He woke to sunlight.
Soft. Warm. Ordinary.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, Riven didn't wake to screaming skies or collapsing cities.Just… silence, broken only by the hum of life outside his window.
He blinked slowly. His body felt real again — heavy, solid, fragile. He was lying in a bed that smelled faintly of rain and dust.
The clock on the wall ticked calmly.7:02 AM. Monday.
He sat up, dazed. The room was small but familiar — a desk covered in old schematics, papers, coffee stains, the half-built frame of a Chrono-Gate prototype.
It was his old apartment.Exactly as it had been before the first experiment.
But that couldn't be.
His breath caught in his throat. "No… no, this isn't right."
He rushed to the window.Outside, the city stretched endlessly — clean streets, distant skyscrapers, people walking with unhurried steps. No distortions. No echo fragments.Reality was stable.
He pressed a hand to the glass.The world didn't flicker. It was solid.
"You did it," said a voice.
Riven turned sharply.
The Architect stood by the doorway — or something that looked like him. But his form was human now, wearing a white lab coat, his expression calm and almost… kind.
"You forced the timeline to reset," the Architect said softly. "A singular world rebuilt from all the others. No loops, no paradoxes, no deaths."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "Where's Lira?"
The Architect hesitated — just for a second. "She's gone."
Riven's heart dropped. "Gone… how?"
"Not dead. Not alive. Erased. She existed as the anchor between timelines. When the loops collapsed, so did she."
Riven's voice broke. "You said this was a reset — that this world was rebuilt from all the others."
"It was. But some constants couldn't be carried over. You burned too much of her into time. There wasn't enough left to rewrite."
Riven stepped back, clutching his chest. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"You saved existence," the Architect continued. "But at a cost. That's the price of peace, Riven Solas — a world that no longer remembers the fire it rose from."
Hours passed.
Riven wandered through the streets like a ghost.People smiled. Children played. Cars passed. Everything was too normal, too clean.
He stopped in front of a café — one he and Lira used to visit every evening. The sign still read Solstice Brew.The door chimed when he entered.
And there she was.
Lira.Or someone with her face.
She was behind the counter, tying her hair into a bun, laughing at something her coworker said. Her eyes were bright, alive — but empty of recognition.
Riven's world tilted.He stood frozen, every breath sharp and painful.
He whispered, "Lira…"
She looked up — polite, curious. "Do I know you?"
He almost broke right there. His lips trembled, his throat dry.
"No," he whispered. "You don't."
"You look pale," she said kindly. "Would you like some water?"
He nodded weakly.When she handed him the glass, her fingers brushed his — and something flickered in her eyes. Just for an instant.
A flash.A memory not meant to exist.The hum of machinery.A voice whispering "Find the world that still remembers us."
Lira blinked rapidly, confused. "Strange… I just felt déjà vu."
Riven forced a smile, holding back tears. "Yeah. Happens to me a lot."
He left the café trembling, his pulse loud in his ears.
Outside, the world was still perfect.Too perfect.
He whispered under his breath, "If this is peace… why does it hurt like hell?"
That night, he returned to his apartment. The lights flickered once — faintly — and the Architect appeared again, a shadow at the edge of perception.
"You shouldn't try to reach her," it warned. "The paradox may be gone, but her echo lingers in the fabric of causality. If you disturb it, this world could unravel."
Riven stared out the window. "Then it was all for nothing."
"No," said the Architect. "It was for everyone else."
He didn't answer. His reflection in the glass looked hollow, lifeless.Behind him, the city lights shimmered — and for just a heartbeat, two suns flared in the sky.