I went home that night, convincing myself it was just exhaustion—hallucinations brought on by the cold and a long day. Nothing more.
But as the days passed, the glitches didn't stop.
My coffee vanished from my hand before I could take a sip. I found myself standing in rooms I didn't remember entering. Conversations seemed to rewind, moments repeating like a broken tape.
At first, I ignored it. Tried to push it aside. But curiosity got the better of me.
I spent an entire day experimenting—trying to control it, to trigger the skips at will. I tested how far I could look ahead, even stealing glimpses into the past. Time bent around me like a living thing, shifting, unraveling, waiting to be understood.
Then I looked too far.
I don't know how deep into the future I went, but what I saw—I wish I hadn't.
The world was in ruins. Cities swallowed by fire and ash. The sky, a fractured void. And then, amidst the destruction, I saw them—the gates.
Colossal, jagged structures, pulsing with an unnatural glow, torn open like wounds in reality. And from them, things poured out. Twisted, hulking creatures with too many limbs, eyes that burned like dying stars, mouths that stretched open far wider than they should.
They spread like a plague, consuming everything in their path. I saw people running, screaming, fighting back with weapons that barely made a difference. Buildings collapsed, the earth itself cracked, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh.
It wasn't just the future—it was the end of everything.