The museum was silent as a tomb, but Aven could feel something moving beneath the floors—like restless memories trying to claw their way back into existence.
Rhea handed him a small device, no bigger than his palm. "This will record whatever the cube shows us," she said. "If we can capture the full projection, maybe we can figure out what force is erasing these futures."
Aven swallowed. "What if we can't stop it?"
Rhea gave a brittle smile. "Then at least we'll know how we died."
They approached the crimson-lit cube together. As Aven activated the recorder, the cube flickered, and the projection burst to life in front of them: an older Rhea, battered and bleeding, clutching Aven's hand as they ran through the burning corridors of the museum. Something huge and dark roared behind them—a shifting mass of smoke and static that swallowed the walls in its wake.
Future Rhea turned to look straight at Aven. "Don't trust the archives," she whispered, blood running down her cheek. "They're rewriting you."
Then the projection cut out, plunging the room into darkness.
Aven was shaking. "Rewriting… me? What does that mean?"
Rhea squeezed his shoulder. "I don't know yet. But I think the museum itself is part of something bigger—a system meant to delete futures, maybe even rewrite reality."
Aven stared at the dead cube, its glow gone. "So what are we?"
Rhea's voice was quiet. "We're the last glitch in the system. And that means we're dangerous."
Outside the vault, they heard a low scraping, like metal on concrete. Aven turned to Rhea, fear tightening his chest. "Is that it? The thing from the projection?"
Rhea drew a short knife from her belt. "If it is," she whispered, "we make sure it doesn't erase us."