The cafeteria smelled like grease, disinfectant, and noise.
Rob Jones sat at the long plastic table near the windows, tray in front of him, sunlight cutting across the scratched surface in pale stripes. Around him, voices overlapped in the familiar, exhausting way they always did during lunch—complaints about homework, arguments over games, gossip about people he didn't really know.
Normal.
He focused on his food.
Vegetables. Rice. A bread roll. Flavored water in a plastic bottle.
No meat.
That had started about a month ago.
At first, his friends had joked about it.
"Since when are you a health nut?" one of them had laughed, stabbing a fry.
Rob had shrugged, smiling easily. "Since my stomach decided it hated me."
That explanation had been accepted without much thought. Most things were, when Rob delivered them with his usual upbeat tone and that familiar, harmless grin.
He lifted his fork and took a bite, chewing slowly, deliberately.
Across from him, his friends were eating like usual—burgers, chicken sandwiches, cafeteria mystery nuggets. One of them noticed Rob's tray and raised an eyebrow.
"You sure you don't want any of this?" they asked, nudging their plate toward him. "It's actually decent today."
Rob shook his head, still smiling. "I'm good."
And he was.
Mostly.
The truth was, he didn't miss meat.
Not in the way people expected him to.
The idea of it made something deep in his chest tighten—not hunger, not disgust, but a complicated, nauseating blend of memory and instinct he didn't have words for.
So he avoided it.
Simple solution.
People liked simple solutions.
As the conversation flowed around him, Rob listened more than he talked. That was another change—subtle enough that no one really pointed it out. He still laughed at jokes, still chimed in when it felt natural, but there was a patience to him now. A measured quality.
Like he was waiting for things to finish before responding.
A month ago, his grades had jumped.
Not all of them.
History still tripped him up—dates blurred together, timelines felt slippery, as if his brain didn't quite trust them. English was better than before, but essays still came back with red notes about "structure" and "depth."
Everything else?
Perfect.
Math. Science. Physics. Even chemistry, which he'd struggled with before, suddenly felt… obvious. Patterns snapped into place without effort. Formulas made intuitive sense, like he'd used them before instead of just learned them.
Every test came back with the same result.
100%.
At first, teachers had assumed it was a fluke.
Then a coincidence.
Then a concern.
Rob handled it the same way he handled everything: with a smile and zero drama.
"I just studied more," he'd said, shrugging. "Guess it clicked."
They didn't push.
They rarely did.
From the outside, nothing about Rob Jones screamed wrong.
He was still cheerful. Still polite. Still the kid who held doors open and laughed too loud at bad jokes. If anything, people said he seemed more mature lately. More… put together.
Occasionally, someone might notice he flinched at sudden noises. Or that his eyes tracked movement a little too quickly. Or that his smile froze for half a second too long when someone mentioned disasters on the news.
But those moments passed.
And so did the people who might've questioned them.
"Three weeks," one of his friends said through a mouthful of food. "Then winter break. I swear this semester took a decade."
Rob nodded. "Time's funny like that."
They blinked at him.
"…What?"
Rob laughed lightly. "Nothing. Just—yeah. Can't wait for the break."
That was true.
Winter break meant quiet. Fewer people. Fewer eyes.
Space to breathe.
The bell rang, harsh and shrill.
Lunch ended.
As trays were cleared and backpacks slung over shoulders, Rob stood with the rest of them, feeling that strange sense of distance settle in again—like he was present, but standing a step to the side of himself.
Still smiling.
Still fine.
By the time Rob got home, the sun was already low, painting the sky in washed-out oranges and grays.
His apartment greeted him the same way it always did: stale air, clutter, silence.
The moment the door shut behind him, the noise of the world dropped away.
Rob leaned back against the door and exhaled.
The smile slid off his face like it had never belonged there.
"…Okay," he said softly. "You can come out."
The air shifted.
Not dramatically. No flash of light, no sound effects.
Just… presence.
A splash of color appeared first—bright, almost obnoxiously so.
Jax materialized mid-spin, landing lightly on the coffee table with a flourish. He was small, barely the size of a large doll, with exaggerated proportions and clothes that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd never heard the word "subtle." His grin was wide, painted-on and expressive all at once, eyes sparkling with manic cheer.
"Ta-da!" Jax said, arms spread. "Home sweet home! Or, well, sweet-ish. We really should redecorate."
Rob snorted despite himself. "You don't even have real hands."
"Details!" Jax hopped down, doing a little twirl on the carpet. "Besides, placeholders can appreciate aesthetics too."
Another shape formed near the ceiling.
Ariel appeared seated in midair, wings folded behind her like an afterthought. She looked almost angelic at first glance—soft light, pale features, halo-like glow—but the scowl on her face ruined the illusion immediately.
"You're late," she said, arms crossed. "Again."
Rob kicked off his shoes. "School ran long."
"Hmph." Ariel looked away. "That's not an excuse."
The third presence was quieter.
Isi didn't appear so much as resolve—a gray triangle hovering near the corner of the room, edges sharp, surface perfectly flat. No face. No limbs. Just shape.
She didn't speak.
She never needed to.
Rob felt the familiar wash of information brush against his thoughts: time, date, environmental status, emotional fluctuations. All neatly packaged, all impersonal.
Isi had always been like that.
She was the first one who had hidden it.
The future.
Rob pushed away from the door and dropped his backpack onto the couch.
"Hey," he said, tone light. "I'm home."
Jax hopped up and plopped himself onto Rob's lap as soon as he sat down, crossing his legs and grabbing the TV remote. "Great! I was bored."
Ariel rolled her eyes. "Of course you were."
Rob didn't stop smiling.
They didn't talk about it.
They never did.
Not anymore.
Because they knew.
All of them did.
About a month ago, Rob's memories had… duplicated.
Not replaced. Not overwritten.
Duplicated.
Seventy percent of what lived in his head now hadn't happened here.
They were memories of another timeline. Another reality.
One where the world ended screaming.
A zombie invasion that didn't turn people into mindless monsters—but hungry, thinking ones. Heroes. Gods. Everyone.
Rob had been one of them.
He'd learned how to endure hunger without giving in. How to exist as a monster and still cling to something like morality.
And when it became too much—when the weight of it all crushed him—
He reset time.
Erased that reality entirely.
No flesh-eating Superman.
No dead Flash.
No Galactus reduced to prey instead of predator.
That future no longer existed.
But the memories did.
And Rob carried them.
He hid it well.
Too well.
Inside, he was exhausted.
Not just tired.
Depressed in a way that settled into his bones, heavy and unyielding. A grief that didn't have a funeral. Trauma without witnesses.
The summons—his other friends—knew better than to bring it up.
They could feel the future in him.
Jax, for all his noise, avoided certain jokes now. Ariel's sharp edges dulled whenever Rob went quiet. Isi filtered information more carefully than before.
Rob had complicated feelings about them.
They'd hidden the truth from him in that other timeline. Protected him, they'd said.
He understood why.
That didn't make it hurt less.
Rob stood and headed for the kitchen.
"Dinner," he announced cheerfully. "Leftovers."
He reheated vegetables, scooped rice into a bowl, poured himself more flavored water. Everything neat. Controlled.
He sat at the small table and began to eat.
Slowly.
Mindfully.
Halfway through, his eyes caught on something in the fridge.
Meat.
Leftover pork, wrapped and forgotten.
His stomach flipped.
Without thinking, he took it out, set it on the counter.
The smell hit him.
Something twisted violently inside his chest.
His hand shook.
"Nope," he said softly.
He dumped it straight into the trash, tied the bag tight, and shoved it down beneath other waste until it was out of sight.
He stood there for a second, breathing hard.
Then—
Jax climbed back into his lap, lighter than he had any right to be.
"There we go," Jax said gently, pressing the remote into Rob's hand. "Distractions."
The TV flickered on.
A random rom-com filled the screen—bright colors, exaggerated acting, predictable dialogue.
Rob leaned back, exhaustion washing over him.
Ariel settled nearby, pretending not to watch. Isi hovered silently, ever-present.
Rob took another bite of food.
It stayed down.
He exhaled.
For now, that was enough.