When Alen finally opened his eyes, a sharp throb pierced his skull.
He groaned, pushing himself up from the cold steel bed, and found himself inside a glass chamber—sealed tight on all sides. The walls were smooth, transparent yet distorted, reflecting his own image endlessly back at him. It was as though he were trapped inside a prism of himself, each angle capturing a different fragment of confusion and irritation.
'Shit... where am I?'
He rose to his feet, fingertips brushing against the cold surface, searching for a seam, a crack—anything. But the chamber was flawless. Apart from the bed draped in a thin white sheet, there was nothing.
Alen sat back on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, eyes closed, slipping into meditation. 'Okay, I still have the portal ball switch with me. But if I use it now... how will I get home?'
His mind raced.
'Should I try contacting the Earth-1232 Branch of the Time Keeping Agency? But... I don't have my bag. Damn it, everything was in that bag—'
His eyes snapped open.
'Wait... that furball... Momo was in that bag. Shit. Shit. Shit.'
Before he could spiral further, a soft whirr echoed in the room. A hologram shimmered into existence before him—a woman in a crimson dress, blood-red lipstick painting her lips, and striking, anchor-shaped eyes. Her presence was sharp, deliberate.
"Hello, little boy," she said, leaning slightly closer to the camera, her smile practiced.
Alen blinked, then smirked. "Wow... a beauty. Finally, someone with taste. I'm not into small girls—you're definitely more my type."
The woman faltered for a moment, glancing off-screen to her right. Her hesitation wasn't missed.
'Ah. So she's not the one pulling the strings. Just a pawn. Interesting.'
She cleared her throat, adjusting her glasses. "I didn't come here for your flirtations."
"Oh, don't worry," Alen said, propping his chin on his palm, tone smooth, eyes calm. "Say whatever you like. I'm all ears."
Her expression hardened. She crossed her arms. "Why were you chasing Mr. Karl?"
Alen's eyes sharpened momentarily, then he relaxed again. "Oh, that guy? I'm not into men. No thanks."
"Stop fooling around. Tell me about the device you were using—and why it detected Mr. Karl."
"Oh, that?" Alen shrugged. "I was told to investigate him. The device? Just a location scanner. Nothing fancy."
The woman went quiet, processing. Her eyes flicked once more to the right, toward whoever was really in charge. Then, she turned back, microphone reactivating with a low beep.
"Then hand over that device."
Alen's lips curled into a smile.
'So... they didn't get the bag. Good.'
He stood slowly, scanning his reflection in the glass. "How strong are these walls?" he asked, his voice casual.
She was about to answer when a hand from off-screen slammed a red button. The hologram vanished instantly.
The cell fell back into eerie silence. Alen's gaze lifted to a darkened corner of the ceiling.
'They're watching me. Constant surveillance. But one thing's certain—they don't know who I am. I wasn't the target... I just became one because I got close to that man.'
He lay back on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, legs crossed. His golden eyes drifted lazily around the chamber.
'A single man triggering a major timeline branch... and there are people scrambling to protect him. Suspicious.'
His thoughts wandered again—to Momo, to the bag.
'If anyone here finds out about alien life—TKA's existence couldn't be compromised. That would bring chaos.'
His eyes closed.
'Let's just wait... for now. Play it harmless.'
____
Back at the university, the corridors had emptied, echoing with only the distant whispers of anxious students.
After the military left, news spread fast: they had caught a serial killer. That's what they were told.
Amidst the murmurs, speculation, and fear, a lone bag lay forgotten against the corridor wall—unnoticed, unclaimed. It had been carelessly discarded in the chaos.
Inside the bag, nestled in darkness, Momo blinked his wide eyes. Through the small air holes, he watched the world pass by. He didn't dare move. He stayed still, silent.
And then—
A hand.
It reached in without hesitation, lifting the bag and disappearing down the corridor without a sound.
The bag was gone.
_____
Far away, in a place lined with chandeliers and suffused with the warmth of vintage elegance, a man in a purple silk robe moved gracefully through an expansive hall. The air was filled with the faint scent of roasted beans and old wood.
He balanced a coffee cup in one hand, the other holding a phone pressed between his shoulder and ear.
"Well, I don't think I have any enemies," he said casually, pouring milk into his steaming mug.
The voice from the speaker was low and precise. "But the boy said he was investigating you."
Karl chuckled. "I'm just a professor. Why would anyone be interested in me?"
The voice hesitated, then softened. "We'll be in touch. If you remember anything—report immediately."
The call ended with a soft beep.
Karl sighed, tossing the phone onto the velvet sofa and taking a slow sip from his cup.
"what was it Mr. Karl?"
The voice came from the other end of the room—an identical man in the same tailored suit Karl had worn to the university. He was lounging comfortably on the couch, legs crossed.
Karl didn't look at him. "The boy... the one following you—" He corrected himself. "Us. There's something going on. I can feel it."
His doppelgänger nodded slowly, mirroring his posture. "I see"
_____
Elsewhere, deep within a facility far removed from light or law, a man sat quietly behind a metal desk. The room stretched long and wide, every wall paneled in deep bronze. Stacked shelves lined the sides, overflowing with patient files, bloodied cloth, and forgotten truths.
The man in his 40s wore an old, creased shirt, spectacles perched low on his nose, and hair neatly combed like a ritual. In the silence, only the scratch of his pen on paper could be heard.
A scream tore through the air.
"LET ME GO! I DIDN'T WANT TO KILL THEM—I DIDN'T MEAN TO! PLEASE!"
The voice was hoarse, broken, filled with pure terror. But Adman didn't flinch. His pen continued to glide, emotionless.
'Because of guilt stemming from the murder of his family members, Patient 0875 committed suicide. The patient used a broken ceramic plate to slit his throat. Cause of death: exsanguination. No medical response administered in time.'
Signature: Adman Choroid_
Head Psychiatrist.
The words flowed like a poem on death.
Beside Adman, bound to a heavy metal chair, sat the screaming patient—his hair wild and drenched, stuck to his feverish face. His white hospital uniform was stained with blood, both dry and fresh. Steel cuffs locked his wrists and ankles to the chair's cold frame. The struggle had worn his skin raw.
Two identical men stood on either side of him, both exact replicas of Adman. Their expressions were flat, eyes devoid of empathy.
One of them—the Adman on the left—held a syringe. The red liquid within shimmered faintly.
"NO! NO! PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU—I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"
His crieed, trembling with desperation. But the syringe didn't stop. It shot into his vein, the plunger pressed down in slow, unmerciful rhythm.
The screams faltered.
The central Adman stood, stretching his limbs as if waking from a nap. He stepped toward the dying man with clinical interest.
"Treat the patients with kindness," he said softly, the words like a lullaby drowned in poison. "We mustn't let them feel pain."
Swish.
The wall behind them shifted, opening like a silent maw. A glowing white shaft yawned into the ground like a sacrificial well. The two Admans lifted the patient's now-limp body and threw him in without ceremony.
A second later, a sickening crunch echoed up.
The glow inside the shaft flickered—and they stirred.
From behind bars embedded in the well's walls, they emerged. Skin grey, eyes dull and empty, mouths dripping with bile and rot. Dozens of them—feral, broken minds imprisoned in living corpses.
"Release them," Adman whispered.
The gates slid open.
The moment the first creature touched the body, it tore him apart. Bone cracked. Blood splattered. Flesh was devoured in seconds.
Adman watched with quiet admiration. "We must be kind to them," he murmured again. "Death should be painless."
Inside the same building somewhere, Alen was lying on the bed with closed eyes.