A A R Y A

The worst kind of questions aren't the ones you can't answer.
It's the ones whose answers are always locked behind doors you're not supposed to open.

Four nights in a row, I've woken at 3 AM, haunted by the same image: a man suspended in midair, defying gravity for a heartbeat before security dragged him away. The man who spoke of timelines and realities, and what it means to belong.

And I can't stop thinking about the tattoo spiraling up his arm, symbols that felt ancient and wrong and somehow familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

I push off the blankets. My roommate, some girl named Lyra who I've exchanged maybe ten words with, snores softly in the bed across from mine. The dorm room is small, standard issue: two beds, two desks, one window overlooking the east courtyard.

I move to that window, press my forehead against the cold glass.

Campus spreads below in pools of amber light. Empty pathways. Locked buildings. The Archive sits at the far edge, all sharp angles and reinforced glass, looking exactly like what it is: a place designed to keep secrets.

I got my curiosity from my father. Along with my inability to leave puzzles unsolved and my complete disregard for "because I said so" as an acceptable answer.

I was eight the first time he taught me to pick a lock. Not for fun, we were locked out during a storm, Mom working a night shift at the hospital, emergency services overwhelmed. He knelt beside me in freezing rain and showed me how the pins worked. How pressure and patience could open doors that seemed impossible.

"There's always another way in," he'd said. "The question is whether you're brave enough to find it."

I go to the Archive during permitted hours on student access. Just a first-year doing research, trying to understand what my father actually did for a living beyond the sanitized version they fed us at his memorial.

The public files aren't much better. Research papers with entire sections redacted. Case studies that reference "classified methodologies." Footnotes leading to databases I don't have clearance to access.

I'm about to give up when I find it.

Buried in a cognitive research compilation—just a reference note, easily missed: See also: Patient T-7. Observational containment protocol active. Authorization: Dr. V. Soren.

My father's signature. His handwriting.

Dated two weeks before the explosion.

My hands shake as I request the full file from the Archive supervisor—a tired woman in her fifties who looks like she's answered this question a thousand times.

"That's restricted," she says without looking up from her tablet. "High-clearance access only."

"My father signed it—"

"Dr. Soren had Level 5 clearance. You're a first-year with no department placement." She finally meets my eyes, not unkind but immovable. "Come back after you've declared and been assigned. If your department has appropriate clearance, you can resubmit the request."

"How long does that take?"

"First-year students don't get this access."

A year. To access files my own father wrote.

Files that might explain why a man claiming to be from another timeline fell from a building and didn't die.

Files that might explain what my father was really working on before he died.

I leave the Archive with my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

There's always another way.

"You're thinking about something stupid."

Rhea doesn't look up from her psychology textbook. We're in the common room, me pretending to study, her actually studying, the space between us comfortable in the way that happens when you're forced together during orientation week and discover you're both sarcastic introverts who hate icebreakers.

"I'm always thinking about something stupid," I say. "You'll need to be more specific."

"The kind of stupid that gets you expelled." Now she looks at me. "What did you find?"

Rhea has this way of reading people that's almost uncomfortable. Like she sees the things you're trying not to say.

"I'm not planning anything illegal."

"You're a terrible liar." She closes her textbook. "What did you find?"

I shouldn't tell her. Shouldn't drag her into this.

But the words come out anyway: "My father was researching something before he died. Something they classified after the accident. I found a reference to his work, but the full file is restricted."

"Aarya." Her voice drops. "Your father died in a classified accident. Whatever he was working on was dangerous enough to kill him. You really want to go digging in that?"

Yes. No. I don't know.

All I know is that I can't sleep. Can't stop seeing that man suspended in midair. Can't stop feeling like I'm missing something crucial—something my father tried to tell me and I didn't understand until it was too late.

"I just want to know the truth," I say quietly.

Rhea sighs. Sets down her textbook completely. "Alright. Tell me what you're actually planning."

"I'm not—"

"You're planning something. I can see it in your face. So either tell me or I'm reporting you preemptively to save myself the guilt when you get arrested."

Despite everything, I almost smile. "You'd really report me?"

"Absolutely not. But the threat sounded good." She leans forward. "So. What's the plan?"

"The Archive closes at twenty-one hundred," I say, sketching the timeline on her tablet. "Guard shift change happens twenty-five minutes later. That's the window."

"How do you get past the entrance?"

"The east entrance camera has a reset cycle. Four seconds where the feed goes dark."

She stares at me. "How do you know this?"

"I've been timing it all week." I meet her gaze. "While you were at orientations."

The look she gives me is half exasperation, half reluctant admiration.

"This is insane," Rhea says finally. "So when do we do it?"

"We?"

"You need a lookout. Someone on the outside watching for guards, timing rotations, ready to create a distraction if things go wrong." She crosses her arms. "What, you think I'd let you have all the illegal fun without me?"

I should argue. Should tell her this is my problem, my risk, my father's ghost to chase.

But the truth is, I don't want to do this alone.

"Tonight," I hear myself say. "We do it tonight."

Archives Building | 23:47 hours

Night air cuts like a blade as I circle the building for the third time. Earpiece tucked under my hood, invisible unless you're looking for it.

"Guard shift in two minutes," Rhea's voice crackles softly. She's positioned on a plaza bench three blocks away, textbook open, earbuds in—perfect camouflage as a student studying late.

My heart hammers against my ribs. Every instinct screams at me to abort, go back, forget this entire stupid plan.

But I think about my father's signature on that file.

I think about that man falling and the visions that won't leave me alone.

I think about all the things no one will explain.

The guard appears exactly on schedule. Mid-forties, security uniform slightly rumpled, walking with that barely perceptible limp I've memorized over the past week.

I time my approach for maximum authenticity. As he passes the fountain, I stumble—just enough to look clumsy without looking staged. My water bottle skids across the pavement and bumps his boot.

"Oh God, sorry!" I reach for it, deliberately off-balance. My hand catches his jacket as I steady myself.

He reaches out automatically. Human reflex beats protocol every time.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, just—" I make a show of catching my breath, leaning slightly for support. "Thanks. Apparently I don't know when to stop running."

His security badge swings free as he steadies me. Retractable cord. Easy target.

I used to practice pickpocketing when I was twelve. It wasn't about theft, it was about understanding how people move, what they notice, where their attention goes.

The badge is in my sleeve before he finishes warning me to be careful.

"Thanks again!" I continue jogging as he disappears into the parking structure.

Guards here follow routines. This one checks his badge at the security checkpoint, not before. Twenty-five minutes, before he notices it's missing. Less if he's competent.

"Twenty-two minutes," Rhea murmurs through the comm. "No turning back now."

She's right.

No turning back.

I use the four-second camera gap to slip inside. The badge works, green light, soft click, door opening like an invitation.

"I'm in," I whisper.

"Twenty minutes until guard rotation."

I head for the elevators. Swipe the badge.

The panel lights up: CLEARANCE GRANTED - FLOORS 1-8.

Relief floods through me. The guard had higher access than I hoped.

Eighth floor. There's a passage connecting the main Archive to the high-clearance research wing. Enclosed walkway. Sixty feet long. Reinforced glass showing campus far below.

I cross it, each step echoing too loud.

At the far end: another security panel.

I swipe the badge.

Red light. INSUFFICIENT CLEARANCE.

My stomach drops.

"Problem," I breathe.

"What kind?"

"Badge doesn't work for high-clearance."

I scan the area. My eyes track upward. Emergency roof access marked in red. 

There's always another way. 

"I need to go up."

"Up where?"

"The roof."

A pause. Then: "Aarya, that's completely insane."

"So is everything else I've done tonight."

The roof is exactly as terrible as I imagined.

Wind cuts through my jacket like it's not even there. The maintenance bridge connecting to the high-clearance wing is narrow, maybe three feet wide, with a drop that makes my stomach lurch.

Below: eight stories of nothing.

The maintenance window on the walkway's side requires a manual release, a simple lever system that's rusted shut from years of weather exposure.

I examine the mechanism. Basic physics. Apply enough force to overcome friction.

I brace myself and pull.

Nothing.

I try again, using my legs for leverage, putting my full body weight behind it.

The metal groans. Shifts. Then suddenly—

—gives way.

Too suddenly.

I stumble backward, foot sliding on wet concrete, and for one terrifying heartbeat, I'm falling—

My hand catches the window frame by pure instinct, fingers screaming as they take my full weight. Below me: eight stories of absolutely nothing.

"AARYA!" Rhea's voice cracks through the comm. "What was that sound?"

"Just…" I gasp, hauling myself back onto solid ground with arms that feel like jelly. "..testing gravity. Still works."

"That's not funny—"

"I'm fine.” I gasp, hauling myself back. “Window's open."

I climb through before I can think better of it.

High-Clearance Archive | 00:02 hours

I'm inside.

The high-clearance wing is colder than the main building. Clinical. Sterile. Rows of locked storage units line the walls, each marked with designation codes I don't understand.

File categories labeled in precise print: COGNITIVE RESEARCH. NEURAL DEVIATIONS. TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT STUDIES.

What would they label something they don't understand? Displacement.

I pull up the TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT STUDIES files.

Patient T-7 was logged four days ago. They'd have updated files within 48 hours for research documentation.

I scan for recent additions.

There. Storage Unit 8-H. Last Modified: 3 days ago.

"Eight minutes, Aarya," Rhea warns. "Guards are doing rounds early. You need to move soon."

The unit opens to rows of files organized by patient designation.

I scan labels with trembling hands until—

My blood turns to ice.

PATIENT T-7.

Authorization: Dr. Vikram Soren.

Classification: LEVEL 5.

Date: Two weeks before he died.

I pull it with hands that won't stop shaking.

The photo clips to the first page: the man. Same desperate eyes. Same ancient tattoo spiraling up his forearm.

I flip through. Medical assessments. Psychiatric evaluations.

Then my father's notes. His handwriting—familiar, precise, the same handwriting that used to sign permission slips and leave notes in my lunchbox.

Subject Interview Log - Day 7:

Subject maintains consistent narrative of origin timeline displacement. Claims memory of "Samyuga Kingdom, 847 BCE." Describes advanced pre-Vedic civilization with impossible detail—architectural specifications, astronomical calculations, linguistic patterns.

Standard evaluation suggests delusional disorder. However, neural mapping reveals authentic memory formation patterns.

Something happened to this man.

Recommendation: Continue observation. This warrants investigation beyond psychiatric protocols.

Timeline displacement.

The words blur as I flip to the final entry.

Final Assessment - Two days before accident:

Timeline fracture hypothesis cannot be dismissed. If temporal displacement is occurring—if reality itself is fracturing—implications are catastrophic.

Similar cases are emerging globally. This is not isolated.

Recommend immediate escalation. Whatever is happening, we're not prepared.

The words blur.

He knew. He knew something was happening. Something big enough that they killed him to keep it quiet.

"Aarya—" Rhea's voice, urgent. "I see the new guard coming already. Leave. Now."

I'm about to close the file when a voice cuts through the silence like a blade through silk.

"You weren't actually planning to sneak out with those files, were you?"

I freeze.

Every instinct screams at me to run, but there's nowhere to go. The voice came from the doorway, the only exit.

I turn slowly.

He's leaning against the doorframe like he's been there for hours. Arms crossed. Expression utterly calm. Posture too casual for someone who just caught an intruder.

Dark jacket. No uniform. But everything about him screams authority. The way he stands. The way he watches. The kind of stillness that belongs to people who've seen violence and didn't flinch.

He's not much older than me, mid-twenties, maybe. Sharp features, black hair slightly too long to be regulation. 

And he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he's already solved.

"I—" My mind races for explanations, excuses, anything—

"Save it." He pushes off the doorframe, steps into the room. "Breaking and entering. Credential theft. Unauthorized access to classified materials. Network intrusion." His tone is almost conversational. "That's four felonies before midnight. Impressive."

"I can explain—"

"I'm sure you can." He moves closer, and I realize two things simultaneously: he's dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with physical threat, and everything to do with the cold intelligence in his eyes.

"ID."

Not a request.

I unclip my student badge from my waistband, holding it up. My hand doesn't shake. I won't let it.

He doesn't take it. Just reads it from where he stands.

"Aarya Soren." His gaze flicks back to me. Something shifts in his expression - recognition, maybe. Or something darker. "First-year."

A pause. "You're Vikram Soren's daughter."

It's not a question.

My chest tightens. "You knew him."

Long pause. Too weighted. Too deliberate.

"Everyone here knew your father." He glances at the file in my hands. Something flickers in his expression, impossible to read, gone before I can identify it. "Impressive you made it this far. Most people don't pass the secondary locks."

He reaches out. I flinch, but he just takes the file from my hands with careful, deliberate movements.

"You read this?"

I nod.

My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Are you going to report me?"

"That depends." He doesn't blink. "Why are you really here?"

The truth sits on my tongue. Because my father's name is on that file and he's dead, and no one will tell me what happened. But I can't say that. Can't show weakness to someone who's already catalogued my felonies like a shopping list.

"Curiosity."

His expression suggests he doesn't believe me for a second.

"Try again."

"Patient T-7 was my father's last active case before he died. I wanted to understand—"

"And you thought breaking half a dozen security protocols would give you answers?" He says it flatly. Statement, not question.

Heat floods my face. "If what's in that file is true, if Patient T-7 really is from another timeline, why isn't Eidolon letting the world know?"

"Because the world is afraid of what it doesn't understand." His voice is soft. Deadly. "And right now, you're demonstrating exactly why some information stays classified."

The words hit like ice water.

He knows. He knows things about my father that I don't.

"You didn't answer my question," I manage.

"You didn't ask the right one."

Rhea's voice crackles in my earpiece: "Aarya—guard shift change in ninety seconds. You need to move. Now."

He tilts his head slightly. Like he can hear her voice through my earpiece. Like he knows I'm not alone.

"Seems like you have more immediate problems than getting answers."

Silence stretches between us.

“Leave.”

“That’s not—”

“Consider this as me being generous.”

His gaze hardens. “Next time I find you where you don’t belong, I won’t be.”

"Why are you letting me go?"

"Because." He turns toward the door. Places the file back on the shelf. Exactly where it belongs. "You're not worth the paperwork, princess."

The casual dismissal, that mocking title, cuts deeper than any threat.

"Wait—"

He stops. Doesn't turn around.

Emergency lights throw half his face into shadow, the other half sharp and unreadable.

"If you're smart, you'll drop this. Forget what you saw. Live a normal life."

“And if I don’t?”

He glances back at me like I’ve just proven his point.

"Then you'll find out exactly how much trouble curiosity can buy you."

He disappears into the corridor.

I stand frozen in the amber half-light, pulse racing, questions multiplying faster than I can contain them.

"Aarya!" Rhea's voice is panicked now. "WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Coming," I whisper.

I force my legs to work. Emergency exit. Down. Faster. The stairwell blurs, metal rails, concrete, the smell of old paint and fear.

I hit the ground floor as footsteps echo from somewhere above.

Outside, I don't stop running until I'm three blocks clear.

When I finally look back, the Archive is going dark.

One by one.

Like doors closing.

And somewhere inside, I know this wasn’t mercy.

It was a warning.