I never believed my equations would work. I thought the quantum bridge was theoretical—until the reactor exploded and the walls of reality peeled open.

Now I’m kneeling in a grand hall of black marble and gold flame torches, my lab coat torn, ears ringing. The throne at the end of the room isn’t empty.

He sits there.

Elias.

My Elias—the man I walked away from two years ago, heartbroken and furious. But this version wears a crown of obsidian thorns, his jaw set like stone, eyes colder than vacuum.

And then he stands.

The guards don’t move. The court holds its breath.

He walks down the steps, slow, deliberate. Stops in front of me. Lifts my chin with one gloved finger.

‘You left me,’ he says. His voice is quiet. Deadly. ‘In every world, you leave me.’

I tremble. ‘I didn’t mean to come here—’

‘But you came back.’ His thumb brushes my lip. ‘So tell me… do you run again? Or do you stay and face what we are?’