The sky didn't scream when it tore open.
It whispered.
A silver rift spread across the evening clouds like a crack on ice, silent but terrifying, beautiful but deadly. The city below carried on—cars honking, children laughing, a saxophonist playing jazz in front of the subway station. No one looked up.
Except her.
Ruo Qing stood alone on the steps of the Central Library, eyes fixed on the bleeding edge of reality. Her breath hitched as the silver light shimmered, impossibly distant yet eerily close, like it was peering back at her.
And then something stepped out.
It wasn't quite a man, but it wore the shape of one. Tall, draped in robes that seemed to swirl with moving mist, and faceless—its head wrapped in a dark silver ribbon that pulsed with faint light, as though stitched from living time. Each of its steps triggered a quiet resonance, a ripple that shimmered across the pavement like a clock's chime dropped into still water.
People passed by it without reaction. Some walked right through it. They didn't see it.
But Ruo Qing did.
"You see me," it said. The voice wasn't heard—it was felt. A vibration beneath her ribs. "Good."
She took a slow breath. "Who are you?"
"I am the Echo Watcher," it replied. "A sentinel of fractured time. You, Ruo Qing, have disrupted the flow."
"I saved the mirror realm," she said coldly. "I stopped Lythander. That's not a disruption—that's restoration."
"You restored one realm at the cost of another," the figure said. "You cut fate's thread. Your choices must be measured."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're from the future."
It didn't nod, but the answer was clear.
"You're not here to ask questions, are you?" she said.
"No. I am here to begin recalibration."
It lifted a hand—and the world paused.
Literally.
The wind stopped. A pigeon froze mid-wingbeat. A falling coffee cup hovered motionless in the air, its contents caught like amber in sunlight. Pedestrians stopped mid-stride. Cars ceased rolling forward. The entire city hung in perfect stillness, like a snapshot of time put under glass.
Everyone froze.
Except Ruo Qing.
And then—Murdoch appeared.
He stumbled into the scene, breathless, his jacket askew like he'd been running for blocks. He looked at her. And then his face changed.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Then confusion again.
"Qing?" he said, frowning. "I—I know you. But…"
She stepped closer, heart already sinking. "Murdoch, what's wrong?"
He tilted his head. "Are you from the mirror court? No, that's not it. You look like…"
"It's me," she said gently, "Ruo Qing."
He took a shaky breath. "That name. It hurts. Like... like something I should remember."
"You do. You must."
He reached for her hand, but paused halfway, as if unsure why he wanted to.
The Echo Watcher watched silently from behind them, no judgment, no anger—just observation.
"She's slipping from you," it murmured. "Your bond. Your shared timeline. It cannot withstand the weight of rewritten memories."
Murdoch turned to it. "Who are you?"
The figure didn't reply. Instead, a shimmer moved through the air—and the silver ribbon across its face twitched.
Murdoch's eyes widened. He staggered back.
"I—No. You're... you're not supposed to exist yet."
"You remember me," the Watcher said softly. "That will fade soon."
Ruo Qing felt it then—like a string snapping in her chest.
"Murdoch," she whispered, stepping forward, "even if you forget, even if they erase every kiss, every fight, every stupid, soft moment—promise me one thing."
He looked at her, eyes glassy. "What?"
"Tonight, remember me. Even if only in your body. If your mind forgets, let your hands remember how to hold me."
He reached out, trembling.
And kissed her.
There was no crowd. No music. No heartbeat but theirs.
The city had frozen—but in their locked embrace, time roared on.