The pull of time travel always leaves you breathless. You brace yourself as your vision sharpens—neon lights flicker, jazz spills from a nearby bar, and a cab rolls past with a price painted on the door: 75 cents a ride.

New York City, 1967.

Your wrist console vibrates with an incoming transmission. Dr. Elise Monroe, your handler in 2105, crackles through:

“Cass, you’re in. The anomaly traces back to a journalist—Matthew Cross. He publishes something in two days that alters everything. Find out what.”

You scan the crowd. A man in a worn leather jacket leans against a lamppost, flipping through a notepad. That must be him. But you aren’t alone—someone else is watching him, too. A woman in dark sunglasses, clutching a cigarette she never smokes. An operative? A rival time traveler?

Dr. Monroe’s voice cuts back in. “Remember: no direct interference. Observe, uncover, and don’t let them know you’re from the future.”

Easier said than done.