“Always One Step Ahead” parts 1-4

Part 1: The Storm and the Constant

Year 3141 – Sector 12-B – Western Wastes

The wind howled through broken towers, singing through steel bones and shattered glass. Lena adjusted the dial on her suit, filtering out the radiation-heavy dust that scraped against her helmet-like whispers of the dead.

Her boots crunched over a blanket of gray ash as she stepped through the ruins. The sky was a bruised orange. A storm was coming — not weather, not anything natural. Something temporal. Something twisted.

“Lena Reyes, Chrono Agent 7-B, logged and synced,” she muttered into the recorder embedded in her sleeve. “Arrival timestamp: 08:47 local time, Year 3141. Target: Locate anomaly previously logged as ‘The Constant.’ Code name: A.”

She paused outside what used to be a vending machine — twisted, half-buried, red paint flaking. She almost missed the shape on top of it. Until he moved.

“I wondered when you’d get here,” he said.

Same voice. Same maddening calm. His silhouette was unmistakable even through the haze: long coat, worn at the edges like he'd been wearing it for centuries; dark hair pulled back, strands escaping in the wind; and eyes that always seemed too still, like time didn't dare move around him.

“You.”

She didn’t reach for her sidearm. Not yet.

“How are you always here before me?” she demanded.

“I told you before,” he said, sliding down from the machine like he was stepping off a throne. “Time doesn’t work for me the way it works for you.”

“Stop being cryptic,” she snapped. “You’ve been leaving notes — following me, tracking me across centuries.”

He tilted his head. “Following you?” A bitter laugh. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

That stopped her. The scanner on her wrist beeped erratically — too much temporal interference. Too much him.

“You came here knowing I’d follow the signal.”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?” Her voice dropped. “Why now?”

He stepped forward, slow and steady, like he wasn’t sure she’d let him get close. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t relax either.

“Because” he said, “this is your last jump.”

Part 2: The Timeline That Shouldn’t Exist

Year 2264 – The Santiago Collapse

There were timelines Lena Reyes had permission to enter.

And then there was Santiago 2264 — a forbidden event, locked under ten layers of red tape, classed as a temporal rupture nexus. No one was supposed to go near it. No one survived it.

But he’d gone.

And because of that, she had too.

It began with a ripple in her tether.

Chrono Agents were linked to fixed beacons in their assigned sectors. But on a routine jump to 2400 Tokyo, her tether glitched. Coordinates spiraled. Emergency override kicked in. She crash-landed in the middle of a crumbling city—dust, fire, and screams.

Her HUD flickered: LOCATION: UNKNOWN
Then the timestamp stabilized:
2264.03.02 // Santiago Collapse

Her blood ran cold.

“No,” she muttered. “No, no—this isn’t right.” She hit her communicator, but it was already fried. Overhead, buildings folded like dominoes. A second quake was coming.

And then—

He was there.

Dragging her out from under twisted beams. Blood on his hands. Breath ragged.

She blacked out before she could ask how.

When she woke, the city was silent.

Everything was covered in soot. Fires burned in the distance. She was wrapped in his coat, her sidearm gone, her tether disabled.

He sat by the wall of what used to be a hospital, staring at nothing.

“You broke protocol,” she rasped.

He didn’t look at her. “I saved your life.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You were dying, Lena.”

“You let this timeline exist. You interfered.”

Finally, he turned his gaze on her. Dark eyes, unreadable. “So did you.”

She tried to sit up, but pain lanced through her ribs. “I came because something pulled me here. You pulled me here.”

“Yes.” The word held no apology. “Because I couldn’t watch you die again.”

Her breath caught. “Again?”

He didn’t answer. Just stood, walking slowly to where the building had cracked open like a ribcage. He spoke without turning around.

“This is the fifth time I’ve watched you bleed out in this city. I tried letting it happen. Once, I even left before the quake hit. Thought maybe that would fix the ripples.” He shook his head. “But time always brought you here. And every time, I buried you.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Until now.”

That night, they didn’t talk.

He lit a fire in the ruined stairwell. Wrapped her broken ribs in cloth soaked in painkillers. Sat with his back against the wall, eyes open the whole time she slept.

Lena dreamt of a different version of him — one who had kissed her once, before handing her over to the Chrono Tribunal.

She woke with his coat still wrapped around her.

“Why do you keep saving me?” she asked.

“Because it’s the only thing I know how to do anymore.”

They escaped Santiago 2264 on foot.
He guided her through buried transit tunnels, moving like someone who’d done this before — because he had. Dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.

When they reached the evac beacon, he handed her back her sidearm. No dramatic speeches. No pleading.

Just this:
“You won’t remember all of this when the Authority resets your memory logs. They always clean forbidden jumps.”
Then, a pause.
“But I left you something.”

She blinked. “Where?”

His smile was tired. “You’ll find it. You always do.”

Back to the Present – Year 3141

She stared at him across the fire, her mind spinning with fractured memories, incomplete data. Santiago was listed as a dead sector in her Chrono Pad. No logs. No records.

And yet… the scar on her ribs ached whenever she breathed deep.

“You risked everything,” she said softly.

He met her eyes. “You’re worth everything.”

She looked away. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I still don’t know if I forgive you.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“More time.”

Part 3: The Tether of Fate 

Lena’s heart pounded in her chest as the Chrono Port’s low hum filled her ears. She was in the final stages of preparation: the pressure suit, the tether, the chronometer—all meticulously calibrated for her first real jump. Her training had prepared her for this moment, but that didn’t stop the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach.

It was official now. She wasn’t a cadet anymore. She was a Chrono Agent. And her mission was clear: to jump into a relatively stable period—1347, the height of the Black Death—and observe, document, and ensure that no unauthorized time travelers were altering history. Simple enough, right?

But something about the mission didn’t sit right with her.

Her first jump wasn’t supposed to be anything extraordinary. They had assigned her to monitor a well-documented period, one that couldn’t be avoided. The Black Death was an event history couldn’t escape, no matter how hard one tried. It had ravaged Europe, leaving death and despair in its wake, and the timeline had long since been sealed in an unchangeable loop.

And yet, standing there, Lena couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission would be different. That something—or someone—was waiting for her in the past.

The chrono-portal opened before her, a swirl of light and time, pulling at her consciousness, until her surroundings dissolved. The world around her bent, twisted, and then—snap—she was gone.

Year 1347 – The Streets of Florence, Italy

Lena hit the cobblestones hard, rolling to absorb the impact as the jump’s momentum slammed her body into the street. Pain lanced through her shoulder and her ribs. She groaned and pushed herself upright, cursing under her breath. This wasn’t how the jump was supposed to happen.

Her HUD flickered, recalibrating as she glanced around at her new surroundings. The sharp scent of burning incense, rot, and death filled the air. The sounds of wailing and coughing filled her ears as figures cloaked in rags stumbled by, many of them too weak to stand straight.

She was in Florence, Italy. A city stricken with the plague, where death hovered in every shadow, and the very air felt heavy with illness.

Lena activated the chronometer on her wrist and looked up at the towering buildings. A murky sky loomed overhead, thick with clouds that seemed to match the weight in her chest. It was an oppressive sight—a city trapped in its most devastating moment.

The plague was in full swing now—people falling dead in the streets, and the streets themselves teeming with the frailty of human life. Fear was palpable. Society was collapsing.

It was a timeline so set in history that no one had ever been able to change it. So why did it feel like something had already been altered?

She stood up, dusting herself off and looking around for any signs of abnormality. But it was hard to focus when every corner of the city seemed to bleed despair. The tremors of panic were everywhere. Not just from the sickness, but from the very air. Something was wrong. Lena knew it.

Her wrist pad pinged with a notification—a faint distortion in the timeline. It wasn’t much. It was subtle. But it was there.

She pulled out her sidearm, holding it close but out of view. It was a precaution, nothing more, but that strange feeling of being watched wouldn’t go away. Every instinct in her screamed that someone else was here, someone who didn’t belong in this time.

Her hand hovered near the handle of her sidearm as she moved deeper into the city, navigating narrow alleys and bustling streets filled with the chaos of sickness. Every few steps, she saw bodies discarded by the wayside, left like refuse by families who had lost all hope.

A low cough broke through the sounds of the city, and Lena froze.

A figure stood at the entrance to a nearby alley, cloaked in a tattered dark coat. The face beneath the hood was obscured, but the way he held himself—the calm that radiated from him despite the carnage around them—was unsettling.

Lena took a step forward, instinctively keeping her distance. She needed to assess. Who was he? What was he doing here?

The figure didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, his gaze wandered over the dying city, taking in the scene like a man who had seen it too many times before.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low, almost a murmur, but it was clear in the air between them.

Lena’s pulse quickened. This man wasn’t someone from her mission brief. She had not seen him in any of her briefing data. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

“I’m a Chrono Agent,” Lena said, her voice steady but firm. “I’m here to monitor the timeline. You’re not authorized to be in this period.”

The figure turned, his eyes catching hers. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, she swore she saw something flicker behind them—something timeless, something otherworldly.

“I know exactly what you are,” he said. “You’re the one they send to fix things, to make sure the timelines remain untouched.”

Lena narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?” she demanded.

The man straightened, his gaze growing darker. “You can call me Cassian.”

Lena’s chest tightened. There was something in his voice, a weight of history that made her feel small, unimportant, like she didn’t belong here at all. It was the same feeling she had when she’d heard the rumors of The Constant—a name that had haunted the back of her mind ever since her first training day.

“You’ve been waiting for me,” she said, realizing as the words left her lips that they were true.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Not waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for this.” He gestured to the city around them. “And for you to understand what’s about to happen.”

Lena stepped back, suddenly more aware of the suffocating air, of the sharpness in his eyes. The timeline was destabilizing, but it wasn’t because of the plague. It was because of him.

Before she could say anything more, the distant sound of coughing echoed through the streets, the noise growing louder, closer. The coughing turned into cries, panic rising in the distance.

“The time is already bending,” Cassian muttered, almost to himself, as he turned away from her. “I couldn’t stop it. But you’ll see the consequences soon enough.”

Lena’s mind raced. “What do you mean?”

But before she could press him further, Cassian disappeared into the shadows, blending into the chaos of the streets, like a ghost who had never been there in the first place.

Lena stood there, frozen, a cold shiver running down her spine. Something was off. The timeline wasn’t as stable as she had thought. And somehow, Cassian—this enigmatic figure who had appeared out of nowhere—was tied to it all.

She glanced down at the chronometer on her wrist, but the data was corrupted. The anomaly was growing. She needed to fix this. But first, she needed to find him again.

She knew it wouldn’t be the last time their paths crossed.

Part 4: The Battlefield of Flame and Fate
Year 1431 – The Battle of Compiègne, France

Lena’s second jump was a precise one. She'd been briefed, trained, and her mission was clear: observe the events surrounding the capture of Joan of Arc, one of history's most famous figures. She had been assigned to ensure no time-traveling interference, to watch the battle from a safe distance, and to document everything that occurred.

But as the chrono-portal opened and the world around her twisted into the cold grip of time, Lena couldn’t help but feel the same gnawing sense of wrongness she’d felt in Florence. This wasn’t just history; this was the heat of battle, the clash of swords, the sound of war horns, and the heavy scent of blood filling the air.

The city of Compiègne was in turmoil as she materialized into the middle of a warzone.

Lena hit the ground hard, her suit absorbing the impact as she rolled onto the dirt road, her boots skidding across the earth. She quickly assessed her surroundings. The air was thick with tension. Smoke from burning villages rose high into the sky, and screams filled her ears. Men and women, warriors of both French and English sides, clashed in a chaotic melee as the Battle of Compiègne raged on around her.

Joan’s army, those loyal to the French crown, were holding their ground. Lena’s eyes darted across the battlefield, spotting several groups of soldiers in formation. But there—at the center of the chaos—was the figure she had come for.

Joan of Arc, dressed in armor and wielding a sword, was at the forefront, leading her forces with a fierce determination. Her face was grim, her eyes locked with those of the enemy, and her battle cries pierced the chaos like a herald of doom. The legend that had been forged in flames and blood was alive before Lena’s eyes, an indomitable force on the battlefield.

This was the pivotal moment of her capture—the fall of one of France’s greatest warriors.

Lena pulled herself to her feet and checked the readings on her chronometer. The timeline was stable. There were no anomalies to report yet, no disturbances in the flow of time. Everything seemed as it should be—until her senses sharpened once again, and she felt the unmistakable presence of someone else.

A soft rustle of movement. She glanced over her shoulder.

Standing against the smoke, a figure emerged from the shadows. His silhouette was familiar, too familiar. Dark coat, hair pulled back, and a stance that oozed timelessness.

Cassian.

Lena’s heart skipped a beat. How had he found her again? She didn’t remember a jump back in her mission log.

He stood still, watching the battle unfold with a strange sense of detachment. His eyes, as always, held an unfathomable depth—like he was looking beyond the battlefield itself, beyond the bloodshed.

Lena didn’t approach him immediately. She had a job to do. Her pulse quickened as she shifted her focus back to Joan, the figure she had come to observe. Joan was being pushed back by the enemy. The soldiers from the English camp had encircled her, and Lena knew that in just a matter of moments, Joan would be captured, taken prisoner, and eventually executed.

The history she knew was set in stone. Joan’s end was inevitable.

Lena reached for her wrist pad, ready to document everything, but then—

A sudden commotion.

A surge of soldiers. The sounds of iron and steel clashing filled the air as Joan’s horse was struck down. Lena’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the moment unfold—Joan’s form crumpling, surrounded by the enemy forces. She fought valiantly, but there was nothing she could do against such overwhelming numbers.

Lena’s chronometer buzzed with a warning. Anomaly detected.

Her eyes widened. There it was. Something had shifted. Time had fractured. Joan wasn’t supposed to be captured here, not in this way. This wasn’t part of the history Lena had been briefed on.

“Cassian!” Lena shouted, pushing through the chaos, but the figure remained motionless, almost as though he hadn’t heard her at all. His gaze remained locked on Joan’s figure; his eyes unreadable.

Her mind raced. Could he have altered the timeline? Was this his doing? Why was he here, and why didn’t he intervene in the same way he had in Florence?

She sprinted forward, weaving between soldiers as they fought and screamed. She reached the edge of the melee, where Joan had been struck down, surrounded by men. Joan’s eyes were wide with defiance even in the face of capture.

But then something happened.

One of the soldiers raised his sword above Joan. Lena saw it. The moment before the fatal blow could land. The world seemed to slow, and in that instant, something shifted—something that shouldn’t have been possible.

A figure in dark robes appeared in the midst of the battle, stepping into the circle of soldiers as if he had always been there. It was Cassian.

Lena’s breath caught as she watched him move with eerie precision, effortlessly weaving through the soldiers. The sword raised above Joan faltered, then stopped entirely, as if the universe itself had held its breath.

Cassian’s hand shot out, grabbing the sword, and he twisted it from the soldier’s grasp with a flick of his wrist. The soldier stumbled backward, confused, as Cassian looked around the circle with cold, calculating eyes.

Joan was still on the ground, her armor dented and bloodied, but alive.

Lena’s heart pounded as she realized what was happening. Cassian wasn’t just watching the timeline—he was intervening, changing it.

“No!” Lena shouted, running forward. “What are you doing?! You can’t—”

Cassian glanced back at her, his gaze unreadable, like he’d known she would be there. “I can do whatever I want, Lena. This is my time.”

Lena reached him just as he helped Joan to her feet. Her pulse raced. She had no idea what Cassian was capable of, but this? This was a direct violation of history. Joan was meant to be captured. She was supposed to be led to her execution. It was the turning point of her legend, and now Cassian was changing it.

“Don’t you dare,” Lena hissed, stepping forward, her hand hovering near her sidearm. “You’ll unravel everything!”

Cassian shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “History is meant to be broken, Lena. Time is not some unshakable chain. I know you’re just here to observe, but maybe... it’s time you learned that nothing is fixed in stone.”

Before Lena could stop him, Cassian turned, leading Joan away from the battlefield, away from her destiny.

Lena stood frozen, her mind racing. She could feel the timeline shaking beneath her feet. Was this the beginning of something bigger? Had he always been the one to shape these moments, bending time to his will?

“Cassian!” she shouted again, but he didn’t turn back.

The battlefield, the cries, the shouts of soldiers—everything faded as the two of them disappeared into the smoke.

Lena watched in stunned silence as the events she had been trained to monitor spiraled into chaos. She knew one thing for sure: this was no longer just a mission. The rules of time were bending in ways she had never imagined, and she had no idea what consequences lay ahead.

And somewhere, in the midst of it all, Cassian had just written his own chapter in history.

Part 5: The Shadows of the Court
Year 1536 – The Death of Anne Boleyn, England

Lena’s chrono-jump took her to a cold, gray morning in the heart of England. The air was thick with the stench of damp stone, and as the portal closed behind her, the sharp clang of distant bells reached her ears. She quickly adjusted her visor, scanning the environment through the heads-up display. The streets of London were bustling, but something about the atmosphere felt heavy tense.

Lena had jumped into a crucial moment in history. Anne Boleyn’s trial had concluded, and she was to be executed. The ripple effect of her death would reshape the course of England, changing the monarchy, religion, and the fate of Elizabeth I. This wasn’t just a royal tragedy; this was a turning point in the very fabric of European history.

Her mission, like always, was clear. Observe. Document. Ensure history proceeded as it was meant to. Anne Boleyn’s death was already an established fact in the timeline, but the surrounding political drama—the court intrigue, the manipulation—needed to be watched, untouched. Lena had learned, from her earlier experiences, how delicate the balance of time truly was. One small misstep, one minor interference, and history could collapse into chaos.

She glanced down at her chrono-pad. The time was 8:32 AM, the moment Anne was supposed to be brought to the scaffold. She couldn’t afford to linger in the streets for too long. Moving quickly, Lena ducked into an alleyway to avoid being seen.

A group of soldiers marched by their heavy boots thudding against the cobblestone, and the tension in the air was palpable. The people around her seemed to move in a haze, whispers of fear and dread traveling like wind through a crowd. The anticipation of Anne’s execution loomed over everything.

Lena knew she couldn’t be seen—her presence in this timeline needed to be a ghost, an observer, not a participant.

But then, as she rounded a corner, she saw him.

Cassian.

He was standing in the shadows of a nearby building, his dark coat blending into the stone like he was part of it. His back was to her, but there was no mistaking the figure—the way he moved, the way the world seemed to bend around him.

Lena’s heart skipped. She had expected him to appear, eventually, but this? Right in the heart of history, where so much was at stake? What was he doing here?

She quickly ducked back behind the corner, pressing herself against the cold stone wall, her pulse racing. Cassian didn’t belong here—not in this moment. He wasn’t a part of Anne Boleyn’s story.

But then, his voice—low, steady, and tinged with an odd sadness—reached her ears.

“You shouldn’t be here, Lena,” he said, his tone casual, like it was just another day.

Lena’s eyes widened, and she spun around, catching a glimpse of his face. “What are you doing here, Cassian? This is a forbidden jump—you weren’t supposed to interfere in this.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped into the light, his movements fluid, almost too graceful. His eyes flicked over the crowd of people ahead, and then back to her. “I don’t interfere,” he said. “I’ve always been a part of this, Lena. You just don’t realize it yet.”

Her mouth went dry. “You’re… involved?” Her voice trembled, the realization dawning on her with a sickening sense of inevitability. Cassian had always been there, lurking in the shadows of history. But now, it seemed, he was woven into the very heart of this event.

He didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something older than time itself.

“You’re so quick to judge, Lena,” he murmured. “You don’t know the full picture. The politics of this court, the games they play—they’ve always been a part of me. But you, Lena, you’re still so new to all of this, to time, to us. You think you can watch and observe. But history isn’t just something you watch—it’s something you feel.”

Lena frowned, shaking her head. “What are you trying to say?”

Cassian’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “I’m saying that Anne Boleyn’s fate is tied to much more than just a single act of treason. I am tied to it. The court, the crown, the entire game they play—it was always meant to go this way. But I’ve seen how this ends. And you, Lena, you need to understand why history bends sometimes. Why people like Anne, and people like me, can’t just be forgotten.”

Lena took a step forward, her hand instinctively reaching for the sidearm at her hip. “You’re meddling with time, Cassian. The Authority will never let this slide.”

But Cassian just watched her, his eyes distant. “The Authority is blind, Lena. They don’t see what I see. You’ll understand soon enough. This—” He gestured vaguely toward the scene unfolding, “—is only the beginning.”

Lena wanted to argue, to call him out, but something in his tone made her hesitate. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t just cryptic words. There was a weight behind his words, a history she couldn’t yet understand.

Before she could speak again, he turned, vanishing into the crowd with a final, whispered phrase.

“Watch, Lena. Watch closely.”

Lena’s head buzzed with confusion, but she forced herself to focus. The events were unfolding according to the timeline. Anne Boleyn’s trial had already been concluded. There was no turning back. The execution was set to take place in just a few minutes.

She walked swiftly toward the scaffold, her presence still unnoticed. The crowd gathered, murmuring in anticipation. Anne Boleyn, pale and resigned, was led forward by the executioner’s assistant, her face a mask of dignity, despite the chains that bound her wrists.

Lena stood in the crowd, her heart heavy with the weight of what was happening. She knew what would happen next: the executioner would strike, and history would mark the end of Anne Boleyn’s life.

But something was wrong. The timeline was starting to fray at the edges. The moment wasn’t unfolding as it was supposed to. The crowd around her seemed… uneasy. Like they were waiting for something. Or someone.

And then she saw him again.

Cassian. He was standing in the crowd, not far from the scaffold. But this time, there was a different look in his eyes. A look that suggested he knew the outcome but was waiting for something else. Lena’s eyes followed his gaze, and she saw what he saw.

Anne Boleyn, her head held high, looked directly at Cassian. There was a moment of recognition—something passed between them in that brief second. It wasn’t just a glance. It was understanding.

The executioner raised his axe, but Lena felt a sharp pang of uncertainty.

Would history repeat itself?

Would Cassian change this?

Lena had no answer. All she could do was watch as the story of Anne Boleyn’s tragic fate unfolded, knowing that somewhere, hidden in the shadows, Cassian had left his mark on yet another piece of history.

As the blade fell, Lena knew something had shifted. The timeline was different now. And she could feel, in the air, the weight of the world bending around Cassian’s influence once more.

Jump to the Salem Witch Trials - 1692

Lena’s chronal tether hums in the air, the unmistakable sensation of another jump pulling her through time. When her boots hit the dirt beneath her, she immediately senses something wrong—an oppressive weight in the air, thick with fear and suspicion. The atmosphere is still and unnervingly quiet. She checks her ChronoPad—the date is set for 1692, during the height of the Salem Witch Trials.

She’s in a forest clearing, and ahead, through the trees, she sees the town of Salem, its wooden houses and narrow streets now familiar to her. But what hits her first isn’t the view; it’s the sense of dread that hangs in the air. Whispers of accusations, finger-pointing, and the sound of faint cries carry from the town. Something feels off, and it's more than the oppressive weight of history pressing down on her.

Suddenly, a group of Puritan women rush by, eyes wide with panic. “Witch!” one shouts. “Witch! A witch walks among us!”

Lena’s heart tightens. Accusations are spreading like wildfire, but she’s here on assignment—her mission: understand why the timeline shifted so violently during this period. The anomaly she’s tracking is tied to temporal ripples—something is wrong, and someone or something is fueling the hysteria that will lead to the deaths of twenty innocent people in the next few months. But she’s not here to stop it; she's here to figure out why it happened, and if Cassian has had a hand in it, how he's manipulating it.

“Lena Reyes, Chrono Agent 7-B. Logged and synced,” she mutters to herself, pulling out her temporal scanner. Her wristband beeps frantically, and she curses. Too much interference. Time is being manipulated, but it's too chaotic for a precise read.

She pulls up the hood of her jacket to blend in, and steps toward the town. It’s still early, the air thick with tension. People are whispering as they huddle around the meeting house, where a trial is about to begin. The accused are already tied, trembling in fear.

In the town center, Judge Samuel Sewall stands, surrounded by men in dark coats and broad hats. They’re all eyeing the prisoners—a mother, her daughter, and a few older women.

Lena shakes her head. This is where it all went wrong. Innocent people accused of practicing witchcraft, the fury of a society undone by suspicion and manipulation. She’s never been more aware of the fragility of time.

As she walks closer, a sharp whisper cuts through her thoughts: "I knew you’d come."

Lena whips around, her heart skipping. In the shadow of a nearby house stands Cassian, tall and unflinching. His black coat and long hair blend into the darkening landscape, and for a moment, he seems like part of the night itself.

“You.” She speaks before she can stop herself.

He’s not looking at her; his eyes are on the accused women. “They’re terrified,” he says softly, almost to himself. “And it’s only just begun.”

Lena’s heart races as she steps forward, her thoughts spinning. “What are you doing here?” she demands. “This is the height of the witch hunts—so many innocent lives lost. Did you have something to do with this?”

Cassian doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze is cold, distant. “You don’t understand, Lena.” His voice is low, filled with a weight of experience that makes her pause. “The timeline is fragile here—more fragile than you realize. If you stop it now, everything after will collapse. There are things you don’t know. Things I can’t explain.”

Lena steps closer, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t need your cryptic nonsense, Cassian. These are real people, real lives, and you think I’ll just stand by and let innocent women be accused of witchcraft?”

He turns to face her fully, his eyes flickering with something—regret? “Sometimes, Lena, the worst atrocities are necessary to keep the world from falling apart. Sometimes, these events—the bloodshed, the fear—are what set the course for something far bigger.”

“You’ve lost me.” She frowns, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came because this is the moment where the ripples in time begin. You have to let this play out.”

Her fists clench at her sides. She’s heard this before—Cassian’s unwillingness to change certain outcomes, even when he knows how horrific they’ll be. But something about this time feels different. The weight of the injustice, the lives ruined—it’s too much to bear.

“If you truly care about fixing things,” Lena says, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest, “then why don’t you help me?”

Cassian steps forward, his gaze piercing. “I can’t. And neither can you. Not this time.”

Lena hesitates, staring at him, then at the accused women. In the distance, she sees them being led away toward the gallows, their fates sealed in a web of lies and fear.

“I’ll do what I can,” Lena says quietly, finally turning her back on him, “but I won’t stop fighting for justice. Even if the timeline says I can’t.”

Cassian’s voice carries through the still air: “You’ll find your answers, Lena. But you won’t like what you discover.”

Part 4: The Fraying Threads of Time

Year 1776 – The American Revolution, Philadelphia
Lena’s boots hit the cobblestone streets with a muffled echo as she entered the heart of the American Revolution. The Continental Congress was in session, the fate of the colonies hanging in the balance. The world was on the brink of change. The birth of a new nation, one forged by rebellion, blood, and ideals of freedom.
Her wrist scanner beeped softly, confirming her arrival. Her mission was clear: observe.
But there was something about the determination in their eyes, the passion that fueled the men and women who defied the British Empire, that made it hard to remain detached. This wasn’t some obscure battle or forgotten conflict; this was history in the making.
Lena stood among the rebels, watching George Washington lead his troops, the clash of arms resounding in the distance. The Declaration of Independence had been signed, and the birth of the United States was only days away.
The revolutionaries were fighting for freedom, for something better, and they were dying for it.
She looked around, tempted to step forward, to help them. The British forces were powerful, and victory was never assured.
It was in these moments that Lena felt the strain of the rules that bound her. What would happen if she made a single change? What if she gave them an edge, a nudge that could tip the balance?
But time, she knew, was fragile. And breaking it was a dangerous game.
Her tether buzzed with warning. The historical timeline was fraying.
With a heavy heart, Lena stepped back and watched the revolution unfold. But the weight of her inaction settled in her chest. Could she really just watch?

Year 1789 – The French Revolution, Paris
The streets of Paris were alive with blood and fire. The French Revolution was in full force, and the Bastille had fallen. Revolutionaries stormed the streets, demanding the end of the monarchy and the birth of a new republic.
Lena could feel the chaos in the air, the crackle of change. It was the same feeling she had felt back in Philadelphia, but amplified. This revolution was brutal, bloody. The Reign of Terror loomed, and Robespierre was beginning his rise to power.
Lena’s mission was the same: observe, not interfere. But this time, the stakes felt different. The cries of the oppressed, the guillotine set up in the city square—it was more than she could bear.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that the revolutionaries were fighting for a better world, but what would be the cost? The bloodshed, the betrayal, the fear—it would only get worse.
But there was something else. The figures moving in the shadows. Cassian.
She felt his presence before she saw him, his dark coat barely visible in the night. He moved like a phantom, a shadow in the midst of the chaos.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispered, knowing it was futile.
“And yet here I am,” he said, his voice low and almost amused.
Lena’s pulse quickened. What was his role in all of this? How many times had he manipulated history for his own purposes?
“You know, you could help them,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice.
“I could,” he replied, his tone unreadable. “But you can’t.”
Her fists clenched. She wanted to intervene, to change the course of history, but she knew better.
For now, all she could do was watch.

Year 1812 – The Napoleonic Wars, Russia
The cold was unbearable. Lena found herself standing at the edge of a battlefield, her boots sinking into the snow, the cries of dying soldiers mingling with the howls of the wind. The French were retreating, but Napoleon’s army had left behind a trail of destruction. Bodies, horses, broken cannons, and shattered dreams lay scattered across the Russian landscape.
Lena’s wrist scanner beeped, marking the temporal window. The war would end here, the French Army decimated by the Russian winter.
But this wasn't her mission. This wasn’t where she needed to be.
Her hands trembled. The moral code that guided Chrono Agents was crumbling. She had always told herself that she was there to observe, not interfere. But the soldiers lying in the snow, the frozen bodies of men who had fought for causes they barely understood — she couldn’t just let it all pass by. She wanted to help them.
She wanted to change history.
But she couldn’t. She was a spectator, not a player.
The jump snapped back. The timeline reset.

Year 1848 – The Revolutions of Europe, Paris
The streets of Paris were a battlefield, with revolutionaries clashing against the ruling class. The French Revolution's ideals had not died, and now they burned brighter than ever.
Lena stood in the midst of the chaos, feeling the heat of the flames and the weight of rebellion in the air. The citizens of Paris were rising up again, seeking justice, seeking a new world.
She was meant to observe — to learn from history, not interfere. Yet the cries of injustice, the faces of the oppressed, the gunfire ringing in the air, tore at her.
“Cassian,” she whispered, but he wasn’t there.
For the first time, she felt alone in a way that was unsettling. Her mission was to simply observe. But standing there, she could see how history could so easily be rewritten with just a nudge.
Her desire to intervene grew. She knew the revolutionaries were fighting for freedom, but the monarchy wasn’t the true enemy — it was a system that needed to fall, not the people who kept it in place.
She clenched her fists. She could make a difference.
But a single moment of weakness could shatter everything.
She made the choice. She jumped again.

Year 1857 – The Indian Rebellion, Delhi
The air was thick with smoke, and the streets of Delhi were teeming with violence. The British East India Company’s troops clashed with rebellious Indian sepoys.
Lena couldn’t breathe. The scent of burning villages and gunpowder filled the air. The Sepoy Mutiny, a spark that would ignite India’s struggle for independence, was happening right before her eyes.
Her mission? To witness, not to touch.
But watching the bloodshed, feeling the despair of a nation on the brink of change, she felt compelled to act. Her moral compass was slipping. Why not help them? Why not give them a fighting chance?
But time had a rule: no intervention.
And yet, there was Cassian, standing at the edge of the chaos, his coat blending with the smoke. His gaze met hers across the field, and there was no judgment in his eyes.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered to him.
“You’re not supposed to,” he said, his voice distant, like it always was.
But Lena didn’t listen. She couldn’t.
With a single motion, she altered the course of the rebellion — just a small change.
She made sure the British forces lost more ground than history recorded. She helped them, just a little.
As she jumped, she knew the consequences would ripple.

Year 1917 – The Russian Revolution, Petrograd
Another revolution. Another bleeding world. This time, it was Tsarist Russia, and the streets were filled with rage. The Tsar had fallen, and the Bolshevik Party was making its move.
Lena stood at the heart of it, the snow falling softly as the city burned. The Winter Palace was the prize, and the workers and soldiers were rallying against the monarchy that had oppressed them for centuries.
Her job was simple. Observe.
But her heart ached for the common people. The oppressed. The ones who had nothing but their ideals to fight with. Why should they suffer?
Her tether buzzed with instability. She hadn’t jumped in a while — the pain of witnessing history without intervening was starting to get to her.
“Cassian,” she whispered. He was always watching. Always guiding.
This time, however, there was no voice in her ear. No intervention.
She felt as if she was drowning in time, each jump eroding her sense of self, her sense of right and wrong.
The moment her foot touched the cobblestones of the Winter Palace, she made a decision.
She joined the revolutionaries. She fought for them. She helped them storm the palace, overthrow the monarchy, and change the course of Russian history.
But as she did, the temporal strain on her mind became unbearable.
The world around her bent and twisted. History broke.
And just as she felt her grip on reality slipping, she jumped again.

Year 1939 – The Outbreak of World War II, Berlin
The atmosphere in Berlin was tense, as the Nazi regime prepared for war.
Lena stood in the shadows, watching as the Third Reich began its aggressive push across Europe. Her mission was to observe the political machinations, to witness the rise of the Nazi state.
But this time, it wasn’t just the soldiers who made her uneasy. It was the civilians, the fear, the obedience in their eyes. The sense that time was moving, hurtling toward something no one could stop.
And she hated it.
The weight of her decisions, the lives she had altered, the revolutions she had influenced — it was all too much.
Her tether vibrated with distortion. She had broken something. She had broken herself.
And then, she felt it.
Cassian.
He was always there. Always watching. Always just out of reach.
But she didn’t want him to stop her anymore.
She was done being an observer.
She jumped. Again.

Lena’s mind was fraying. The temptation to change history, to correct what she saw as wrong, was too great. Every jump felt like a temptation to cross a line. Her morality had become a loose thread, unraveling with every revolution she experienced.
Each battle, each war, each revolution was a reminder of how fragile the fabric of time was, and how easily it could be torn apart by a single, reckless act.
But that didn’t stop her.
In the chaos of the French Revolution, the Indian Rebellion, the Russian Revolution, and the wars she had witnessed, Lena had learned one thing: time didn’t care about her rules.
And the more she broke them, the more she realized — neither did she.