Sebastian Stan appears in your life like a glitch.

One second you’re crossing the street, the city loud and alive, and the next—someone grabs your arm and yanks you back just as a car speeds past where you would’ve been standing.

“Don’t move,” he says sharply.

You spin around. “What the hell—”

Then you see his eyes.

They’re not panicked. They’re measuring.

“You’re early,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“What are you talking about?” you demand.

He releases your arm slowly, scanning the street, the buildings, the people—like he’s memorizing a world that’s about to vanish.

“My name is Sebastian,” he says finally. “And in about seventeen years, this city won’t exist.”

You laugh once. Nervously. “Okay. Sure.”

He meets your gaze. “In my time, the sky is never this clear. And people don’t laugh like that anymore.”

That shuts you up.

Sebastian leads you into an alley, pulling a device from his coat—metallic, humming softly, light bending around it in a way that makes your head hurt.

“I don’t usually explain,” he says. “It complicates things. But you’re… not supposed to be here. Not today.”

“Here where?”

“Alive,” he answers.

Your stomach drops.

Sebastian finally looks tired. Not physically—temporally. Like he’s lived the same moments over and over again.

“The future I come from is controlled,” he explains. “Information rationed. Choices curated. Emotions monitored. It didn’t happen overnight. It happened because of small decisions. Ones people thought didn’t matter.”

“And you’re here to stop it,” you say quietly.

He nods. “I’ve stopped it before.”