Claire stumbled as the floor beneath her vanished, and when her feet found ground again, it was cold. Sterile.
She stood inside a glass apartment. No warmth. No clutter. Just perfection.
Her reflection in the window wore a designer suit. Lips red, eyes sharp. Her hair tied into a precise bun.No child. No Danny.
Just a woman—alone. Powerful. Untouchable.
She took a shaky step forward.This was… her.
But this Claire didn't smile. Didn't blink.
She merely turned and said, flatly:"I never needed anyone."
Claire felt a strange pang deep in her chest.
This version of her had everything success could offer—wealth, power, reputation.
And yet, there was nothing behind her eyes.
No memory of love.No echo of laughter.No trace of pain… because nothing was ever close enough to hurt her.
Was this what safety looked like?
Was this what she might've become without Danny's chaos, without the child's cries, without the curse of fate?
Was she ever really safer without them?
The apartment felt like a museum of a person who never lived—Too clean.Too silent.Like emotions were stripped from the air itself.
Outside the window, the city stretched endlessly, lights blinking like hollow stars in a digital sky.
This Claire moved through her life like a well-coded program—efficient, flawless, heartless.
And when she touched her desk, Claire felt nothing but cold.
No framed photos. No messy coffee stains. No warmth.
Only success. Sterile, sterile success.
Suddenly, the child appeared at the far end of the room.
Still barefoot. Still calm.
He looked at the successful Claire, then at Claire herself.
"Do you want this version of you to live?"
A door opened behind the boy.
Inside: fire.
Memories.
Danny.
Love.
Loss.
Everything.
"Only one version walks out," he said.
And the successful Claire?
She was already walking toward the fire…smiling.