The first time Eryndor realized he was being followed, he was already late.
Not late in time.
Late in sequence.
That was becoming a problem lately.
The streets above Velkaris Prime were still functioning, but poorly—like reality was running on memory instead of certainty.
A tram passed twice in the same direction.
A woman stepped out of a shop she had not entered yet.
A child pointed at Eryndor and immediately forgot why.
"…Frey," someone muttered nearby.
Nobody reacted.
It was too common now.
Eryndor walked through the lower district with his coat slightly open.
He felt it before he saw it.
That was the first rule of regressors.
When something was wrong, the world usually warned you twice—once through instinct, and once through regret.
This time, it was instinct.
And it felt familiar.
Too familiar.
Behind him, the alley did not exist consistently.
Sometimes it was there.
Sometimes it was a wall.
Sometimes it was already occupied.
And sometimes—
it was empty in a way that felt intentional.
Eryndor stopped walking.
"…You're not subtle," he said quietly.
No answer.
A pause.
Then—
footsteps.
Not approaching.
Already present.
A man stepped out of the distortion in the alley like he had been there the entire time and reality had simply forgotten to mention it.
He wore a dark, worn coat stitched with faint temporal marks.
His face was tired in a way that suggested exhaustion across multiple lifetimes.
Short black hair.
Scarred knuckles.
Gray eyes that looked like they had stopped believing in surprise a long time ago.
He looked at Eryndor for a long moment.
Then sighed.
"…You're not supposed to be in this layer."
Eryndor didn't respond immediately.
Because something about the man's presence felt wrong.
Not powerful.
Not threatening.
Recognizable.
Like a failed memory trying to repeat correctly.
"…I don't know you," Eryndor said.
The man tilted his head slightly.
"That's worse."
A faint pressure expanded between them.
The air tightened.
Not physically.
Interpretively.
The nearby street began flickering between versions of itself.
A broken cart appeared and disappeared.
Footprints formed in reverse.
A passing merchant suddenly walked backward mid-step without realizing it.
The man exhaled slowly.
"…You're causing resonance instability."
Eryndor frowned slightly.
"I'm walking."
"That's what I said."
Silence.
The man's hand moved slightly.
Not fast.
Prepared.
A small blade appeared between his fingers—not summoned, simply remembered into existence.
Eryndor's body reacted before thought.
He stepped back.
A fraction of a second later—
the space where he had been folded inward violently.
Not cut.
Rewritten.
Eryndor's eyes narrowed.
"…you're a regressor."
The man gave a short humorless laugh.
"Congratulations. You still recognize patterns."
Behind them, the alley flickered again.
For a brief moment—
there were multiple versions of the same confrontation occurring at once.
One where Eryndor was already dead.
One where the man was bleeding from the throat.
One where neither of them had moved yet.
Then reality snapped back to a single thread.
Eryndor felt something sharp in his ribs.
He had not seen the attack.
But his body remembered it happening.
"…Frey," he muttered.
The man's expression changed slightly.
"You use that word too often."
"I'm starting to see why."
The regressor stepped forward.
This time slower.
Controlled.
"Listen carefully," he said.
Eryndor didn't move.
The air around them felt heavier now.
Not pressure.
Accumulated outcomes.
The man continued.
"You're not stable."
"I noticed."
"No—you don't understand."
A pause.
The regressor's gray eyes sharpened slightly.
"I've seen unstable."
"…I've been unstable."
Another step.
"But you—"
He stopped.
For the first time, hesitation.
"…you don't behave like someone who is meant to continue between sequences."
Eryndor's expression darkened slightly.
"What does that mean?"
The regressor didn't answer immediately.
Because the answer was dangerous to say out loud.
Instead, he attacked.
Fast.
Clean.
A strike aimed not at Eryndor's body—
but at his continuity.
Eryndor moved.
Barely.
The impact missed—
then still connected.
Pain arrived a fraction too late.
Blood appeared on Eryndor's shoulder without a visible wound.
He stumbled back.
The world flickered.
For a split second—
Eryndor saw himself already fallen.
Then standing.
Then not existing at all in this position.
He gasped slightly.
The regressor exhaled.
"…good."
Eryndor looked up.
"Good?"
"I was wrong about your survival window."
A faint exhaustion entered his voice.
"That makes this more complicated."
Eryndor tightened his stance.
He didn't understand everything.
But he understood something simple:
This man had killed him before.
Not once.
Not here.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere that still mattered.
And worse—
the man remembered it.
The regressor stepped forward again.
"Try not to die too quickly this time," he said quietly.
Eryndor wiped blood from his lip.
"…I'll do my best."
The alley flickered violently.
Reality hesitated.
Then—
the fight truly began.