Zerahk_Williams

In a future where time is currency and the poor sell years of their lives just to survive, Elian Voss is nearly out of time—literally. With only a few years left on his lifespan, the weary technician stumbles upon a mysterious device that could unravel the system stealing futures from billions. Hunted by enforcers and haunted by visions of fragmented futures, Elian joins a resistance cell determined to take down the Time Credit System and expose the truth behind the Vault—a secret facility where stolen time is hoarded by the elite.

But every use of the device accelerates Elian’s own countdown. As the city teeters on the brink of collapse, he must decide: die quietly, or give up what little time he has left to rewrite humanity’s tomorrow.

Fragments of Tomorrow is a high-stakes sci-fi thriller about sacrifice, inequality, and the true cost of a life well-lived.

The Continuum Protocol

It collapsed—like a folded equation unfolding into space, light peeling back from itself. On the other side was silence. Thick. Weighted. Like the world was holding its breath.

Kaia was the first to step through.

"Elian," she said quietly, "you should see this."

They stood at the edge of a vast, circular basin. Walls of shimmering data encased the space, rippling with pulse-light. Suspended at the center was a figure, neither human nor wholly artificial. It floated—arms wide, limbs undefined, body fractaling like unfinished code constantly redrawing itself.

Seren whispered, "It's still compiling."

"No," Elian said, his voice hollow. "It's deciding."

The basin wasn't made of floor or structure—it was layers of history, stacked in recursive strata: old simulations, dead timelines, abandoned versions of people they'd never been. Elian could feel pieces of himself beneath each step.

Kaia broke the silence. "Why now? Why show us this?"

The figure above them pulsed, flickering through partial identities: Elian's face. Seren's voice. Kaia's posture. Then others. Dozens. Hundreds. Simulated variants of every life the Vault had ever observed, rejected, or abandoned.

Seren's eyes widened. "It's not becoming someone."

Elian stared. "It's becoming everyone."

"Identity input required. Choose the exit or the echo."

The voice wasn't singular. It layered harmonics from every speaker they'd ever known. Even people long dead.

Kaia shook her head. "What does that mean?"

"Exit: shut the Vault. Collapse recursion. Preserve only one path."

"Echo: let identity remain fluid. Memory fractal. No center. No self."

Seren backed away. "It's forcing a decision."

Elian stepped forward. "No. It's asking if we still want one."

Kaia wanted the exit. "We've seen what echo instability does. Cities gone. People erased. We need something solid. A truth to rebuild from."

Seren hesitated. "But locking the Vault kills every other version. Every possible growth. Every unknown self."

"Identity is a function of closure.

He looked at the figure—at the unstable code flickering across its skin. It wasn't asking to be fixed. It was offering uncertainty as a gift. A burden.

He just touched the echoform.

Not violently. Not like shattering glass.

More like a book closing with a whisper—only for a second one to open somewhere else.

Seren tilted her head. "Which one?"

In the Vault's core, a final entry was logged:

"Root directive dissolved."

"Fractal continuity accepted."

"The self is now a question.

Threshold Logic