Kael stared at himself.
No simulations. No illusions. No cloaked metaphors. This was him—younger, sharper, and somehow more dangerous. His hair was a little longer, wild and damp with static. His chronosuit bore the emblem of a pre-Knot task force Kael hadn't seen in decades: Division Echo-9.
But it wasn't just his appearance.
It was how he looked at Kael.
Like he was the ghost, and this version—the one seated on the data throne—was the real thing.
"You're still doing it," said the younger Kael. "Standing like you're the main character."
His grin was cold. "Cute."
Myra raised her disruptor, uncertain. "Is it a temporal echo? A rogue imprint?"
Kael shook his head slowly. "No. He's real. I made him."
The younger Kael—Echo-Kael, as Kael was already calling him in his mind—leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I'm what's left when you edit out the regret."
Kael didn't respond.
Because deep down, he already remembered what this Anchor was.
Years ago—maybe decades in standard time—Kael had lost a mission. A catastrophic one. An entire Anchor collapsed after he made the wrong call. Rather than filing a failed report, he'd experimented with a then-untested feature buried in the ChronoCore archives: Narrative Correction Mode. You couldn't fix time—but you could write a better version of it and lock it into retroactive probability.
And the system had done it.
But it had needed a template.
A cleaner, more obedient Kael.
So it made one.
And left him behind.
Echo-Kael stood now, approaching the edge of the platform, boots clicking against the datastream veins that tethered the throne.
"You left me here," he said softly. "Told yourself it was a metaphor. A contained fracture. A blip in your report."
"I told myself it wasn't real," Kael admitted.
"Yeah," Echo-Kael laughed. "Funny thing about us: we believe anything if it means we get to keep pretending we're the good guy."
Myra stepped between them. "If you're still tethered to the anchor, we can pull you out. Restore your core."
Echo-Kael tilted his head. "Why would I want that?"
Myra blinked. "You… want to stay?"
"I want him to face what he erased," Echo-Kael snapped. "I want him to remember the names of the people he rewrote out of existence just to sleep at night."
Kael took a step forward, his voice raw. "Then show me."
A pause.
Then Echo-Kael lifted his hand—and the walls around them fell away.
The hangar was gone.
Instead, they stood in the moment Kael had rewritten.
A warzone.
Fire sweeping across a settlement. People screaming. A child running with a broken data slate in her hand. The mission that had failed.
Kael's original report had said he saved them.
This version—the real version—was far worse.
He hadn't even reached the extraction point.
Kael turned away, jaw tight.
"It was supposed to be simple," he muttered. "Just one fix. One lie. And then I'd make it right later."
Echo-Kael's voice was ice. "You never did. You got promoted. You became the ChronoKnot. The legend. And I got stuck down here, babysitting a perfect story."
The sky above them began to crack.
Not visually.
Structurally.
Narrative threads, like silver lightning, splintered across the air.
"Paradox event forming," Myra said quickly. "Two versions of the same subject, occupying identical purpose space in the same temporal lattice. We have minutes before this entire Anchor implodes."
Echo-Kael didn't flinch.
He turned to Kael.
"There's only one way to fix it."
Kael nodded grimly. "One of us goes."
Myra stepped forward. "No. No, we can still extract him—"
But Kael held up a hand. "He's right."
Then, to Echo-Kael: "You're the version who remembers. Who suffered. You deserve to leave."
Echo-Kael blinked.
"I expected a fight."
Kael shrugged. "I've already fought myself more than once."
He stepped backward—toward the pulsing Sphere that had once held Echo-Kael's throne.
"You take my tether," Kael said. "Go back. Tell them the truth."
Echo-Kael hesitated.
Then stepped forward.
Their fingers brushed in the handoff. Static passed between them—two timelines touching, briefly, without violence.
And then Kael vanished into the Sphere.
No scream.
No drama.
Just silence.
Myra looked at Echo-Kael.
"You're really him, aren't you?"
Echo-Kael nodded. "The part he buried."
She didn't smile.
But she nodded back.
Then together, they activated the jump core—and left the Anchor of Lies behind.