I Have 45 Minutes Until My Execution. But I've Already Seen What Happens Next.

45 minutes, that's what they gave me. The execution team moved like they done this 100 times before. Probably had two guys in Gray uniforms. Didn't say a word, just grabbed my arms and walked me down that hallway I'd memorized. Every crack in the chair was already waiting.

It wasn't electric or anything dramatic like that, just this metal thing with medical restraints, the kind they use in hospitals. White padding on the armrests. Someone had cleaned it recently. I could smell the disinfectant. The first restraint went around my left wrist, tight.

The metal bit into my skin and I figured that was the point. They wanted me still. The ankle restraints came next, then the right wrist. By the time they were done, I couldn't move much more than my fingers. That's when Jasmine walked in.

Doctor Burke, I should say. She never let me call her Jasmine. Not in three years. Always carried that same clipboard. Always wore that white coat like armor.

Her hair was pulled back tighter than usual. Today, I guess executions were formal events. She nodded at the guards, and they left. Just her and me in the room now, and whoever was watching through that window behind her. I could see them moving around back there, Shadows in white coats.

The observation deck. I'd never been on that side before. The technicians were setting up the injection. I watched them through the glass. These people I'd never seen before, handling the stuff that was going to kill me.

Two syringes. The first one would neutralize what they called my abilities. The second one would stop my heart. Made sense, I guess. Couldn't have me seeing my own death coming and somehow changing it.

That would mess up their whole procedure. The facility hummed around us. It always did that. This low electronic buzz you stop noticing after a while. Air filtration, computers, whatever.

Three years I've been listening to that sound. Three years of the same white walls, the same sterile smell, the same routine. Breakfast at 7, testing at 9, lunch at noon, more testing at 2:00, dinner at six, lights out at 10. Rinse and repeat. Jasmine checked something on her clipboard.

Protocol 7 grants you the right to a final statement, she said. Real official, like she was reading from a script. I looked at her for a second. She had these lines around her eyes that hadn't been there when this whole thing started. Guess three years of experimenting on people takes a toll.

You want to know what really happened in Chicago? I said. She blinked, Wasn't expecting that. Probably 200,000 people died, she said. We know what happened.

No, You know what it looked like, You know the body count, you know the timeline. I shifted in the chair as much as the restraints would let me. You don't know what actually happened. The technicians were still working behind the glass. One of them held up a syringe to the light, checking for air bubbles.

Real professional. The incident has been thoroughly documented, Jasmine said. Has it? I asked, did your documentation mention that I tried to stop it? Did it mention that I saw it coming six months before it happened and spent every day trying to figure out how to prevent it?

She looked at her watch. Black band. 38 minutes, she said. That's enough time for what? To explain what actually happened, starting from the beginning, I watched her think about it.

She could have just sat there and waited for the clock to run out. Probably should have, but I knew Jasmine and I knew she was curious. Always had been. It's what made her good at her job, and probably what kept her up at night. She pulled over a chair from against the wall and sat down.

The clipboard went on her lap. 38 minutes, she said again, like a warning. I nodded. 38 minutes to tell the truth about Chicago, about what really happened when my abilities went haywire and killed 200,000 people in the span of four hours. 38 minutes to explain why everything they thought they knew was wrong.

I started with the field trip figure that made the most sense. Lincoln High, sophomore year, April something. Our chemistry class got picked for the Museum of Science and Industry tour because our teacher, Misses Rodriguez, knew somebody who worked there. Wesley was my lab partner back then. Sat next to me on the bus ride downtown.

Harper was a couple rows up with her friends, probably talking about whatever Harper talked about. I didn't really know her that well. The museum was one of those places that's supposed to blow your mind but mostly just makes you tired. Giant exhibits everywhere, kids running around screaming, tour guides trying to sound excited about coal mining displays.

We'd been there maybe 2 hours when the fire alarm went off. Loud as hell, That piercing sound that cuts right through your skull. Everyone started moving toward the exits like we'd practiced at school a million times. No panic, just that automatic shuffle toward the doors. I remember thinking it was probably nothing.

Fire drills always were. That's when the security guy showed up. John Washington didn't know his name then, obviously. Just some older guy in a uniform with a radio clip to his belt. He had this military look about him, straight posture, serious face.

The kind of guy who probably told people to move along all day. You 3, he said, pointing at me. Wesley and Harper. Special evacuation route for your section. Made sense at the time.

The museum was huge, had probably 50 different ways out. Maybe our group was supposed to use a different exit to avoid crowding. Wesley just shrugged and followed. Harper looked confused but didn't argue. Washington let us away from everyone else, down a hallway I hadn't seen before, past a bunch of doors marked STAFF only and authorized personnel.

The fire alarm kept going, but it got quieter as we walked. Where exactly are we going? Harper asked. Service exit, Washington said. Safer this way.

I figured he knew what he was doing. Security guys usually did. The hallway kept going, Turned left, then right, then left again. White walls, fluorescent lights, that weird institutional smell like disinfectant and old carpet. No windows.

I started getting this feeling like we were going the wrong direction, but Washington seemed sure about it. Then we reached a door that opened to the outside. Not the main entrance where everyone else was probably gathering. This was some kind of loading area behind the building. Concrete platform, metal railings, a few dumpsters and an unmarked white van parked maybe 20 feet away.

That's all right, Washington said. Wesley stopped walking. Wait, what? Special transport, Washington said. Protocol for situations like this.

That's when I knew something was wrong. What kind of fire drill involves getting in a van? But Washington was already moving toward the vehicle, and he had this way about him that made you want to follow orders. Plus, the guy was twice our size. The van's side door slid open.

Another man in Gray cover all sat inside, holding something small in his hands. Looked like a medical kit. Get in, Washington said. Harper backed up a step. I don't think we should.

It's fine, Washington said. Just a precaution. He put his hand on Harper's shoulder. Not rough, but firm. Guided her toward the van.

Wesley and I followed, because what else were we going to do? Run. The guy was a security officer at a major museum. Had to be legitimate. The inside of the van was clean but weird.

No windows in the back section, bench seats along both sides. The guy in coveralls smiled at us like everything was normal. Just need you to sit tight for a minute, he said. That's when I saw the syringes, three of them already prepared. Clear liquid.

The guy in coveralls held them casual, like they were pencils or something. What the hell is that? Wesley said. Mild sedative, Washington said. Procedure for witness protection scenarios.

That was the first time anyone mentioned it. Witness to what? I asked. Something you weren't supposed to see back there, Washington said. The fire wasn't really a fire.

He nodded to the guy in coveralls. Before any of us could move, the guy grabbed Harper's arm and stuck her with one of the syringes. She jerked back, tried to pull away, but he held on. Wesley jumped up. Hey.

Washington caught him, held him still while the guy got the second syringe ready. Wesley fought harder than Harper had, but it didn't matter. The needle went in his arm just the same. I tried to run, got maybe 2 steps before Washington grabbed my shirt and yanked me back. The guy in coveralls had the third syringe ready.

Don't make this difficult, Washington said. The needle pinched going in. Whatever they gave us worked fast. Harper was already slumping against the van wall, eyes getting heavy. Wesley was blinking slow, like he was fighting to stay awake.

I felt it hit my system. Maybe 10 seconds later, everything got fuzzy around the edges. The van started moving, but it felt like floating. Then nothing. I woke up here.

Same facility I'm sitting in now, 14 years later. They told me it was temporary. Nash Bradley himself came to explain things on the second day. Distinguished guy in an expensive suit. Talked like a college professor.

You witnessed something classified during the evacuation, he said. Industrial accident involving experimental materials. Nothing dangerous to you personally, but the nature of the incident requires A brief debriefing period. He made it sound reasonable. Government stuff, national security, the kind of thing you see in movies.

Said we'd be here maybe two weeks while they made sure we understood the importance of discretion. What kind of experimental materials? I asked. That's part of what we need to discuss, Bradley said. But first we need to make sure you're all healthy.

The exposure might have had some effects. Effects. That was the word he used. They started with blood tests. Simple stuff, or so they said.

Daily samples, basic health monitoring. Made sense if we'd been exposed to something dangerous. Wesley and Harper got the same treatment. Then came the supplements. Little white pills, twice a day, supposedly to help our bodies process whatever we've been exposed to.

Bradley explained it like vitamins, just a precaution. 2 weeks turned into a month. The supplements turned into injections, Bradley said the oral medication wasn't absorbing properly, needed to deliver it directly into our bloodstream for better results. That's when things started getting weird. The injections made me feel different.

Not sick exactly, but like something was changing inside my head. Sounds seemed louder. Colors looked more intense. I'd get these moments where I could swear I heard conversations from other rooms, even through the walls. Bradley called them side effects normal part of the treatment process.

Month 2 brought the spinal taps. Need to monitor the cerebrospinal fluid, Bradley said. Make sure the treatment is working properly. They'd strap me to a table, stick a needle between my vertebrae and draw out fluid that looked like water. The brain scan started around the same time.

MRI machine that made sounds like construction equipment. They'd slide me into this tube for an hour at a time, tell me to lie still while it took pictures of my skull. Bradley always studied the results with this satisfied look, like he was seeing exactly what he expected. Then came the sensory deprivation. They called it therapeutic isolation.

Put me in a tank filled with salt water, warm as body temperature, in a room with no light or sound. Said it would help my brain process the treatment more effectively. But they added something to the water, some kind of hallucinogenic compound that made reality bend in ways that shouldn't be possible. I'd float in that tank and watch colors that didn't have names, hear voices speaking languages that didn't exist.

Time stopped making sense. Minutes felt like hours, or maybe hours felt like minutes. When they'd pull me out, Bradley would ask questions. What did I see? What did I hear?

Could I describe the sensations in detail? I started realizing the treatment wasn't about exposure to experimental materials. The treatment was the experiment, and I was the test subject. The vision started around month four. I remember because that was when they switched from the blue injections to the green ones.

The geometric patterns came first. I'd be staring at the white ceiling in my cell, and suddenly there'd be these overlapping triangles floating about 6 inches above my face. Perfect angles, sharp edges, but transparent, like someone had drawn them on glass and held it between me and the light. Took me a few days to figure out they weren't hallucinations.

The patterns moved with mathematical accuracy. Same rotation speed every time. Same sequence of shapes. Triangle, hexagon, Octagon, back to triangle. 47 seconds for the full cycle.

I counted. Then the moment started repeating. Crystal would walk into my room, carrying the breakfast tray, Gray oatmeal, plastic spoon, small cup of water. She'd set it on the table, say good morning Travis, and turn to leave. But sometimes I'd watch the exact same thing happened twice.

Not similar. Identical. Same words, same movements, same tiny pause when she checked the lock on her way out. The second version would be slightly different, though. Maybe she'd stumble a little, or the spoon would fall off the tray.

Small variations, like someone was running the same scene over and over and changing tiny details each time. That's when Doctor Burke and Connie got excited. The neural pathways are adapting faster than we anticipated, Connie said during one of their sessions. They'd hooked me up to more machines than usual. Wires stuck to my scalp, sensors taped to my wrists, some kind of scanner humming behind my head.

Dr. Burke was reading numbers off a screen. Temporal lobe activity is up 300% from baseline. What baseline? I asked.

They ignored me. That was becoming normal. Connie leaned closer to her monitor. Look at this pattern. The hippocampus is firing in sequences we've never recorded in human subjects because you've never done this to human subjects before, I said.

Doctor Burke finally looked at me. The compound is working exactly as designed, Travis. Your brain is developing new capabilities. My brain is breaking, growing, Connie corrected. Neural plasticity beyond anything we thought possible.

They increase the dose. After that, green injections became twice daily instead of once. The geometric patterns got more complex, doe decay guns impossible shapes with angles that hurt to look at directly, and the repeated moments started lasting longer. I'd watch crystal walk in with breakfast, then watch it again, then a third time with slight variations.

Sometimes the variations were bigger. Once I saw her drop the tray, spill oatmeal everywhere, start crying. But that version only lasted about 10 seconds before it reset to the normal sequence. That's when they moved me to the isolation wing. We need to minimize external variables, Dr.

Burke explained, as two security guards escorted me down a hallway I'd never seen before, narrower than the main corridor, with doors spaced further apart. The other subjects might be interfering with your development, Wesley and Harper. I hadn't seen them in weeks anyway, but knowing they were still somewhere in the building had been oddly comforting.

Now I was alone with the patterns and the repeating moments and whatever the hell was happening to my brain. The isolation cell was smaller than my regular room. Just a bed, a toilet. And a table bolted to the wall, No window. The air tasted stale, like it had been recycled too many times.

They kept running procedures on Wesley and Harper, though. I could hear the equipment sometimes humming through the walls late at night. Different rhythms than what they used on me, Slower pulses, deeper frequencies. Made me wonder what they were trying to turn my friends into. The real precognition started during month 7.

Crystal came in for the afternoon injection like always. Same routine, same gentle smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She was preparing the syringe when I saw her collapse. Not the repeating moment thing. This was different, sharp and immediate and absolutely certain.

Crystal falling forward, hitting the table, her body's seizing while the syringe rolled across the floor. 3 seconds later it happened exactly like I'd seen it. I was already moving when she started to fall, caught her before she hit the table. The syringe clattered to the ground but didn't break. Crystal's eyes rolled back and her whole body went rigid, then started jerking in these violent spasms.

Help. I yelled toward the door. Something's wrong. Security guards came running, medical team right behind them. They got Crystal stabilized, carried her out on a stretcher.

Dr. Burke arrived about 10 minutes later with Connie and two people I didn't recognize. Tell me exactly what you saw, Doctor, Burke said. So I did describe the vision, the timing, how certain I'd been that it was about to happen. Connie was practically bouncing.

Genuine precognitive ability, Not just temporal displacement, but actual future sight. How far ahead? One of the strangers asked. 3 seconds, I said. That's incredible, the stranger continued.

The implications for early warning systems, accident prevention, military applications, it doesn't work like that, I interrupted. They all looked at me. The visions aren't simple predictions. They create feedback loops. Every time I see something that's about to happen, it splits into possibility branches, multiple versions trying to exist at the same time.

Doctor Burke frowned. Explain. When I saw Crystal collapse, I also saw versions where she didn't collapse, where she finished the injection normally, where she dropped the syringe but stayed standing. All those possibilities tried to happen simultaneously. In my head, Connie was taking notes.

How many variations? Infinite, I said. Every tiny choice, every microscopic change creates new branches, and I can see all of them at once. That's not possible, the second stranger said. Tell that to my brain.

But they weren't listening anymore. They were too busy celebrating their breakthrough, planning their next phase. I could see it in their faces, that excited gleam that scientists get when they think they've discovered something revolutionary. Doctor Burke scheduled an emergency meeting. Connie started preparing new compounds.

The strangers made phone calls about funding and timelines and field applications. They gave me the enhanced injection 2 days later. Same green liquid, but darker, thicker. It burned going into my arm, left this metallic taste that lingered for hours. This is our most advanced formula, Connie explained as she withdrew the needle.

Concentrated neural accelerants, Targeted neurotransmitter modulators, compounds we've been developing specifically for you. What's it supposed to do? Expand your range? Increase clarity? We think you might be able to see minutes ahead instead of seconds.

The transport came that afternoon. 2 black SUVs, professional drivers, security team in tactical gear. Doctor Burke sat across from me in the back seat as we drove through Chicago traffic toward downtown. Where are we going? Field test, she said.

Controlled environment, but with real variables. We need to see how your abilities function outside the facility, the Willis Tower. I recognized it as we pulled up to the entrance. They'd reserve the entire observation deck, somehow cleared out all the tourists, just us and the equipment they've been setting up all morning. Connie was waiting with her monitors and sensors, ready for the real test.

Travis, 18 minutes left. I could see Burke checking her watch again. Bradley wanted a demonstration, I said. Real world application of enhanced precognitive ability. He'd been pushing for field testing since month 6, but the other researchers kept saying I wasn't stable enough.

I shifted in the chair. The straps were cutting into my wrists, but I'd gotten used to that years ago. April 22nd. That's when Bradley finally got approval. They loaded me into a van at 4:00 in the morning, drove me downtown to the Willis Tower, took the elevator up to the observation deck.

Burke was writing again, fast, little scratches across her notepad. They'd cleared the whole thing out somehow. No tourists, no staff except the security guy. Bradley had paid off. Just me and Connie with her equipment cart, all those monitors and sensors she'd been hooking me up to for months.

The memory was sharp, clearer than most things from that time, probably because of what happened after. Bradley told me to look out over the city and describe what I saw happening in the next hour. Every detail I could pick up he wanted. Specifics. Names, locations, exact times.

Said this was my chance to prove the program worked. I closed my eyes for a second. Even now, talking about it, I could feel that familiar pressure building behind my forehead. The thing about precognition nobody understands is how it spreads. It's not like looking through a window at future events.

It's more like stepping into a river. And that river connects to every other river. Burke looked up from her notes. Explain that I focused on one person first. Guy in a brown coat walking down Michigan Ave.

Simple enough, right? I could see him stopping at a coffee cart in about 12 minutes, ordering a large dark roast, paying with exact change. The pressure was getting stronger. Just talking about it brought some of it back. But then I saw the woman behind him in line.

She'd order a latte. The barista would be out of oat milk, so she'd get regular instead. She'd be late for her meeting because of the extra wait time. I opened my eyes. Burke was staring at me now.

The meeting she'd be late for involved six other people. I could see all of them too. What they decide because she wasn't there on time. How that would change their next decisions, their next meetings, The people they'd call. My voice was getting quieter.

I always talked quieter when I remembered this part. It cascades. One person leads to 10/10, leads to 100. A hundred leads to 10,000. Bradley wanted me to predict one hour across the entire city of Chicago.

That's 2 million people making choices that affect other people making choices. I looked at the clock. 16 minutes. My mind tried to process all of it at once. Every possible future for every person in range.

The guy in the brown coat and his coffee and the ripple effects of that coffee threw 60 more interactions. The woman with the latte and her delayed meeting and how that would change. Six companies. Quarterly reports Burke had stopped writing. Her pen was just hovering over the page.

That's when it happened. The overload. My brain couldn't contain all those future pathways. So it did what brains do when they're overwhelmed. It discharged.

The room felt smaller suddenly, like the walls were moving in psychic shockwave. That's what Bradley called it later in his reports. My enhanced precognitive ability erupted outward from the Willis Tower and infected every person within approximately a 12 mile radius. Burke's face had gone pale. She was starting to understand.

But here's what Bradley got wrong in those reports, what everyone got wrong. The victims didn't experience mass psychosis. They didn't start hallucinating or lose touch with reality. I leaned forward as much as the restraints would let me. They experienced exactly what I've been experiencing.

Simultaneous precognitive overload. Every single one of them. 14 minutes. Jordan Gardner was operating a Red Line train when it hit him. Suddenly he could see every possible future for the next hour, his train crashing into the station, his train stopping perfectly at the platform, his train derailing on the curve before Fullerton, thousands of variations playing out in his head all at once.

Burke was gripping her pen so tight her knuckles were white. He saw himself pulling the emergency brake, saw himself not pulling it, saw passengers screaming, saw passengers reading newspapers like nothing was wrong. Every choice branching into more choices, all of them equally real until one actually happened. I paused, let that sink in.

The only thing that ended the visions for Jordan was making one real choice. He pulled the brake hard stop, threw half the passengers out of their seats, but the train didn't crash. That single definitive action collapsed all the other possibilities. The fluorescent light above us was buzzing, Probably needed to be replaced. Rita Dean was dropping her four year old daughter off at daycare.

The precognitive wave hit her right as she was walking up the front steps. Suddenly she could see every way her daughter might die in the next hour. Burke made a small sound. Might have been a gasp. Choking on a toy, falling down the stairs.

Getting hit by a car that jumped the curb. Allergic reaction to something in her lunch. 47 different death scenarios playing simultaneously in Rita's mind, all of them vivid and immediate and absolutely certain. I could see Burke's hands shaking now. Rita broke completely, started screaming about all the dangers, tried to grab her daughter and run, but everywhere she looked she saw more death.

Every choice led to catastrophe. Pick up the child and slip on the wet steps. Don't pick up the child and watch her wander into traffic. 12 minutes. The daycare workers thought Rita had snapped, Called security, called the police, called an ambulance.

But Rita wasn't crazy. She was experiencing the same precognitive feedback loop that it consumed me. She could see everything that might happen and couldn't make any choice because every choice led to disaster. I closed my eyes again. This part always made me tired.

200,000 people across Chicago experience the same thing. Bus drivers seeing every possible accident. Doctors seeing every way their patients could die. Parents seeing infinite dangers to their children. Construction workers seeing buildings collapse in 1000 different ways.

The room was completely quiet except for the clock ticking and that buzzing light. Most of them couldn't handle it. The human mind isn't designed to process unlimited possibility. Some had complete psychological breaks. Others just shut down, went catatonic.

The lucky ones found ways to make definitive choices that collapse the visions. I opened my eyes and looked straight at Burke, but the damage was done. 200,000 people traumatized by experiencing the same precognitive overload I've been subjected to for months. Except they got it all at once with no preparation, no gradual conditioning.

Burke was staring at me like she was seeing me for the first time. The suicide started that night. People who couldn't stop seeing every terrible future. The hospitalizations continued for weeks. Mass psychological trauma on a scale nobody had ever documented.

10 minutes. Bradley covered it up, blamed it on a gas leak that caused mass hallucinations. Paid off. The right people buried the real reports. But I knew what really happened because I caused it.

I looked at the clock again. Burke followed my gaze. 7 minutes left, Doctor Burke. Time for the crucial part. She was completely still now, waiting.

That compound you just injected me with, the one that's supposed to neutralize my abilities before the execution. Burke's eyes widened. It's identical to the enhancement compound they used in Chicago. Same chemical structure, same neural pathways, same exponential amplification effect. Burke's face went completely white.

The pen fell out of her hand as clattered on the floor. You didn't give me a neutralizer, Dr. Burke. You just gave me the biggest dose of enhancement serum I've ever received. 7 minutes on the clock.

The thing about visions is they don't come with instruction manuals. 3 years ago when this exact moment happened, the first time I've been screaming and convulsing on the same table while Burke pumped me full of whatever cocktail they'd cooked up that week. The geometric patterns had exploded behind my eyes like broken glass, each fragment showing me a different death, a different way the world could end in the next few minutes.

I've been drowning in it back then, couldn't tell which timeline was real, couldn't focus on anything except the overwhelming flood of possibilities crashing through my skull. Burke had been taking notes while I bled from my nose and begged them to make it stop. Now I understood the difference. The visions weren't happening to me anymore.

I was directing them. Burke's voice cut through the lab noise. Emergency sedation protocol. Patrick prep the She stopped mid sentence. Patrick Park had been reaching for the sedation cart when his hands started shaking.

Not the normal kind of shaking you get when you're nervous. The kind where your whole nervous system decides to quit working. Patrick. Lillian called from across the room. She'd been monitoring my vitals on her tablet, probably wondering why my heart rate had dropped to something close to meditation levels instead of spiking like it usually did during enhancement procedures.

Patrick's tablet clattered to the floor. His knees buckled and he grabbed the edge of the medical cart, but his fingers wouldn't grip properly, just slid right off the metal rail. Sir. That was Frederick Warren's voice from the observation window above us. The security chief sounded confused, which was new for him.

Guy normally had two modes, following orders and giving orders. Confusion wasn't in his vocabulary. I felt the compound hitting my bloodstream like liquid fire, but this time I knew what to do with it. Instead of letting the vision scatter in every direction, I gathered them up, focus them, aim them like a weapon.

Three years of practice had taught me something Burke and her team never figured out. The precognitive ability wasn't just about seeing the future, it was about broadcasting it. Lillian dropped her tablet. The screen cracked when it hit the concrete floor, but she didn't seem to notice. She was staring at something I couldn't see, something that was making her face go white.

What did you do? Burke whispered. She was still standing next to my table, but her hands had started trembling. The confidence she'd worn like armor for the past four years was cracking. I looked up at her.

I'm showing everyone their next 60 seconds. That was when Frederick Warren fell out of his chair in the observation deck. I heard the crash through the speakers, followed by what sounded like him trying to crawl away from something. His breathing was coming in short gasps, the kind you make when you're trying not to scream.

The thing about the self destruct sequence I triggered during the injection was that it existed. Not in this timeline, not yet, but it was there in the branching possibilities. One decision away, 1 system failure away, 1 keystroke away from becoming real. I'd seen it happen dozens of times during my training sessions. The facility's fail safe protocols were designed to contain any kind of psychic outbreak by eliminating everything within a five mile radius.

Nerve gas through the ventilation system. Thermite charges in the structural supports a final electromagnetic pulse to fry any electronics that might contain traces of the experiments. Burke and her team had built their own death trap, and now I was making them experience it as if it had already happened. Patrick was on his knees next to the medical cart, clutching his throat.

His eyes were bulging like he couldn't breathe, even though the air in the lab was fine. His body was responding to the nerve gas he was experiencing in the vision, the chemical that would flood his lungs in exactly 43 seconds if that particular timeline came to pass. Lillian had collapsed against the wall.

She was holding her stomach and dry heaving, her face twisted in pain. The thermite charge that would gut this section of the facility was burning through her abdomen. In the vision I was feeding her, the heat was so real to her nervous system that her skin was actually turning red. Frederick Warren's voice came through the speakers again, but it wasn't words anymore, just animal sounds, terror and pain mixed together.

In his timeline, the electromagnetic pulse had fried the observation deck's electrical systems and locked him inside while the structure collapsed. He was experiencing every second of being crushed under concrete and steel. Burke was the last one standing. She was gripping the edge of my table so hard her knuckles had gone white, trying to stay upright while her mind processed what it was seeing.

The nerve gas timeline. The one where she'd be conscious for about 30 seconds after the first breath. Long enough to understand what was happening, but not long enough to do anything about it. This isn't real, she said. Her voice was shaking.

These are just visions. Possibilities. I shifted on the table. The restraints were still locked, but I could feel the facilities biosign monitors starting to flatline as the staff experienced their deaths. The automatic systems would release all security protocols in about 15 seconds.

You're right, I said. They're just possibilities, but your brain doesn't know the difference. The feedback loop was the beautiful part. Their minds experienced the deaths as absolute certainty, because that's how precognitive visions worked. No uncertainty, no doubt, just the cold knowledge of what was coming.

And when your brain knows you're dead, your body starts shutting down to match. Burke's legs gave out. She slumped against the table, her breathing shallow and rapid. The vision was showing her the exact moment the nerve gas would reach her bloodstream, the specific way her nervous system would shut down. The sensation of her heart stopping her body was making it real.

The restraint locks clicked open with a soft mechanical sound. All the bio signs in the facility had flat lined, triggering the emergency release protocols. I sat up slowly, working, feeling back into my wrists and ankles. Patrick was motionless on the floor next to the medical cart. Lillian had stopped moving against the wall, her hand still pressed to her stomach where the thermite burn felt real.

Frederick Warren's voice had gone quiet over the speakers. Burke was still breathing, but barely. Her eyes were open and staring at something I couldn't see, something that was killing her, one cell at a time. I stood up from the table. My legs were shaky after being strapped down for four hours, but they held.

I walked past Burke without looking at her, past Patrick and his scattered equipment, past Lillian and her crack tablet. The lab door was unlocked. Another automatic response to the facility wide bio sign failure. I stepped into the hallway and oriented myself. The main corridor stretched in both directions, lined with doors I'd memorized during my transfer walks.

37 other test subjects were locked somewhere in these wings. Wesley and Harper if they'd survived the past three years. Others I'd never met but heard screaming through the ventilation shafts. The facilities emergency lighting had kicked on, bathing everything in red. The hallway looked like the inside of a blood vessel to check the countdown timer on the wall display.

60 seconds before the actual fail safes triggered. 60 seconds before the self destruct sequence I'd shown everyone became real instead of just a vision. 60 seconds to find the others and get them out, or to make sure we all died together in the rubble. I started running toward the detention wing.