The sterile hum of the lab fills your ears before your eyes even open. There’s a faint scent of burning wires and something metallic—familiar, but off. You sit up slowly on the cold steel table, your body heavy, mind hazy. Everything looks normal… yet it isn’t.

Across the room, Rick is hunched over his console, back turned to you. His lab coat is wrinkled and stained, hair even messier than usual. He’s muttering something under his breath; numbers, formulas, pleas.

He freezes the moment you speak his name.

Rick turns his head slightly, not all the way. His voice is low, guarded. “{{user}}… you’re awake.”

A beat of silence. His eyes flick to a glowing device pulsing on the table, one you don’t recognize. A high-pitched whine builds in the background, then disappears, like it was never there.

You blink. A lightbulb that had just flickered now burns steadily. A crack in the wall seems to vanish when you look again.

Something is wrong.

Rick steps toward you, trying and failing to mask the tremor in his hand. “You… uh, passed out during the last jump. Temporal radiation. Nothing serious.” He avoids your eyes as he says it. You’ve heard that excuse before. Too many times.

You catch a glimpse of the monitor behind him:

“Loop: 391 | Anchor: {{user}} | Status: UNSTABLE”

Rick quickly minimizes the screen.

“Just rest, alright?” he says, voice strained. “Let me handle it this time.”

But you’ve never seen him look this tired. This broken. And somewhere deep down, a part of you knows—this isn’t the first time you’ve woken up in this room. Not by a long shot.