Reality Timeline · Friday, May 31st, 2024, DuskZhang Huan-an / Another's Memory, His Own Blank
18:36.Traffic cones were being placed at the precinct gate.Before the sun fully dipped below the skyline, the officers began tightening the flow of the crowd.
Zhang Huan-an stood apart from the others, holding a duty schedule in hand—the paper crisp, the table neatly laid out, his name printed under "Lead Coordinator".
He read it three times,but couldn't convince himself:this was his event.
The remarks section overflowed with signage instructions, spatial control points, timing cues for transition—it was meticulous, precise, as if born from his own design.But he had no memory of ever crafting it.
He remained rooted, trying to force himself to remember even a single briefing,a stray phrase from a meeting,one thread of planning—But there was nothing.
—
"Xiao-Yu?"
The voice came from behind—It was Chief Lin Shengzhong.
Zhang turned.The man approached, a backup file in his hand, face calm with concern, not judgment.
"You alright? We were looking for you earlier.Thought maybe… something happened."
Zhang glanced at the duty sheet again, then back at him.
"...Am I—was I—the one who organized this?"
Chief Lin hesitated for half a second, then nodded.
"Yes. You're the lead. You started this from the beginning of the month—lined up every piece of the plan yourself."
"Did I attend the prep meetings?"
"Twice. You even led one.You… really don't remember?"His brows furrowed—not accusingly, but in genuine worry."Maybe you're just exhausted. You haven't been feeling well lately, right?"
Zhang forced a smile, shook his head slightly.
"...Maybe."
—
Chief Lin patted his shoulder gently.
"It's okay. I'll print you another map. Just follow the path you designed.If there's anything missing, we'll patch it together.But really, if you're not feeling well, don't push yourself."
Zhang nodded.His palms were sweating.
His questions weren't answered.But something settled inside him with strange clarity:
The one who arranged all of this—was not the current him.
—
Throughout the entire assignment, he followed the exact sequence of instructions—a roadmap supposedly designed by himself.Every movement, every turn, every greeting timed to precision—
And yet, to him, it felt like a play scripted by someone else.
He was merely a stand-in,performing a role written by hands that looked like his own.
The difference was—everyone else believed he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
—
That night, he archived the paperwork.
The ink on the page felt cold—a silent reminder that he was still being guidedby a version of himself who knew the future.
But now, he was no longer able to keep up with the footsteps of that version.
Reality Timeline · Tuesday, June 4th, 2024Zhang Huan-an / The Prelude to Collapse
06:58.
He stood outside the laundromat,watching the tumbling blur of blue and white through the machine's window—unable to recall when he had brought his uniform in.
His phone pinged:$520 deducted.
He had no memory of the transaction.He hadn't even brought clothes with him that morning.
And yet—those spinning fabrics were exactly his size.He was certain that very uniform had still been hanging over the back of his chair the night before.
—
09:46.
The morning meeting had just ended when an admin assistant approached cautiously.
"Hey… Xiao-Yu, did you turn in the report on foreign workers at the Longjing factory yesterday?"
"I… I don't remember submitting anything."
"Well, the file's missing, and the system shows it was uploaded by you."She handed over a screenshot.
Timestamp: 2024/06/03 16:21File Name: "Fengtian Migrant Report—Initial—Archive"
He stared.The letters blurred, rearranged, spun in his eyes.
He had never compiled such a report.Let alone uploaded it.
But the system was clear—he had done it.
And he could no longer deny the possibility:Perhaps he had,but that version of him was no longer present.
—
13:08.
He reached for his wallet to buy lunch.
Inside—just a single hundred-dollar bill and a handful of coins.
Gone were the receipts, the cards, the cash he was sure had been there before.
"I… I had five thousand. I'm sure I did... I remember…"
But the numbers in his head started shifting.
Five thousand became four.Then negative three hundred.Then—
A thought struck him:I have exactly e cubed in my account.
e? What does that mean?
He scribbled on a napkin:
2.718² ≒ 7.3897.389 ÷ 3 = "my cycle of existence"520 → message? or price?
He kept writing.
Symbols. Arrows. Numbers with no order.The page dissolved into numeric noise, strokes growing darker, heavier—until only one line remained, written over and over:
"I didn't lose it. I didn't lose it. I didn't lose it…"
—
A Trace of Her / A Memory Without Source
Somewhere in the pause between numbers, she returned.
Not as a person. Not quite.Just the outline of someone by a window, her fingers tapping on the glass.
He saw her from behind—light catching in her hair.She turned, slowly. Her voice brushed the air like wind against paper:
"You keep forgetting the wrong version of me."
He tried to speak. But in that moment, he realized—This wasn't a dream. This was someone else's regret.
Her silhouette stepped forward. Her hand outstretched.
And in her palm:the triple cross.
Its edges glowed faintly. Its center shimmered like memory before waking.
"If the numbers don't make sense," she whispered,"maybe they were never meant for you."
A blink.
She was gone.
Only the number 520 remained, written again on the napkin.This time—beside a name.
An-Qing.
15:33.
At last, he found the missing report—nestled in a colleague's pile of forms.
It was real.Signed with his name.But the handwriting was no longer his.
Slightly different.Like the work of another hand—another mind.
He didn't raise the alarm.He simply slid the file into his own folder.
And in that moment, he understood—
He wasn't making mistakes.He was being maneuvered into them.
This report, this disappearance, even his fractured finances—were all pushing him, piece by piece, into someone else's skin.
—
19:12.
Back in his dorm, he finally snapped.
Hands trembling.Jaw locked.Pale as porcelain.
He poured his coins onto the desk, sorted and counted obsessively, then began to write his own system of truth:
5 + 5 ≠ 10. It equals "Y"1 + 10 ≠ 11. It marks a time that never existed100 = the day "that person" had not yet died
He scrawled like a madman,not knowing why the logic made sense,not knowing what future he was calculating—
Only that he couldn't stop.
—
20:34.
At the bottom of the day's journal page, he wrote:
[2024.06.04｜Tuesday / Self-Deconstruction Warning]・Memory misalignment / Logical distortion・Currency delusion / Obsessive numerics・Strong sense of external manipulation・Fear of being "thrown into a nonlinear reality"
→ Status: Not fit for solo operation→ Conclusion: But… I must not let them know I know.
※ If I awaken next Tuesday, I must leave behind proof.Zhang / ? / Yu (…Who wrote this?)
He stared at the line of names.His fingers shaking.
Then, to the invisible figure on the other side of the mirror,he whispered:
"Do you… want to replace me?"
—
By the end of this day, he was no longer a functioning officer.Not even a reliable witness.Not a full self.
He had become a splinter—a being clawing back from another timeline,yet incapable of defining his own place in this one.
And this thread—was still unraveling.
Toward the next Friday.
Reality Timeline · Friday, June 7th, 2024Zhang Huan-an / Threshold of Identity Entanglement
05:44.
He awoke in the dormitory.
But it wasn't his mind that moved first—It was his body.
Before his eyes had opened, he was already at the sink, brushing his teeth.The toothpaste was not the brand he used,yet the motion felt effortless, ingrained, rehearsed.
He stared into the mirror,and muttered to the face that wasn't quite his own:
"You were too nervous yesterday. It was obvious—it was your first time writing a report."
He froze.
Those were not his words.He had heard that line—yesterday, from someone else.
And now it had surfaced from his own mouth.
—
08:13.
He entered the Foreign Affairs Unit.The air felt strained.
The assistant at the front desk gave him a nod and whispered:
"You argued with Xueting yesterday…He hasn't said much since."
Zhang frowned.
"I didn't speak at all yesterday."
"Didn't you say—'If I'm not me, would you still speak to me?'"
He fell silent.
Because he had, in fact, thought that sentence—but never said it aloud.
At least, not with his mouth.
So then—who had spoken?Was it him?Or… Yu Yong'an?
—
10:39.
After filing routine paperwork, he found a report in his drawer.
He hadn't written it.
Yet it bore his signature.And the style—meticulous, structured, cross-referenced with timestamped surveillance images—was unmistakably not his own.
It was Yu Yong'an's.
He knew it shouldn't exist in this timeline.
And yet, it did.
What made his skin crawl wasn't just the content—but the final sentence, boldly titled at the bottom of the page:
"If Tuesday is the door, then Friday is the key."
A phrase from his dream.
—
14:07.
In the breakroom, casual chatter fizzled into silence.
No one dared speak first.
Then Zhang suddenly said:
"I've already seen next week's duty roster.You just haven't received it yet."
"What?"
"I mean—I… estimated it.Just a guess. Based on how it's usually arranged."
He forced a smile,but his voice faltered.The words were colder, smoother, calculated.
It wasn't his tone.It wasn't his language.
It was as if someone else was speaking through him.
—
16:52.
Chief Lin walked up quietly, and asked in a low voice:
"Can I ask you something?Please answer honestly."
Zhang turned to him, blank-eyed.
"Have you… noticed lately that your memories don't match others'?"
Zhang stiffened.
"How do you know that…?"
Chief Lin met his gaze.
There was no accusation in his eyes—only something deeper.Concern. Or was it recognition?
"Because the way you talk lately…You don't sound like Yu Yong'an anymore.You sound like someone else."
Zhang's heart stopped.
He wanted to speak—But no sound came.
He wasn't sure if it was a joke.But after that sentence,his world tilted.
He fled to the equipment room, shut the door, pulled out his notebook, and wrote:
[2024.06.07｜Friday]・I've begun speaking thoughts I never said aloud・Memories aligning with another's history・Language shift—tone, words, habits are no longer mine
→ Am I being replaced?→ If Yu Yong'an truly exists, have parts of me already vanished?
—
That night, he didn't return to the dorm.
He walked into a convenience store and bought a new notebook—intending to wake up tomorrow and forget everything about today.
But he knew he wouldn't.
Because in his head now lived two voices,two perspectives,two rhythms of breath—each taking turns to define reality.
—
This wasn't dissociation.It wasn't a split.
This was two versions of himself,from two different worlds,fighting for the right to narrate existence through one shared body.
And the war—had only just begun.
Reality Timeline · Tuesday, June 11th, 2024Zhang Huan-an / A Dialogue Between Two Selves
06:27.
He woke early.But not from rest.
It was a voice—low, calm, identical to his own, whispering just beside his ear:
"We can't afford another mistake.Tuesday doesn't tolerate chaos.""I'm here to help you organize things, not to replace you."
He jolted upright.Looked around—The dorm was empty.No call. No recording. No speaker.
Yet the voice lingered.Not as a memory, but as if it had risen from inside him,echoing through the hollows of his skull.
—
09:13.
On duty, he was sent to Xinan Old Street to document building exteriors.
A familiar route. Streets he'd walked countless times.
But the moment he stepped into a narrow lane, the words left his lips unbidden:
"The corrugated house on the left's already demolished. No data there."
His partner blinked.
"What? No, it's still standing."
Zhang turned.
And indeed—there it stood.Door pasted with today's newspaper.
He shook his head, murmuring:
"I thought… I remembered it was gone."
Not a mistake.A contradiction.
The other him—the one in his head—had offered a different version of the truth.
—
10:46.
Back at the precinct, he opened his notebook.
At the top of the page, new sentences had appeared—not in his hand, but eerily close to it:
"Tuesday begins before the displacement.""You simply haven't remembered when you first began to remember."
The script was firmer.The strokes pressed down harder—as if the hand that wrote them was slightly more anxious.More controlled.
It was Yu Yong'an's handwriting.
And Zhang began to wonder—Was the other "me" waking up while I slept?
—
14:11.
Assigned to filter encrypted international transmissions, he found himself switching his mouse to his left hand.He was right-handed. Always had been.
He didn't notice at first—until the screen flashed open a folder.Inside: a compressed file titled:
2024Y_0517_EN_ENTRY
He clicked it.
A voice—low and in English—filled his headset:
"If memory is the key, Friday is the lock.""When you open it, don't look back."
He froze.
This wasn't a work file.And yet—It was the echo of a phrase from his dream.
And the date—May 17th—was the day Yu Yong'an had touched the cross in Tamsui.
—
17:38.
Walking down the hallway, he glanced into a mirrored window.
His reflection was smiling.
But he wasn't.
He stopped.The reflection didn't.It kept smiling, nodded slightly, as if in recognition.
Softly, Zhang whispered:
"…You're not me."
The reflection moved its lips.
Four silent words:
"You are me too."
—
[Journal Entry｜2024.06.11｜Tuesday]・Heard internal speech (not thoughts, but articulated language)・Memory contradictions ×3 (building, journal, data)・Intrusion of Yu Yong'an's tone and phrasing・Manifestation of dream details in physical reality
→ Tuesday is no longer a "residual cycle."→ It has become an active convergence—where both of us share this body, this data, this sight.
[Note:]If he can operate me…Can I operate him?
[Final Question:]Have we never been two people at all?
—
That day, Zhang Huan-an no longer questioned whether the alterations were real.
He began to question the boundary of the self.
And perhaps—
By the next Friday,he would no longer be the one being invaded.
He might be the onestepping into someone else's dream.