invasive, unwanted, and it clawed at him to think about himself.
What was he? What was any of this? If he had landed in another universe, on another world… would he be the same? Would he even exist?
Spear and Shield—his sharpest strike and strongest guard. The first abilities to emerge. Mirage—utility and deception, the aftermath of a sight filled with illusion. Gale—emotional release, the fury of injustice, the fourth ability that unleashed all his rage in one go.
But their names were wrong. Placeholders. Half-truths.
The Greatest Offense. The Greatest Defense.
The False Temptation. The False Storm.
And then… the Endless Labyrinth.
The memory seeped in cold. During the moment itself, Alma had felt nothing—only the absence of everything. Even when confronting the man who murdered his parents, hatred did not exist. He killed because the universe demanded it. It had not been personal.
Yet now, remembrance poisoned him with horror.
The infinite tunnels.
The void that erased all meaning. Perhaps even the absence of meaning altogether.
A prison made of hopelessness.
If his newest abilities continued the pattern… would they lead to another Endless Labyrinth? Another vow never to unlock that door again? Would he be ready for it? Only God knew—and for the first time, that information unsettled him.
He looked to his left: an abandoned convenience store buried between two crumbling structures. Ahead, the crosswalk signal flickered amber. He pressed the button and waited. The blinking light lulled him—a quiet pulse—until a prickle of consciousness snapped him awake.
His breath stopped. His ears went numb. His hearing shut down. His nose clogged, blocking all smell. The feeling throughout his body vanished—every one of Alma's senses shutting down one after another, leaving only sight remaining, his only and now dependent quality.
A force.
Unseen.
Recognizable.
Wrong.
Alma couldn't move.
A car careened down the road—faster, swerving wildly, no longer dodging anything. It cut the lanes in half like it owned the road, speeding toward the crosswalk.
Toward a man.
The headlights climbed over his knees—yet he did not move. Not a single reaction drew out from him. His body simply refused to act. Helpless, he waited for steel to break skin and bone.
He shut his eyes, the only motion he could manage.
A violent shock—air displaced, rushing around the man—metal shrieking, heavy and colliding with something equally unmovable—but not him.
When Alma opened his eyes, the car was gone… half of it protruded from the abandoned store's wall, embedded horizontally like a tombstone thrust through concrete.
Alma gasped and sprinted toward it. He tore the twisted door away as though it were tin foil. The driver—bleeding from his forehead and nose in slow streams—was gently pulled from his seat and placed on the sidewalk. Alma couldn't see his chest rising or falling, so he placed his ear against the man's sternum, searching for even the shallowest breath.
The man inhaled and exhaled, his breath reeking of alcohol. Alma sighed with relief and gratitude. The man was still alive.
Sirens grew louder—police had already been alerted. He couldn't be here when they arrived. He fled into the alleys, his vision warping into ripples. He felt drunk without the guilty pleasure—numb, slow, and fading.
His legs finally buckled beside a dumpster. Cold gnawed at him—deeper than weather, deeper than skin. It was the bone-rattling kind of chill. He pressed his fingertips to his forearm. Nothing. No sensation at all.
A violent tremor tore through him, causing everything around him in a two-foot radius to be violently rejected. The pavement cratered beneath him. The wall at his back cracked and splintered into near dust. The dumpster beside him launched across the road into a shop window.
With these tremors came more ripples across his vision. His limbs abandoned him—no longer responsive, no longer even felt. His heart and lungs—beating slowly—and after each scarce pulse, it felt like a coin flip against death.
Rain began to fall. A light drizzle, then heavy. Relentless. Chilling. Alma lay still, drowning in fear he could not escape.
He forced his fingers to move. Then his arms. Concrete cracked under his grip. His body lurched upright, but the victory lasted seconds before he dropped again.
This time, his heart stopped.
There was a beat. Then silence.
Another beat. Then nothing.
A minute passed—an agonizing eternity—before movement returned, dulled and clumsy like that of a toddler.
Three men smashed a nearby window, alerting Alma to their presence. Their forms were hidden behind a wall he couldn't move to see, and they vanished inside the building. Seconds later—fire erupted from within, flames bursting up like hungry demons. They sprinted out and paused directly in front of the alley.
One saw Alma.
"Hey! There's a guy there!" the man said, pointing at Alma's crumpled form.
"We need to kill him," another said—the darker, more threatening one.
"What? He's just a homeless guy. He probably doesn't even know he's alive. Leave him be," the last one muttered—calmer, more rational.
"No witnesses." The darker man drew a knife, ending the argument, and approached Alma.
The reasonable one motioned for the second to follow him up the fire escape, climbing each staircase to the rooftop, while the knifeman approached—blade poised for the back of Alma's neck.
Alma tried moving again, but his limbs failed. Then, his vision rippled.
The tremor hit.
And everything around him within that two-foot radius screamed.
The attacker—and everything near him—disintegrated into scattered nothing. Glass exploded behind Alma. The concrete cratered again. The wall of the burning building burst open.
And Alma barely noticed any of it.
He stood—stretching, as though waking from a long, needed slumber—testing autonomy. Once assured his body was intact, he wondered where the second man had gone—before he climbed to the rooftop. The remaining two criminals spun around at the sound of his footsteps, expecting their murderous friend.
Not this silent stranger.
"Who are you?" one demanded.
"That's my question, actually," Alma replied. "Who are you and why are—" He froze.
The skyline burned.
Fires everywhere—towering tongues of orange devouring the city. The sky was a choking black smoke, barely lighter than the night itself. It seemed that every four blocks held a burning building—and the longer Alma stared, the worse it became.
Alma turned—finding the same sight behind him. Absolute chaos and destruction.
What… what was happening?
Behind him, the calm man pulled out a strange, almost alien device from his worn black backpack. It hummed with a terrifying noise, lights dancing around a large circular aperture. The sound and glow intensified, forming power at its center—an arm-cannon of nightmares.
Alma sensed it too late. The orb of energy fired—screaming across the rooftop toward Alma, crackling and spitting miniature lightning against the roof as it traveled. But when it reached exactly two feet from him… it reversed.
A backlash of spiritual force.
A soul-echo of intent.
The orb shot back at tenfold its original speed—punching straight through the shooter's chest. His lungs, heart—part of his stomach—gone. Only blood pouring from the void remained. He looked down at his chest in shock, horror, and absolute terror.
He had just died.
The man fell back, hitting the roof hard, blood pooling beneath him and trailing down his neck.
The last criminal, terrified beyond reason, snatched the device and ran down the building.
Alma stood frozen in disbelief, his mind struggling to process what had just occurred. He had sensed the attack a moment before, fully intending to counter it cleanly and bring the man into custody. Yet despite his preparation and restraint, the result was nothing short of brutal: the attacker lay dead, killed with the same ruthless force he had tried to inflict on Alma. There was a disturbing irony in that symmetry, one that left Alma strangely hollow.
Rain poured relentlessly onto the rooftop, soaking his clothes and chilling his skin, but Alma did not move. He barely noticed the sirens echoing through the burning streets below or the murderer disappearing into the night. Instead, his thoughts spiraled around a single, horrifying realization: What is this ability? What has he done?
Another death—unintentional, unexpected, and completely beyond his control—wormed its way into his conscience. It forced him to question the path he was walking and whether he could continue living this way.
With a sharp inhale, he snapped back to the present and stared out across Washington's flaming skyline. He turned toward the direction the murderer fled, considering his options. He could pursue the fleeing criminal and attempt to correct what had already gone terribly wrong… or he could focus on the inferno threatening countless civilian lives.
He exhaled a long, weary sigh and pivoted away from the retreating figure. The decision was made. The fires demanded his attention—not just one, but many of them, spreading far too quickly to be the work of only three men. There had to be more scattered throughout the city—dozens, maybe even hundreds.
Alma leapt into action, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, the city lights smearing into streaks beneath him. When he finally reached a building fully engulfed in flames, he realized something troubling: despite the heavy downpour, the fire raged unabated, almost immune to the rain.
He landed at the entrance and raised his palm toward the burning structure. His expression remained calm, his breathing steady, as though his body had already learned how to channel the power instinctively.
"Gale," he whispered.
A violent spiral of wind burst from his palm, wrapping around the structure and crushing the flames in an instant.
A small smile tugged at his lips. Although Gale had once used was endless currents, what he had just released was not a perpetual force but rather an intense, fabricated burst of compressed air—powerful enough to smother infernos without tearing the building apart. His emotions were stable enough that the wind did only what he willed: extinguish the flames and nothing more.
Still, he could not ignore the uncertainty gnawing at him. His first use of Gale had been driven by rage; it had felt intuitive, natural—breathing, blinking, moving. But he hadn't known if unleashing it in a controlled burst would extinguish a fire… or blow the entire block to pieces.
These flames were no ordinary blazes. Water was useless against them, and with the sheer number of buildings affected, he knew he needed to act quickly—before the city lost everything.
He angled his palms downward and launched himself skyward on a column of spiraling wind. From above, he scanned the rooftops until he spotted another blaze, then propelled himself toward it at high speed. He dove sharply, wind streaming from his feet in rapid, staccato bursts that blurred together into a tornado-like funnel. The fiery structure vanished beneath the swirling gale, and like the one before it, the flames died instantly.
Again and again he repeated the maneuver, whipping from disaster to disaster, smothering every fire until the final building fell dark and the storm reclaimed the night.
When the last blaze extinguished, Alma crouched atop a rooftop, surveying the smoking aftermath. Sirens flooded the streets below as police, firetrucks, and ambulances converged from all directions, swarming through the chaos like determined ants.
But Alma's focus shifted to three suspicious men lingering on a sidewalk across the street. They were jumpy—constantly glancing behind themselves—and when they found an unoccupied storefront, they checked for witnesses before smashing a window and slipping inside.
Alma rose slowly, releasing a tired breath. He stepped off the edge of the building and, with a subtle push of wind beneath him, drifted downward like a falling feather.
The building ignited from within mere seconds later, but when the three arsonists tried to escape, they stumbled to a halt—frozen in dread at the sight of Alma hovering before them. He descended to the pavement, landing with quiet finality.
The man in the center fumbled out a strange, alien device—identical to the one he had seen earlier—its surface pulsing with crimson energy. The other two lunged at Alma, desperate to buy their comrade time to fire.
Alma simply watched with cold indifference. He prepared to dodge and counter, but again his vision warped—rippling violently as pain shot through his eyes. A tremor shuddered through his body, and everything within ten feet of him disintegrated into dust, including both charging men.
The surviving attacker stumbled back, trembling.
"Wh-what are you…?" he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "You're a… a monster!"
His fear boiled over. The device fired, launching a crackling red sphere of energy toward Alma. Alma's sight rippled once more. His muscles convulsed. And mere feet from impact, the orb snapped backward—amplified twentyfold. The projectile ballooned into a roaring beam that punched through the man's chest and tore through the buildings behind him, leveling several blocks before fading into silence.
Alma collapsed to his knees, lungs burning, vision doubled, mind in freefall. What was happening to him?
After a moment, he forced himself upright. His breathing gradually steadied, and the pain ebbed away as though his body were correcting itself. He checked his watch: 1:00 AM. He had missed Jasmine and Roseanne returning home. He had missed dinner. Jasmine was undoubtedly terrified by now… and with the way his powers were behaving, Alma couldn't risk being near her.
"I'm sorry… Jasmine," he murmured into the rain.
Then it happened—a flicker, a sensation crawling across his skin. Alma felt eyes on him. He turned, and standing at the far end of the alley was a tall man in a long trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, his outline lit only by the orange glow of distant burning structures. For a moment, Alma's breath caught; memories of the HatMan—the thing from his nightmares—surged forward with alarming force. But this figure, despite mimicking the silhouette, lacked that suffocating presence. He was flesh and blood. A man, not an entity.
"You've drawn quite a far line," the stranger said, voice low and gravelly. "But this is where that pencil breaks."
Out of the shadows behind him, ten armored soldiers stepped forward, their movements mechanical and precise. Each one carried a matte-black rifle lined with unfamiliar technology. They fanned out in a semicircle, crouching in unison, their weapons trained on Alma's chest with murderous intent.
Alma squared his shoulders and fully faced them. "Who are you people? What do you gain from terrorizing this city?"
The man exhaled through his nose—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "Everything. This city… this world… is rotten. You cannot understand, and you never will." He gave the smallest nod.
One of the soldiers fired.
Alma's eyes rippled violently, pain lancing through his skull. He dropped to one knee, fingers digging into the wet pavement as he tried to steady himself. The bullet curved mid-air as though yanked by invisible strings, then shot back toward its origin with brutal precision.
The copper round tore through the soldier's skull and burst out the back. The man collapsed instantly.
"Oh?" The man in the trench coat tilted his head, intrigued. "So you can reflect any attack that comes at you. How… interesting."
Before Alma could answer, a translucent dome shimmered into existence around the man and the remaining soldiers. Though it looked like glass, the surface refracted the alley lights oddly, bending them like liquid crystal.
"This shield is no illusion," the man explained. "An alloy designed to withstand anything—kinetic force, heat, energy. It reflects light itself. And yet it allows us to fire out. Quite generous, wouldn't you say?"
He smiled faintly.
"But this will prevent your little trick. Now then… let's see how many objects you can reflect before they finally reach you."
Alma, still on one knee, slowly rose. Rain ran down his face in rivulets. Halfway to standing upright, he spoke—quietly, but with unsettling certainty.
"That's where you're wrong," he said. "It isn't attacks that are rejected. It's the intent behind them."
The man blinked. "Intent? That's new. Don't insult us. Your reflection ability is limited. One, maybe three projectiles at most. It's obvious."
Alma finished standing, lifting his left arm. His fingers pressed together, thumb bent inward against the base of his index finger—the stance of an executioner who needed only breath to end a life.
"The False Action… Echo."
The man dropped his hand to signal his soldiers.
None of them fired.
Instead, their bodies convulsed, then ruptured from within as invisible force tore through armor, flesh, and bone. Holes burst open across torsos, skulls, limbs—like unseen bullets ripping outward from the center of their own bodies. The shield did nothing; the destruction originated inside them.
In seconds, all ten men collapsed in heaps of mangled metal and ruined tissue.
The trench-coat man stared, horrified, as blood pooled beneath the corpses. "What… what is this?" he whispered.
"I told you," Alma said, walking forward. "Intent. Not action."
"I don't believe you," the man sputtered, backing away. "Nothing can reflect intent. Nothing!"
"I can," Alma answered. "I have. And you have witnessed it."
He stopped a few paces away, rain pattering softly against his shoulders.
"The first time it happened, I saw ripples expanding from me. Anything near me was destroyed within a certain radius. As time went on, the radius grew, the pain lessened, and the effect sharpened. But it wasn't until that soldier fired that I understood the truth."
Alma raised his hand.
"It wasn't reacting," he continued. "It was calibrating. Shifting from reflecting intent as a momentary response… to reflecting intent as a rule. No defense can shield you from your own desire to kill. That's why your soldiers died."
The man flung out his hands. His fallen soldiers disintegrated into ash in a sudden burst of flame—likely a failsafe to prevent their bodies from being examined.
Alma arched a brow. "You're denying them from being caught, even in death."
The man tried to stand firm, drenched in rain. "If you can reflect all attacks based on intent, then I cannot kill you." He said, ignoring Alma's words.
"That is correct." Alma said. "However, do not think this puts us in a stalemate." He aimed his hand at the cloaked man.
"Spear."
---
Unknown Location — 1:29 AM
"Our efforts to incite chaos have worked. Public unrest is rising. However… the fires were extinguished five minutes after ignition, and five of our operatives have not returned," a man in a brown cloak reported, kneeling before a figure seated upon a high-backed throne.
The hangar around them was enormous, crates stacked high against the walls — each filled with weapons, ammunition, and dozens of the strange energy devices. Several aircraft loomed quietly in the shadows, waiting.
"That is promising news," the man on the throne rasped, his gravel-like voice low and calculating. "But they should be back by now. Have you questioned the one who survived?"
"Yes, my lord. He claims a single man erased his comrades. We probed his mind—there is witnout a doubt."
The cloaked figure leaned forward slightly, intrigued. Over countless battles, he had never encountered someone capable of outright erasure—the sort that left nothing behind, not even remains.
"And our other assets? Viroth and Eclipser—their progress?"
"Viroth is nearing Aligned Ruin, and Eclipser is helping him for the next phase."
A slow, menacing laugh rolled from the throne before erupting into manic, echoing cackles.
"Excellent. Soon, the Age of Ruin will descend upon humanity!"
---
November 15th, 2032—6:35 AM
Alma awoke in a desolate alleyway, his body stiff from cold concrete and restless dreams. His eyes ached, and his muscles throbbed faintly, but he forced himself upright regardless. His thoughts had never left Jasmine. The idea that she might believe he abandoned her twisted his stomach into knots. After everything she had suffered, he was the only light she had—and he had gone dark without a word.
With a surge of panic, he activated Evil Eyes and dashed toward the apartment complex. He burst through the entrance, sprinted into the elevator, and rushed down the hall. The door flew open beneath his hand.
"Jasmine!" he called.
Silence.
He searched every room, his heartbeat growing louder with each unanswered shout.
"Jasmine!"
Nothing.
"JASMINE!!"
Terror clamped down on his chest. He didn't even bother locking the door as he tore back into the street. He had no idea where Roseanne lived—barely even knew which direction to start—but he clung to the desperate hope that Jasmine was with her and not taken by the same people spreading destruction through the city.
He scoured Washington for hours, racing past landmarks and crowds, scrutinizing every face, every alley, every uncertain shadow for a sign of his daughter. But with each passing moment, hope slipped farther away. It was as if Jasmine had vanished into thin air.
Eventually, Alma stumbled into a quiet alley and sank against the wall, fingers digging into his hair. He never should have left. He should have gone home regardless of the danger. Because what if disappearing—what if that hurt her more than anything else ever could?
The thought struck him like a blade through the heart.
His eyes widened.
A pit formed in his chest.
And for the first time in a while... fear overcame him.
Alma let out another weary sigh. He needed to stop chasing the what-ifs, to stop letting his mind spiral into the imagined disasters that waited behind every choice. Pushing the thoughts aside, he stood, brushed the dust from his hands, and stepped out of the alleyway.
Just beyond its shadowed mouth, he noticed a teenage boy in tattered, dirt-stained clothing crouched beside a makeshift display. Spread out before him were devices the boy clearly crafted himself: sleek, strangely elegant phones that looked more advanced than anything Alma had seen—even compared to the already futuristic models common today; softly glowing trinkets whose purposes were unclear; and, scattered between them, small metallic coins that hinted at hidden mechanisms.
Alma slowed, studying the items with a curious frown. Even at a glance, he could tell they were crafted with remarkable precision—far too refined for a child selling scraps on the street. Kneeling beside the boy, Alma picked up one of the phones and a coin.
"Mister, I wouldn't touch—" the boy began, but the warning came a heartbeat too late.
The phone lit up instantly, responding not to Alma's hands but to the faint stir of his thoughts. He hadn't pressed a button—he didn't even see any. His eyes widened. He was steadily adapting to modern technology, but even he knew that nothing simply activated itself on command. This wasn't convenience; it was something else entirely.
"You've just bonded with that phone," the boy said matter-of-factly, tugging Alma's attention back.
Alma nodded absently, then froze as the boy's words fully registered. He snapped his gaze toward him.
"Excuse me—what?"
"You formed a connection with the phone," the boy repeated. "Once someone touches it, the device links itself to the brain's neural pathways. It basically becomes an extension of your body—like another limb." His tone was simple, but his explanation was anything but.
Alma blinked, genuinely impressed. "Did you make all of this yourself?"
The boy nodded and held up a small cardboard sign that read: Phone – $250.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said timidly, "but you'll have to pay for that one. I can't resell it now. Once it bonds to someone, it only resets when that person dies. Nobody else can use it before then."
Alma stared at him, stunned—not just by the phone's capabilities, but by the absurdly low price for something so extraordinary.
He pulled out his wallet and handed the boy three one-hundred-dollar bills.
The boy's eyes widened. He immediately tried to return one. "I only need fifty more, sir—no tax. This is way too much."
But Alma gently pushed his hand back. "No. Keep the extra. Consider it a sign of my gratitude. What you've created here is exceptional."
He rose to his feet. The coin he'd picked up appeared ordinary, showing none of the strange behavior the phone had—at least not yet.
The boy looked up at him with a mixture of awe, relief, and overwhelming joy—someone had finally purchased his work and even praised him for it.
"Thank you, sir. Really… thank you."
Alma smiled, nodded, and walked away as the boy eagerly resumed calling out to passersby, still hopeful despite his earlier misfortune.
When Alma reached his apartment door, he paused, tightening his grip on the knob before finally pushing it open. Inside, Roseanne paced anxiously across the living room, phone pressed to her ear. Beside her, Jasmine sat curled up on the floor, clutching her stuffed unicorn with trembling fingers.
The moment the door opened, both of them snapped their heads toward him. Alma managed a sheepish smile. Jasmine didn't move—she simply appeared in his arms, hugging him with desperate strength, as though afraid he might vanish again if she loosened her grip.
"Daddy!!" she cried, her stuffed unicorn forgotten on the floor.
Roseanne rushed to embrace him as well. "Oh, Alma—where have you been? Jasmine and I have been worried sick."
Alma dropped to one knee, gathering Jasmine close and kissing the top of her head again and again.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, feeling tears threaten.
He looked up at Roseanne. "I… I don't have a real excuse. Something happened to me last night. I don't know what it was or how it started, but—at least I think—it's over now." His voice betrayed a doubt he couldn't hide.
"I'm just glad you're safe," Roseanne said quietly. "That's what matters. But where were you?"
"I was walking home when my vision blurred and my body completely shut down. Every muscle failed me. After that… I kept drifting in and out of consciousness." It was only a half-truth, but it was all he could give.
Roseanne nodded slowly, then turned on the television. "Do you know what happened last night?" she asked, pointing at the screen.
The news showed buildings engulfed in flames and a single blurry image of a figure—unidentifiable—amid a violent vortex descending from above. A tornado at someone's feet.
Alma stiffened. They had captured him on film—barely—but captured him all the same. Last night he hadn't been himself. He hadn't thought clearly, hadn't acted rationally. Every choice he'd made had felt detached, distant, like watching himself through warped glass.
"Last night, the city was attacked by a terrorist group," the news anchor reported. "Their name and numbers are currently unknown. Officials say—"
"We were attacked," Roseanne interrupted softly. "When you didn't come home, we thought… maybe one of them took you. Or worse." She gestured toward Jasmine. "She couldn't sleep at all. Not even when I took her to my place."
Alma looked down at Jasmine, stroking the back of her head.
"It's okay. I'm here now. You don't have to worry anymore." But she only clung tighter.
He carried her to the couch and sat down, Jasmine curled against his chest while he rubbed her back and hair. Roseanne sat beside them, offering what comfort she could.
"It's okay, sweetie. Your father's back," she whispered.
Jasmine only cried harder into Alma's neck, refusing to loosen her grip.
Hours passed before Roseanne finally had to leave. More hours passed still before Jasmine released him.
"I thought…" Her voice was barely audible. "I thought you left me."
The words cut straight through Alma. He knew this moment would hurt—knew it would tear him apart.
"Where did you go? Did I upset you? Did I do something wrong? Just tell me and I'll fix it—I promise!" Her voice climbed with each sentence, fear accelerating her pace.
"No, no, honey," Alma said, brushing her hair gently. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then where were you?" she demanded.
An apology wouldn't be enough. She deserved an explanation. She deserved the truth.
"Last night… something happened to me," he began slowly.
"You know how fast and strong I am? There's a reason for that. I'm not… from this world."
Jasmine froze. Her eyes widened. She rose to her feet. "What are you saying?"
"I come from a different planet," Alma said. "On paper, it's the same as this one—same name, same places—but the history diverged. The people I knew no longer exist here. Everything familiar has been… rewritten."
Jasmine stepped back—not in fear, but struggling to understand.
"You traveled from another planet? So there's life outside our solar system?"
"Uh…" Alma hesitated. He'd never bothered to check. "Maybe? I didn't look. But you're really not afraid that I might destroy this world or something?"
"I might've been if you told me that when we first met," Jasmine said. "But we've known each other for months. You've shown me you're not a monster—that you love me." She paused, her voice softening with a quiet ache. "It just hurts that the first person who ever loved me came from outer space."
Alma pulled her into an embrace.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was scared of what you'd think. And I knew you were hiding something too. If I held my secret back until you shared yours, it would seem like I never trusted you."
Jasmine stiffened. "You… think I'm hiding something?"
"Yes. I don't know what it is, but I think it has something to do with your parents."
She exhaled shakily. "It does."
"You can tell me," Alma said softly. "I won't judge you."
"No," she whispered. "It's not about trusting you. It's about me. I haven't come to terms with it. I can't even think about it without falling into this… crushing despair."
Alma nodded gently. "I understand. And it actually relieves me to know I wasn't the problem. Take your time. When you're ready, tell me. We'll face it together."
Jasmine smiled warmly, then threw her arms around him, hugging him with the kind of fierce affection that held no hesitation. "Thank you, Dad. I love you so much. You just don't know how much."
"I love you too," Alma replied, matching her embrace with equal sincerity. "More than anything in my world… or this one."
They stayed like that for several minutes, holding onto each other as if making up for every second of worry and fear from the previous night. Eventually, they parted and settled back onto the couch, sitting close, the quiet between them comfortable rather than tense.
After a brief silence, Jasmine tilted her head. "What time period do you come from? I noticed your manners are kind of old-fashioned."
Alma put a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. "My manners aren't old. They're the youngest thing about me," he said, trying to defend his behavior with a playful seriousness. But after a beat, he sighed. "If you must know… I come from the year 1957." The hesitation in his voice was unmistakable; even he knew how far removed that sounded.
Jasmine's eyes widened, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief. "Seventy-five years!? That's older than some grandparents alive!"
"Hey, I'm still young. I'm only eighteen, after all," Alma countered, trying to salvage his dignity.
"Yeah, I know, but…" Jasmine stared at him with amazement. "You existed before so many people."
"Well, that's bound to happen," Alma replied with a small shrug. "Plenty of people before my time were older than my parents when I was born. That's just life. You live before someone, and you die after someone else."
Jasmine leaned forward, excitement returning to her face. "Then tell me about your time period. About your Earth. I want to know everything—I'm really excited to see what the past of another world was like!"
Alma studied her expression, unsure if recounting his memories—some of them dark, painful, and still raw—was something she would truly want to sit through. "Are you sure about this? It might take a few hours," he warned gently.
"A few hours is worth it," Jasmine said immediately, settling deeper into the couch as if preparing to listen to a treasured storybook.
He nodded slowly. "Alright then. But I have to warn you—my past isn't simple. Some of it is… heavy. So prepare yourself, okay?"
Jasmine nodded quickly, her eagerness unwavering.
"Very well." Alma took a breath, gathering old memories he rarely faced head-on. "Then it began on the day I was born—November 20th, 1940. A cold morning, but according to my parents, the happiest day of their lives…"