Erasmus walked with his usual measured pace, a seamless thread in the tide of the faithful. The city pulsed around him—chants of prayer rising and falling in waves, hushed conversations threading through the air like whispered confessions, the rhythmic toll of bells carving time into something tangible. The scent of burning incense clung thick to the streets, laced with the metallic tang of purifying salts, embedding itself into breath, into skin. Statues of saints loomed overhead, blindfolded visages carved into the towering facades of the temple district, their expressions fixed in eternal, unseeing serenity. He had walked this path countless times, his world constructed from sound, from touch, from the subtle shifts of air that wove reality into a form he could wield. But today, something was wrong.
It was faint at first—an irregularity at the edges of perception, like a note out of tune, a shadow where none should fall. Erasmus did not see in the way others did, but he knew the language of movement, of breath, of intent. The way footsteps struck stone revealed hesitation; the way lungs emptied exposed unease; the way a heartbeat quickened, ever so slightly, whispered of fear unspoken. Yet this was different. It did not breathe, did not stir the air, did not exist in any way he could define—only in the undeniable shape of its absence. A distortion. A ripple. A fracture.
Then, the voice.
Low. Firm. Familiar.
"Erasmus."
His stride halted mid-step.
That voice belonged to his father. And yet, his father had been dead for years.
The city vanished.
Stone walls. Wooden floors. The scent of candle wax and aged parchment. Silence pressing against his skin, not the stillness of emptiness, but the presence of something that did not need to move to be felt. Home. His childhood home. Too vivid to be memory, too precise to be dream. The weight of expectation hung in the air, rigid, unyielding.
"Come here," the voice repeated.
Erasmus did not move. The air did not shift. No dust stirred. The silence stretched, thick and unnatural, the kind that swallowed sound rather than merely containing it. Something was watching.
Then—darkness.
And in the space of a breath, the city returned. The murmuring faithful passed him by, undisturbed. The world continued, seamless, untouched. But it had happened. He exhaled slowly, tension coiling in his chest. That had not been a memory. Too sharp. Too sudden. A message. A warning. A moment from something yet to occur.
Hallucination was an easy explanation. But Erasmus had spent his life dissecting illusion, constructing his mind into something impervious, unshaken, incorruptible. And yet—this had slipped through. The impossibility of it only made it more certain. There was a source. A cause. If reality had trembled, he would find where the crack had formed.
—
That night, within the solitude of his dwelling, he sat at his desk, the single candle flickering unevenly, its flame twisting, distorting, as if unseen fingers toyed with its shape. Shadows stretched across scattered parchment, words inked into permanence, immutable in a way reality no longer seemed to be. His fingers traced the texture of the pages, feeling knowledge written in tangible form. Theories on biological enhancements, genetic anomalies, the foundations of prolonged existence—none of it explained this.
He steadied his breathing, drawing his awareness into a razor-sharp focus. Every sound, every vibration, every shift in the air collapsed into singular clarity. He had honed this ability—not merely to perceive, but to control perception itself, to sharpen his mind into something that could pierce the fabric of deception. And he waited.
For a long while—nothing.
Then—something.
A ripple. A fracture in time.
His senses twisted. The world bent.
He saw himself. Hours from now.
Sitting just as he was, fingers tapping against the grain of the desk. The candle had burned lower, wax pooling in uneven drips. But something had changed. A sound—subtle, distant at first, then growing. The creak of footsteps against the wooden floor outside. A knock at the door. Three sharp raps, precise, deliberate.
A whisper of unease curled through his chest.
Then—he was back. The candle still burned. The silence had not shifted. But the moment he had seen had not yet arrived.
Minutes stretched.
Then—three knocks.
His pulse did not quicken. His thoughts sharpened. Cause and effect. The moment had been real, but not immutable. He rose, moving toward the door with measured steps. His fingers hovered over the handle, then—hesitation. A deviation. Instead of opening it, he shifted to the side, pressing his back to the wall. A calculated break in pattern. If the vision was correct, then whatever stood beyond would not expect the change.
He waited.
A pause. A breath—not his own.
Someone stood outside. Listening.
Seconds passed. Then—retreating footsteps.
Gone.
Erasmus exhaled slowly. The vision had not been false. It had been possible. And possibilities could be shaped.
—
Days passed in scrutiny. Every routine examined. Every shift in the city's rhythm dissected. The unseen weight of a presence lingered, not watching, not breathing, but there. It did not haunt—it waited. And then, reality gave way.
It began as an absence. A silence too deep.
Then—the fracture.
A pulse, deep and resonant, not heard but felt, rippling through the city like an unspoken decree. The air hollowed. Glass shattered in nearby windows, though no force had struck them. Candle flames twisted, bending into impossible forms. Somewhere, a child screamed—then silence, abrupt and unnatural, as if the sound had been devoured before it could fully form.
The city held its breath.
Erasmus did not.
Where others would have questioned, would have prayed, would have grasped blindly for explanations in faith or madness, he did neither. He merely understood.
This was not an ending.
This was the beginning.
A slow smile ghosted across his lips.
The rules of this world were no longer absolute.
And if something had undone them—
Then so could he.