The day after the stroller incident, Elias stayed home. The headache hadn't left since the Glimpse struck him—one of the worst yet. He lay on his couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to quiet his mind.
But the futures wouldn't stop.
Not anymore.
When he was younger, the Glimpses had been passive—short previews, warnings, echoes of what was coming. But now, they were interactive. They didn't just show futures. They waited. As if the timeline itself refused to move forward without his decision.
It wasn't a gift. Not anymore.
It was responsibility.
At 3:17 PM, someone knocked on his door.
He didn't move. Not at first. The knock had already echoed in his mind minutes earlier—two short raps, then a pause, then one more.
And with it came the flash:
*Path A*: He opens the door. A man in a dark coat enters. Everything changes.
*Path B*: He ignores the knock. The man leaves. War begins in seven days.
Elias stood slowly.
He opened the door.
A tall man in his forties stood there, dressed in black, a worn satchel over his shoulder. He looked like a government agent from a spy film—calm, alert, emotionless.
"Mr. Ward," the man said. "We need to talk."
Elias nodded, stepped aside.
The man entered like he already knew the layout. "My name is Clarke. I work for a non-governmental agency that monitors pre-incident anomalies."
"I don't know what that means," Elias lied.
"Yes, you do." Clarke opened his satchel and slid a thin black file across the table. Inside were grainy photos of Elias—pausing a woman before she stepped into traffic, pulling a child away from a collapsing shelf, standing still a second before a ceiling tile dropped behind him.
"Most people with your condition live quietly. They don't interfere. But you? You've been making choices. Altering timelines."
Elias sat down. "What do you want?"
"There's a critical event approaching. A temporal convergence. If the wrong path is taken, millions could die. We've seen flashes from others—but none of them can navigate branches like you."
Elias frowned. "Others?"
"There are more like you. Not many. Some see a few seconds. Some hear. One paints what she sees before it happens. But you're the only one who sees
options".
He opened the second file. A photo of a man stepping out of a black SUV, surrounded by reporters.
"Ambassador Dhawan," Clarke said. "Targeted for assassination next week. His death ignites a geopolitical chain reaction. Within months: war, famine, collapse."
"And you want me to stop it?"
Clarke looked him dead in the eyes.
"No. We want you to pick the right version of stopping it".