The abandoned warehouse district looked exactly as Ethan remembered—rusted metal, shattered windows, and the stench of industrial decay.
But that wasn't what made his hands shake as he stood at the chain-link fence.
It was the memory.
In the first timeline, he'd come here on Day 3, desperate and terrified, following a rumor about a "safe place" to hide. Instead, he'd found his first dungeon gate and nearly died to a Level 5 Goblin Warrior.
Marcus had saved him that day. Pulled him from the dungeon's maw with seconds to spare.
Now, Marcus was back at the dorm, oblivious. And Ethan was here alone, six days early, hunting for the entrance that wouldn't appear until the System descended.
But I need to confirm the location, Ethan thought, ducking through a gap in the fence. Timeline deviations could change everything.
The industrial park sprawled across three blocks—warehouses, old factories, rusted equipment scattered like a graveyard of American manufacturing. Graffiti covered every surface. Homeless camps dotted the periphery.
Ethan navigated by memory, boots crunching on broken glass.
Building 7-C. Northwest corner. Third floor, maintenance room behind the electrical panel.
That's where the gate would spawn.
He picked his way through the condemned building, every shadow triggering combat instincts his body no longer possessed. His heart rate spiked. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool air.
PTSD response, he recognized clinically. Ten years of hypervigilance don't disappear just because you regressed.
Third floor. The stairs groaned under his weight. He half-expected them to collapse—they would, eventually, in year four when scavengers stripped the building for metal.
The maintenance room door hung crooked on broken hinges.
Ethan stepped inside.
Dust motes danced in shafts of dying sunlight. Electrical panels lined the walls, long dead. Industrial shelving held forgotten supplies: rusted tools, moth-eaten tarps, a calendar still showing July 2019.
And there—
Northwest corner. Exactly where he remembered.
A blank concrete wall.
Ethan approached slowly, pulled a marker from his pocket, and drew a small X at chest height.
"Gotcha," he whispered.
In seven days, this wall would shimmer and tear open. A D-rank dungeon would spawn—low level, perfect for early grinding. Most people would miss it entirely, overwhelmed by the chaos.
But Ethan would be here, waiting.
This dungeon held three crucial items:
Fragment of the Void (1 of 3 needed for Void Reaver class)
Skill Book: Enhanced Perception (would save his life dozens of times)
Boots of Swift Travel (+20% movement speed)
He'd clear it solo in under two hours if everything went according to plan.
If.
His phone buzzed.
Ethan tensed, expecting another cryptic message. Instead—
[Marcus: Yo where you at? Pizza run in 20. You in?]
Ethan exhaled. Normal. Mundane. Safe.
[Ethan: Yeah. Be there soon.]
He took one last look at the marked wall, committing every detail to memory, then turned to leave—
—and froze.
Someone was watching him.
The awareness hit like ice water down his spine. A decade of survival instinct screamed DANGER.
Ethan spun.
The doorway was empty.
But he'd felt it. Eyes on him. Presence in the shadows.
"Who's there?" His voice echoed in the empty room.
Silence.
Ethan's hand drifted to his pocket—empty, useless, no weapon—and cursed internally. His body remembered being Level 127, but reality was painfully different.
"I know someone's there," he called out. "Show yourself."
Movement. Just a flicker in his peripheral vision.
A figure stepped from behind a support pillar twenty feet away.
Female. Late twenties. Long dark coat despite the weather. Asian features, shoulder-length black hair, eyes that reflected light like a cat's.
Ethan's breath caught.
Yuki.
No—not Yuki. This woman was older, sharper, harder. But the resemblance was uncanny.
"Impressive," the woman said, voice smooth as silk over steel. "You felt me. Most civilians wouldn't."
"Who are you?" Ethan demanded, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"Someone who knows what's coming." She tilted her head, studying him. "The question is—how do you know?"
Ethan's mind raced. Play dumb? Attack? Run?
The woman smiled. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, you'd be bleeding already."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be." She stepped closer, boots silent on concrete. "You've been here before. This exact spot. This exact building. I can see it in how you move—too confident, too precise. Like you've mapped every inch."
Shit. She was perceptive.
"I explore," Ethan said carefully. "Urban ruins. It's a hobby."
"Liar." She stopped ten feet away. "You came here looking for something specific. Marked that wall like you expect something to appear there."
Ethan said nothing.
The woman's smile widened. "Let me guess. March 8th, approximately noon. A gate opens. D-rank dungeon. Easy pickings for someone who knows what they're doing."
Ethan's blood turned to ice. "How—"
"Because I'm looking for the same thing." She pulled a marker from her coat, held it up. "Was going to mark the spot myself. Seems you beat me to it."
Another regressor.
Impossible. The System had said—
"The System lies," the woman said, like she'd read his mind. "They gave you regression, sure. But you're not the only one."
"How many?" Ethan's voice came out hollow.
"Does it matter?" She shrugged. "We're all playing the same game. Trying to change the outcome. Save our people. Get stronger before it's too late."
"What do you want?"
"Same thing you do. To survive. To win." Her eyes glinted. "But here's the problem, Ethan Cross—that dungeon only drops one Fragment of the Void. And we both need it."
He didn't ask how she knew his name. If she was a regressor, she could know anything.
"So what?" Ethan said coldly. "You planning to kill me?"
"Kill you? No." The woman laughed. "That would create too many timeline deviations. Butterfly effects are already spiraling. Adding murder to the mix would be... messy."
"Then what?"
"A proposal." She stepped closer, close enough that Ethan could see the faint scars on her hands—fighter's scars. "We split resources. You take the Fragment. I take the skill book and boots. We both get stronger. Both survive. Both have a chance."
"Why would I trust you?"
"Because you don't have a choice." Her voice dropped to ice. "I know your plan, Ethan. Void Reaver class. SSS-rank. Solo carry humanity to victory. Very heroic."
She leaned in, breath cold against his ear.
"But what happens when other regressors have different plans? When someone decides they should be the hero? When the timeline fractures because ten different people are trying to 'fix' the same events?"
Ethan shoved her back. "Get to the point."
The woman straightened, unbothered. "The point is: cooperation or chaos. We can help each other, or we can sabotage each other. Your choice."
"I don't even know your name."
"Selene." She extended a hand. "Selene Park. Died on Day 2,847 in the first timeline. Regressed back two weeks ago. Currently Level 0 and hating every second of being weak again."
Ethan stared at her hand.
Every instinct screamed don't trust her. In the apocalypse, allies became enemies the moment resources got scarce. Betrayal was currency.
But she had a point. If multiple regressors existed, fighting each other would doom everyone.
He took her hand. Firm grip. Calloused palms.
"Ethan Cross. Died Day 3,652. Regressed... yesterday."
"You lasted longer," Selene noted. "Impressive. Must've been hell."
"You have no idea."
"Oh, I do." Her expression darkened. "I watched everyone I loved die too. That's why I'm not wasting this chance."
They held the handshake a beat too long, both assessing, both calculating.
Finally, Ethan pulled back. "If we're doing this, ground rules. We share information. No sabotage. No killing each other's targets."
"Agreed. And one more thing—" Selene's eyes hardened. "We keep each other's existence secret. The System is watching. Other regressors are watching. The moment they know we're cooperating, we become targets."
"Fine."
"Good." She turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Ethan? That mysterious texter who's been spooking you?"
Ethan tensed. "That was you?"
"No. That's what worries me." Selene glanced back. "Someone else knows about regression. Someone who isn't playing by the rules. Watch your back."
She vanished into the shadows like smoke.
Ethan stood alone in the maintenance room, mind reeling.
Multiple regressors. Unknown variables. The System watching.
This was already more complicated than the first timeline.
His phone buzzed.
[Marcus: Bro pizza's here. Where you at?]
Ethan shook himself, forced his racing thoughts to slow.
"One problem at a time," he muttered, heading for the exit.
The sun was setting as he left the warehouse district, painting the sky in blood-red hues.
Fitting, Ethan thought grimly. In six days, that's what the real sky will look like.
Thirty minutes later, Ethan sat in the dorm common room with Marcus and four other guys, demolishing pizza and pretending to care about March Madness brackets.
"Come on, Duke's gonna sweep!" one guy argued.
"Duke chokes every year," Marcus countered. "Villanova all the way."
Ethan barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere, cataloging:
Known Regressors: 2 (Self + Selene)
Unknown Variables: Mysterious texter, other potential regressors
Days Until Apocalypse: 6
Immediate Threats: None (yet)
"Yo, Ethan!" Marcus threw a crust at him. "You voting Duke or Villanova?"
"Huh? Oh. Neither. Apocalypse wins."
Everyone laughed.
"Apocalypse isn't even in the tournament, idiot," someone said.
"Just wait," Ethan murmured. "Six days."
More laughter. Marcus grinned. "You been smoking something, man? You're talking nonsense."
If only you knew, Ethan thought, forcing a smile. If only you knew how right I am.
His phone buzzed again. He checked it casually—
[Unknown: She lied to you, Ethan.]
His blood froze.
[Unknown: Selene Park isn't what she claims. Check her background. Check her death date. Check everything.]
[Unknown: Trust no one. Not even other regressors.]
[Unknown: Especially not other regressors.]
The messages vanished.
Ethan's hands clenched around his phone so hard the plastic creaked.
"You good?" Marcus asked, noticing.
"Yeah. Just... spam again."
"You should block them."
"I will." After I figure out who the hell they are.
The rest of the night blurred. Ethan went through the motions—laughing at jokes, making small talk, acting normal.
But inside, his mind was a storm.
Selene had lied? About what? Her death date? Her intentions?
Or was the mysterious texter lying, trying to sow discord?
Paranoia, Ethan recognized. Classic apocalypse survivor paranoia.
In the first timeline, it had kept him alive. Trusting the wrong person meant death.
But this was different. This was before the apocalypse. Treating everyone as a threat would drive him insane.
He needed balance. Caution without paralysis.
At 11 PM, Ethan excused himself and headed back to his room.
Marcus was already snoring in bed, dead to the world.
Ethan sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and typed: Selene Park.
University records showed her as a transfer student, junior year, engineering major. Clean record. No red flags.
He dug deeper. Social media showed a normal college life—parties, study groups, coffee shop check-ins. Nothing suspicious.
But there were gaps. Whole months where she didn't post. Places she claimed to be that didn't match timestamps.
Covering her tracks, Ethan realized. She's been preparing for this too.
His phone buzzed. A new number.
[Selene: Stop digging. I know you're checking me out. It's smart, but pointless. Meet tomorrow, 6 AM, campus library. Third floor. Come alone.]
Ethan typed back: [Why should I?]
[Selene: Because I have information you need. About the other regressors. About who's texting you. About what's really happening.]
[Selene: Trust me or don't. But if you skip this meeting, you'll regret it when the apocalypse starts.]
Ethan stared at the screen.
Every fiber of his being said trap.
But he'd survived ten years of hell by taking calculated risks.
This was one of them.
[Ethan: I'll be there.]
[Selene: Smart boy. Don't be late.]
He closed the phone, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling.
"Six days," he whispered to the darkness. "Six days and it all begins again."
Outside, the night was peaceful. Stars twinkled. Crickets chirped.
Somewhere across campus, Aria Sinclair slept peacefully, unaware she'd awaken in less than a week with the power to heal—and the destiny to die.
Somewhere in the city, Victor Kane studied for midterms, unaware he'd soon become a warlord.
And somewhere, hidden in shadows, other regressors plotted and planned, each convinced they would be the one to save humanity.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd meet Selene. Learn what she knew. Decide if she was ally or enemy.
Tonight, he'd sleep—if the nightmares let him.
They didn't.
At 3 AM, Ethan woke screaming, Marcus shaking him.
"Dude! You okay?! You were yelling about blood and monsters and—"
"I'm fine," Ethan gasped, drenched in sweat. "Just a nightmare."
"That's the third one this week, man. You sure you don't need—"
"I'm fine." Ethan's tone killed the conversation.
Marcus retreated to bed, concerned but silent.
Ethan sat in darkness, trembling, waiting for dawn.
Five days, nineteen hours, he counted. Then I can stop pretending.
Then the real fight begins.
His phone lit up one more time.
[Unknown: Sweet dreams, Ethan. While you still can.]
No number. No trace.
Just a message that vanished into the digital void.
Ethan didn't sleep again that night.