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# **ASH AND ADAMANTIUM**
### **Memory, Replayed**
The heat was alive. It breathed.
Robin stood in the charred doorway, flames curling above, licking the ceiling tiles like tongues of some ancient god. The children's screams blurred into static, his fire helmet dripping with sweat and soot.
He could barely see.
Then, the floor gave out.
**Impact.**
Then nothing.
Just smoke.
---
He woke gasping in his Brooklyn bed.
Three hours past midnight. Shirt soaked. Hands clenched so tight they'd torn the pillowcase.
Robin sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. The scar on his side from the knife wound had vanished completely. His body was healing. Always healing.
But the dreams?
The dreams were untouched.
And tonight, fate seemed to have a cruel sense of humor.
Because outside his window, a plume of **smoke** rose from just six blocks away.
He didn't hesitate.
---
### **The Fire**
By the time Robin reached the apartment complex, the street was chaos.
Firefighters were yelling. Neighbors screamed. Glass shattered above as a window exploded. Somewhere, a baby was crying.
A second-floor balcony was swallowed in flame — and just beyond it, a young woman in a red hoodie was stuck on a third-story fire escape, coughing violently, unable to climb down. Fire crews hadn't reached that side yet.
No one had seen her.
But Robin had.
And **he remembered**.
His feet were moving before his mind caught up.
He slipped into the alley beside the building and scaled a maintenance pipe. The metal burned against his palms, but he didn't stop.
Pain was information.
By the time he reached the third level, smoke was coiling like serpents. He crouched low, muscles already aching from the strain of holding his breath.
"Hey!" he called out.
The girl turned, dazed and barely conscious.
"I'm gonna get you out."
She shook her head. "I can't—my leg—my ankle—"
Robin didn't argue. He scooped her up in both arms and adjusted his stance.
Then, he *jumped*.
Three stories down.
This time, he landed on a trash heap, rolling to absorb the impact.
His ribs cracked. The air left his lungs.
But the girl was alive.
She looked at him through watery eyes, stunned. "Who—how—?"
Robin smiled faintly, even as blood pooled under his shirt. "Don't worry about it."
Then, he vanished into the crowd as sirens swelled.
---
### **The Afterburn**
Back in his apartment, Robin pulled off his soaked shirt. The wounds were already knitting together — but slower. Deeper fractures took more time. More *energy*.
He collapsed into his chair, heart pounding.
His hands were shaking again.
Not from the fall. Not from the pain.
From *the fire*.
From what it reminded him of.
He buried his face in his hands.
And for the first time in this new life, **he cried**.
---
### **Mina — Noticing**
The next day, Mina Torres showed up to the Book Nook with two coffees and a suspicious look.
"You weren't here yesterday," she said, setting one of the drinks on the counter.
Robin glanced up. "Had a thing."
"You always have a thing," she said. "But yesterday a building six blocks away nearly went up like a Roman candle."
Robin froze.
Mina leaned in, narrowing her eyes. "You okay?"
He nodded, too quickly. "Fine."
She didn't press. Not then. But her eyes didn't leave him the rest of the shift.
Later, as he restocked the travel section, she appeared beside him.
"I saw someone on the news," she said casually. "Carrying a girl out. Covered in soot. Looked a lot like you."
Robin didn't reply.
Mina looked at him, something shifting in her tone. "You can tell me if you're in trouble."
"I'm not."
"Then why do you look like you're always running from something?"
Robin met her gaze.
For the first time, he *almost* told her.
Almost.
But then the bell above the door rang.
And **everything changed.**
---
### **The TVA Steps Closer**
The man who entered didn't match the neighborhood.
Too clean.
Too... still.
He walked slowly down the central aisle, fingertips grazing the books like a priest passing pews. His eyes were pale gray. His suit brown. His posture mathematically perfect.
Robin knew instantly.
**TVA.**
Not a Hunter. Something worse.
**A Recorder.**
They didn't *interfere*. They *documented*.
This one paused in front of the poetry section. Picked up a book.
Said, without turning: "Robin Vance."
Robin stood behind the counter, calm as still water. "You have the wrong guy."
The man smiled faintly, paging through the book.
"No. I have the right *event*. You're just... early."
Mina looked between them, confused.
Robin's heart thudded. "What do you want?"
"I want to see," said the Recorder. "What becomes of the man who should not be."
He set the book down and left.
Without another word.
---
### **End of Day – Rooftop Conversations**
That night, Robin sat on the rooftop, knees drawn to his chest, journal open beside him.
He felt **watched**.
He felt **cornered**.
But he also felt something else for the first time since waking up in this world:
**Connected.**
Not to the universe. Not yet.
But to *Mina*. To the girl he saved. To the people whose lives went on while his teetered in the background.
He wasn't a hero.
He wasn't a god.
He was just a man trying to survive pain and **do good anyway**.
He closed the journal.
And whispered aloud to no one:
"I'm not ready for war. But I won't run."
Above him, far beyond the clouds, a satellite camera — TVA-branded — shuttered closed.
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**TO BE CONTINUED...**
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