The report shouldn't have mattered this much.
It was just paper.
Just words.
Just a structured explanation meant to make something chaotic feel—
under control.
But the moment Elara saw it—
she knew.
Something was wrong.
Not slightly.
Not interpretively.
Objectively.
Wrong.
"Walk me through it again."
Her voice sounded steady.
It wasn't.
The forensic lab was colder than the van.
Cleaner.
Brighter.
And somehow—
less human.
Dr. Hale didn't look up immediately.
He adjusted his glasses, flipping a page slowly, like he had already gone over this too many times.
"You've read it," he said.
"I want to hear it," Elara replied.
Because reading it—
hadn't been enough.
Because reading it—
hadn't made sense.
Dr. Hale finally looked at her.
Then at Aaron.
Then back to the report.
"Male. Late forties. Found on-site. No external trauma significant enough to cause death."
Elara's fingers tightened slightly.
"Continue."
"Initial cause of death—cardiac arrest."
"That's not right."
Too fast.
Too sharp.
The words cut through the room before she could stop them.
Dr. Hale paused.
Not surprised.
Just—
annoyed.
"And what would you suggest?" he asked.
Elara stepped forward.
Closer to the table.
Closer to the body.
Because she needed to see it again.
Not remember.
See.
"He didn't die from his heart," she said.
Her voice dropped now.
More controlled.
But less certain.
Dr. Hale let out a quiet breath.
"Then explain the internal collapse," he said, tapping the report.
Elara didn't answer immediately.
Because she had seen it.
But it didn't fit.
Nothing fit.
She looked down at the body.
The same man.
CASE 02.
Still.
Silent.
But no longer neutral.
Now—
he felt like evidence.
Not of a crime.
Of something else.
Something—
unfinished.
"Show me the full scan," she said.
Dr. Hale hesitated.
Then turned the screen toward her.
Layered imaging.
Bone.
Muscle.
Internal structures.
All mapped.
All precise.
All—
wrong.
Elara leaned closer.
Her breath slowed.
Focused.
Searching.
And then—
she saw it.
Not immediately.
Not clearly.
But once she did—
she couldn't unsee it.
"This doesn't match," she whispered.
Aaron stepped closer.
"What?"
Elara pointed.
Here.
Then here.
Then—
again.
"These injuries—" she said, her voice tightening,"they didn't happen at the same time."
Dr. Hale frowned.
"That's impossible."
Elara shook her head.
"No. Look at the tissue response."
She moved her finger slightly.
"This one is older. At least a few days."
Then another.
"This one—recent."
Her pulse started to rise.
"And this—" she stopped.
Because this one—
shouldn't exist at all.
"This one hasn't happened yet."
Silence.
Total.
Absolute.
Dr. Hale stared at her.
"…That's not how biology works."
Elara's throat tightened.
"I know."
But she didn't look away.
Because she couldn't.
Because it was there.
Clear.
Precise.
Unavoidable.
Three separate states—
in one body.
Past.
Present.
And something—
that felt like future.
Her stomach dropped.
"No…"
Her voice broke.
This wasn't interpretation.
This wasn't theory.
This was—
evidence.
Aaron spoke quietly.
"What are you saying?"
Elara didn't answer immediately.
Because saying it—
would make it real.
And once it was real—
there would be no going back.
She swallowed.
Hard.
Then—
"They didn't die once," she said.
The words landed.
Heavy.
Cold.
"They died… multiple times."
Dr. Hale scoffed softly.
"That's not possible."
Elara finally looked at him.
For the first time—
with certainty.
"It already happened."
Silence.
The room didn't react.
But something inside it—
shifted.
Aaron stepped closer.
"Explain."
Elara turned back to the screen.
Her hands trembling now.
Not from fear.
From something worse.
Understanding.
"They're not just bodies," she said.
Her voice shaking.
"They're timelines."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Because no one—
knew how to respond to that.
Elara stepped back slowly.
Her breath uneven.
Her mind racing.
Every case.
Every body.
Every "decision."
They weren't isolated.
They weren't random.
They were—
connected.
Layered.
Overlapping.
And she—
had been inside all of them.
Her chest tightened.
"I've seen this before," she whispered.
Aaron's gaze sharpened.
"Where?"
Elara didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Or maybe—
she did.
And didn't want to say it.
She looked at the body again.
At the stillness.
At the impossible structure beneath it.
And then—
it happened.
Not a memory.
Not a vision.
A correction.
Something aligning.
Something—
locking.
And the same voice—
not heard—
but understood—
cut through everything.
"You let this happen more than once."
Elara froze.
Her breath stopped.
"No…"
Her voice trembled.
But this time—
it wasn't denial.
It was recognition.