The alarms were a siren scream, amplified by the laboratory’s tiled surfaces. Elias ran, the platinum wedding ring clenched tightly in his left hand, the hammer and the useless key discarded on the polished floor beside the wrecked spectroscopy unit.
He sprinted through the hallway toward the emergency exit, ignoring the growing sounds of security voices closing in. He didn’t look back. The Anchor Mass was his. The memory of his wife – the one from Reality Alpha – was safe, contained in the cold metal band.
He hit the stairwell door and burst through. He took the first two flights in desperate leaps. His bruised body protested, his scraped ribs burning, and his heart rate spiked into dangerous territory.
Do not fall. Do not stumble. Control the constants.
He missed a step on the third flight.
It was a simple stumble – a slip on the metal grate – but in that instant, his body lost control. The feeling was instantaneous and devastating: The momentum of his forward movement reversed.
He wasn’t falling down the stairs. He was falling up.
The world dissolved into a cacophony of white noise. The visual field imploded into a single, blinding flash of pure, agonizing light. The familiar, dreadful sensation returned, more violent than ever before: the stomach rising, the ears popping, the soundless rush of air that promised impact.
This was no dream. This was the physical mechanics of the Chronoslide, tearing his consciousness away from Reality Beta.
He squeezed the wedding ring so tightly the platinum cut into his flesh. Anchor. Remember the key. Remember Prime.
The fall was endless, a terrifying vacuum of noise and light, a full descent into the oblivion between worlds.
He felt the velocity build, reaching a terminal speed that promised annihilation. This time, there was no gentle, hypnagogic jerk. This time, there was only the absolute, undeniable impact.
CRASH.
Elias gasped, his lungs seizing. He was back in his bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, his heart thundering a panicked rhythm. He was sweat-soaked and dizzy.
He sat up, utterly disoriented. The room was dark, but the faint green glow of the digital clock read 3:00 AM.
Just a dream.
He forced himself to breathe, slowing his pulse. He slid his hand under the pillow, confirming the constant. His wedding ring was there, cold, heavy, and solid on his finger.
He looked at his hands. They were clean, unbruised. He rubbed his ribs; no scrape. The silk pajamas were pristine, perfectly smooth.
He reached for the bedside table, picking up his house key. He walked to the front door, inserted the key, and turned.
CLICK. The lock opened perfectly.
He was safe. He was home.
Elias walked back into the living room, relieved, dizzy with the realization that he had finally avoided the final impact. He had woken up before hitting the ground.
He glanced at his bookshelf. Everything was precisely as it should be. The titles, the authors, the alignment. All constant.
He walked to the kitchen and looked at the pristine, white wall where the utility closet should be. There was no sign of a jagged hole, no dust, no plaster. He was home.
He walked back to the bedside table. He pulled the silk sheets away from his legs.
Lying on the pillow next to where he had just woken up was a single, pristine piece of navy cotton fabric, the kind used for heavy traveling coats.
It wasn’t his.
Elias did not recognize the fabric, but he knew what it was: the infinitesimal, unavoidable piece of the previous reality that had slipped through the continuum. The faint, measurable dust motes of matter – the Anchor Mass – left behind by a previous traveler who had not been so lucky.
Elias looked at the fabric, then back at the door that had just let him in. He realized he hadn’t caught himself before hitting the ground.
He had simply woken up in the next reality.