The dead guy at the end of the bar ordered a whiskey sour.
This wasn't unusual. Most of my customers were at least partially dead. Came with the territory when your bar existed in quantum superposition across seventeen different realities.
"Make it a double," the dead guy said. "Rough day."
"Dying will do that," I said, mixing his drink. "What happened? Car accident? Heart attack? Fell down the stairs in a moment of cosmic irony?"
"Shot. I think. It's fuzzy." He touched his chest where the wound would be. Or was. Or might have been. Quantum mechanics made verb tenses complicated. "Three times. Or maybe once. Or possibly I shot myself?"
I slid him the whiskey sour. "That's seven dollars. Or fifteen. Or free, depending on which reality's currency applies."
He paid with a twenty that flickered between different denominations. I put it in the register that may or may not have contained money.
My name is Eddie Chen. I run the Probability Lounge, a dive bar in downtown somewhere. The location changes. Sometimes we're in Manhattan. Sometimes Shanghai. Once, memorably, we were in a reality where cities were organized alphabetically and we ended up in "Zblarnak," which was unpleasant for everyone involved.
The bar exists in superposition because I made a mistake twelve years ago involving a particle accelerator, a bad breakup, and the kind of existential despair that makes you think "what if I could undo this" hard enough to actually affect quantum mechanics.
Now I serve drinks to people who are simultaneously alive and dead, here and not here, making choices and having made choices and about to make choices all at once.
It's a living. Barely.
"Eddie," my regular Mariko called from her usual stool. She was a quantum physicist in three realities, a musician in four, and dead in two. Tonight she was drinking all of those lives simultaneously. "The dead guy at the end. Do you know him?"
"Never seen him before. Or I've known him for years. Hard to tell."
"He's been shot in multiple realities. That's not random quantum variation. That's intentional."
I looked at the dead guy more carefully. He was getting hazier, his quantum state destabilizing. Most customers stayed coherent for a few hours before fading back to their primary reality. But this guy was deteriorating fast.
"Someone's collapsing his wave function," Mariko said quietly. "On purpose. Across multiple realities."
"That's murder."
"That's very dedicated murder."
The dead guy slumped over his drink. Through his translucent form, I could see three different versions: shot in the chest, shot in the back, gun in his own hand. All real. All happening. All ending the same way.
"Well," I said, because I'm an idiot with a hero complex. "I guess we're solving a quantum murder."
--------------------------------------------------
Here's what you need to know about quantum mechanics: observation matters. When you look at something, you collapse infinite possibilities into one reality. Most people do this unconsciously, constantly. They see a cat and it's either alive or dead, not both.
But my bar? My bar exists in the space between observation and collapse. Where all possibilities coexist. Where Schrödinger's cat is alive AND dead, hanging out at the bar, complaining about the paradox.
(There's actually a cat named Schrödinger who comes in Thursdays. He's very philosophical about the whole thing. Tips well.)
The dead guy's name was, variously, James Wen, Jim Wen, and in one particularly weird reality, "Jimothy." He'd been a accountant, a teacher, and a small-time criminal depending on which life we examined.
"The common thread," Mariko said, spreading notes across the bar, "is that in every reality where he dies, he dies at exactly 9:47 PM. Same moment. Different methods, but same time."
"Quantum coordination," I said. "Someone's synchronizing the murders."
"But who kills him in each reality?"
That was the question. I'd talked to him in three different states of dying, and each time he'd been confused about who pulled the trigger. In one reality, it was a business partner. In another, a jealous spouse. In the third, apparently himself.
"Eddie," said a voice behind me. "You're investigating again."
I turned. Detective Sarah Wong leaned against the doorframe, looking tired in that specific way that suggested she existed in too many realities and was exhausted by all of them.
"Sarah. Thought you said you'd never come back after the incident with the temporal tequila."
"I lied. Also, I'm a detective in four realities and a bartender in two. Professional curiosity transcends multiversal boundaries." She sat at the bar. "I heard you have a quantum murder case."
"News travels fast in superposition."
"There's a killer collapsing wave functions. That's not just murder. That's reality manipulation." She accepted the drink I poured. "Any leads?"
"Three realities. Three deaths. Same time. Different killers. I'm thinking maybe all three killers are the same person, just different versions."
"Probability assassin," Mariko said. "Killing across realities to ensure a target dies in every reality. That's... actually kind of brilliant in a horrifying way."
"Who'd want James Wen dead in every possible universe?" I asked.
"Maybe we should ask him," Sarah suggested.
--------------------------------------------------
Talking to a dead man who exists in quantum superposition is exactly as confusing as it sounds.
I pulled out the Quantum Resonator (a tool I'd built from a broken radio and wishful thinking) and tuned it to the frequency where James Wen was most coherent. He flickered into focus at the end of the bar, looking confused and increasingly transparent.
"Mr. Wen," I said. "Do you know who killed you?"
"I... yes? No? Maybe I killed myself?" His form wavered. "There was money. Or secrets. Or betrayal. It's all overlapping."
"Focus on one reality. The one where you were an accountant."
He concentrated. Solidified slightly. "The accounting reality. Right. I found something. In the books. At Lin Enterprises. Money going somewhere it shouldn't. I was going to report it."
"Who did you tell?"
"My boss. Mathew Lin. My..." He flickered. "My brother?"
Mariko and Sarah exchanged looks.
"He's his own brother in one reality," I said. "That's not even the weirdest thing this week."
"In the teacher reality," Wen continued, struggling to maintain coherence, "I was having an affair with Lin's wife. And in the criminal reality, I was his partner. We were... we were the same person in different lives. Brothers, partners, enemies. All of it."
"So Mathew Lin is killing you across realities?" Sarah said. "Eliminating all versions of you to prevent information from leaking in any reality."
"But if Wen is dead in all realities," Mariko said slowly, "and Lin is Wen in some of them..."
"Then Lin is killing himself," I finished. "Quantum suicide to eliminate a liability across all possibilities."
Wen was fading fast. "Help me," he whispered. "I don't want to die in every reality. Some of me should get to live. It's only fair."
Then he vanished, wave function completely collapsed across all realities.
Gone.
But not necessarily forever, if we could uncollapse him. (Quantum mechanics: where death is more of a suggestion than a rule.)
--------------------------------------------------
Mathew Lin walked into the bar at 9:30 PM.
I knew it was him because he looked exactly like James Wen, just wearing a better suit and carrying himself with the confidence of someone who'd chosen profitable realities.
"Whiskey," he said, sitting where Wen had sat. "Neat."
I poured, watching him carefully. In the mirror behind the bar, his reflection showed three versions: businessman, husband, criminal. All looking slightly guilty.
"You killed him," I said.
"I killed me," Lin corrected. "Or I'm about to. Verb tenses get complicated when you're operating across multiple realities."
"Why?"
"Because in one reality, I embezzled millions. In another, I destroyed a marriage. In a third, I betrayed everyone who trusted me." He sipped his whiskey. "Wen was the version of me that felt guilty. That was going to confess. I couldn't allow that."
"So you're murdering yourself to hide your crimes?"
"I'm pruning my probability tree. Keeping only the successful branches." He checked his watch. "9:35. I've got twelve minutes before the convergence point. Before I pull the trigger in all three realities simultaneously."
Sarah moved toward him. He held up a hand.
"I exist in quantum superposition right now. If you try to stop me in one reality, I'll just complete the murder in another. You can't observe all my states simultaneously."
"Eddie can," Mariko said.
They both looked at me. I sighed.
"I hate when you volunteer me for impossible things."
"You run a bar in quantum superposition," Sarah said. "You observe multiple realities constantly. If anyone can hold Lin in superposition and prevent the collapse, it's you."
"That's not how it works. I can see the realities. I can't control them."
"But you can choose which one to collapse into," Mariko said. "You've been doing it for twelve years. You just never tried it on a person."
Lin smiled. "She's right. You could save Wen. Save me. Make me choose a better reality. But could you really? Can you force someone to be good across all their possible selves?"
I looked at him. At all three versions simultaneously. The criminal, the cheat, the murderer. But also, buried deeper, the accountant who wanted to confess. The teacher who felt guilt. The man who recognized he'd become someone he hated.
"I don't have to make you good," I said. "I just have to give you a choice. A real one. Not the choice you've been making by eliminating the parts of yourself you don't like."
"What choice?"
"To live with the guilt instead of murdering it."
9:40 PM.
Seven minutes to convergence.
I pulled out the Quantum Resonator and did something incredibly stupid: I tuned it to myself. Opened up my own probability wave. Let Lin see all the versions of me across every reality.
The Eddie who made the right choices. The Eddie who made the wrong ones. The Eddie who never opened this bar. The Eddie who never lost her. The Eddie who died young. The Eddie who succeeded. The Eddie who failed.
All of me. All my choices. All my regrets.
"I kept this bar in superposition," I said, "because I couldn't choose which version of myself to be. The one who made mistakes or the one who learned from them. The successful one or the honest one. So I stayed in the middle. Existing in all states. Never committing."
"That's just running away," Lin said.
"Yeah. Same as you. Except I serve drinks and you commit murder." I set down the Resonator. "But here's the thing about quantum mechanics: observation doesn't just collapse the wave function. It creates it. Every time I see all these realities, I'm creating new possibilities. New branches. New choices."
9:45 PM.
Two minutes.
"I can see a reality," I said, "where you don't pull the trigger. Where you face what you've done. Where Wen lives and you have to be the same person as your guilt instead of killing it off. It's not a good reality. You'll probably go to jail in at least one of them. But you'll be whole."
"Why would I choose that?"
"Because the alternative is killing yourself forever. Pruning and pruning until there's nothing left but the worst version. Until you're just the murder, replaying across infinite realities." I leaned forward. "I've been running from my choices for twelve years. Don't make my mistake. Choose the hard reality. The real one."
9:47 PM.
Lin looked at his watch. At me. At all the versions of himself reflected in the mirror.
Then he set down the gun that existed in three realities.
All three versions.
Simultaneously.
"Damn it," he said. "I was supposed to be the smart one."
--------------------------------------------------
James Wen flickered back into existence at 9:48 PM, confused but alive in all realities. The wave function had uncollapsed. The murder had unhappened. Quantum mechanics was weird like that.
Mathew Lin sat at the bar, existentially exhausted, contemplating his imminent arrest in multiple realities.
"How long will I go away for?" he asked.
Sarah consulted her quantum notepad. "Three years in Reality A. Five in Reality B. Seven in Reality C. Plus probation. Plus therapy. Plus having to live with being the guy who tried to murder himself across multiple realities."
"That's not even an official crime."
"We're writing new laws as we speak. You're going to be a precedent."
He laughed, hollow. "At least I'll be famous."
Wen approached his other self. Or brother. Or victim. The relationship was complicated.
"Why'd you do it?" Wen asked.
"Because I thought success meant eliminating failure. Turns out it just means living with it." Lin finished his whiskey. "Sorry. For the attempted quantum murder."
"Apology noted. Not accepted. But noted."
They sat together at the bar, two versions of the same person who'd chosen different paths, now stuck with each other across multiple realities. It was going to be incredibly awkward.
Sarah arrested Lin in three realities simultaneously, which required paperwork I didn't want to think about. Mariko went home to her various lives. The bar slowly emptied of quantum patrons, all fading back to their primary realities.
I stayed, cleaning glasses that were both dirty and clean, in a bar that was simultaneously open and closed.
"Eddie," Wen said before leaving. "Thank you. For not choosing."
"I didn't not choose. I chose all of it. That's different."
"Is it?"
"I'm still figuring that out."
He smiled and faded, wave function collapsed but stable, alive in all the realities that mattered.
I locked up the bar. Or didn't. In quantum superposition, closing time is more of a suggestion.
Outside, the city existed in seventeen states. Manhattan and Shanghai and places with names I couldn't pronounce. All real. All happening. All mine to observe without forcing into a single truth.
Twelve years ago, I'd made this bar because I couldn't choose who to be. Tonight, I'd saved someone by showing him the same thing: that choosing isn't about eliminating possibilities. It's about holding them all and being brave enough to live with the contradiction.
Tomorrow, I'd still be running a bar that existed in quantum superposition. I'd still be serving drinks to people who were simultaneously alive and dead, here and elsewhere.
But maybe that was okay.
Maybe that was its own kind of choice.
I walked home through seventeen cities at once, a bartender in superposition, tired and alive and exactly where I needed to be.
Schrödinger's cat was waiting on my doorstep.
"Good shift?" he asked.
"Solved a quantum murder. Prevented a temporal paradox. Served drinks to the existentially confused."
"So, a typical Tuesday then."
"Pretty much."
We went inside to my apartment that was simultaneously tidy and a disaster, in a building that existed in multiple locations, in a life I'd chosen by refusing to choose.
And honestly?
It wasn't the worst way to live.
Just the most complicated.
But then again, everything's complicated when you're willing to hold all the possibilities at once.
Even happiness.
Especially happiness.
--------------------------------------------------
END
--------------------------------------------------