Spiral

The Error

The basement smells like damp concrete and old electricity.

Not rot — not quite. Something cleaner. Like rain that never reached the ground.

My flashlight beam shakes as I sweep it across the walls. Exposed pipes crawl along the ceiling, veins feeding a building that should've died decades ago. Somewhere above us, something hums — not loud enough to locate, just enough to make my ears feel tight.

"Nothing," I say, though I don't know why I bother. We already know.

The jock — his name is on the tip of my tongue, always just out of reach — snorts and kicks a loose brick across the floor. It skitters, hollow, and vanishes into the dark.

"Because this is a waste of time," he says. "Just like bringing them."

I stiffen.

The blonde girl shoots him a look sharp enough to cut. "Drop it."

"I'm serious," he says, turning to face me now. "Every mission we run cold since they showed up. You don't belong in this timeline. Hell, you don't belong in this universe."

The words land heavier than they should.

The smart girl — the one who always notices things first — steps closer to me, shoulder brushing mine. Grounding. Protective. "That's not how causality works," she says, but her voice wavers. "And you know it."

The other guy doesn't say anything. He just watches me the way you watch a storm forming where there wasn't one before.

That's when the air folds.

Sound goes strange first. Not gone — compressed. Like the room is being wrapped in something invisible and tight. My flashlight flickers, then dies.

"No," someone says. Maybe me.

Light fractures the space in front of us — blues, pinks, greens — colors that don't belong underground. The basement walls stretch away like reflections in broken glass.

They appear without walking in.

Tall. Indistinct. Not quite faces, not quite shapes. The feeling of being looked at presses into my chest until it's hard to breathe.

"Non‑Native Observer Paradox confirmed," one of them says. Their voice isn't sound. It's information. "Correction required."

My heart slams.

"What are you talking about?" the blonde girl demands, stepping in front of me without thinking.

The thing — The Arbiter — tilts what I assume is its head.

"Step forward," it says. "The error must be removed."

"No," I say. My feet won't move. "I didn't do anything."

"That's the problem," the jock whispers. Fear has drained all the cruelty from his voice. "You didn't."

Gravity lets go of me.

I rise, slow at first, like my body forgot which way down is supposed to be. Hands grab me — arms around my wrists, my waist, my jacket — fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.

"Stop!" someone screams. "You can't just take them!"

Tears streak faces I don't have time to memorize properly. I try. God, I try. Every line. Every freckle. The way the smart girl's hands shake even though she's always steady.

"I don't want to go," I choke. "Please."

The portal opens behind me — a tunnel of light folding inward on itself, colors spiraling like they're being swallowed.

"This is wrong!" the blonde girl sobs. "They're one of us!"

The Arbiters don't respond.

Their grip tightens.

Fingers slip.

I reach for them — for all of them — at once.

The last thing I see is the jock lunging forward, face breaking completely, yelling my name like it might anchor me to the floor.

Then the light takes me.