Sejin lay tied, marooned on the rim of time, in the midst of an empty, grey universe. He had lost everything – love, purpose, hope. He was dormant, trapped to be a means of use, able to glance through the cosmic window but never participate; a grand celestial puppeteer held him on tight strings, bound and helpless.

A jolt of pain flashed through him, but Seojin remained silent. He shook his head in remorse – a bitter recipe of his helplessness brewed into offering atonement for the sins of his other half.

It felt as if pain was nothing, to see his mother being butchered at his own twin's hands.
What movie was being played?

Seojin felt desperate. Despite the stinging pain, he forced his eyes to take in the horrifying spectacle. It was a grotesque tableau of madness and horror. There, in the dim hue of the solitary lamp, lay his mother, bathed in her own blood.

Her lifeless eyes held a strange serenity, a chilling acceptance of the fate forced onto her. The sight of her butchered body reflected in a descending cascade of crimson against the haphazard outlines of their childhood home, felt surreal – a harsh slap of cold reality, a twisted scene from a horrible nightmare. And the creator of this macabre art? His own twin.

"If I die, you die with me, brother; you die with me."
The vaccum of words came next, and he knew probably nothing would matter anymore.
The reverie of his mind broke, his eyes gave in... Something was wrong.

And thus, the grandeur of an unnoticed paradox left an age-old question echoing in the winds, "Would he ever be free?"

...

Each stroke of the night held stories untold, of death, revenge, faults and forevers. To some, the night was scarier than the battle of life itself. For Sejin, however, it had become a realm of gut-wrenching memories, ones that played in a loop, reminding him of the bitter truth he harboured within his heart.

The world seemed to halt on its axis, with time ceasing its relentless march. He felt ensnared in a glazed bubble of torment as life played its cruellest trick on his cinematic reel. An uncanny sense of unreality gripped him, rendering him powerless as the psychological trauma began its gnawing journey.

The consequences of his actions weighed on him. His existence, the memories he built, the reputation he earned—everything snapped into nothingness. Sejin was left standing as a nonentity, a ghost witnessing a distorted reality where life danced along without him.

"You never let me rest in your lap, never... Tell me you are lying! Tell me, eomma!" He shook his mother, wrapped and dipped in red, her lifeless body pallid and free.
The world slithered to a halt. His life seemed to stutter and play out in a torturous reel of anguish.

"I did not kill myself, no!"

He spoke, and his words painted a grotesque masterpiece on the canvas of unreality. He spoke of indifference, of unexpressed emotions, and of unrealized dreams. He spoke of the crushing weight of expectations, the unending pursuit of hollow milestones, and the torment of witnessing life's essence slowly seep away. And every word was punctuated with a protest, a denial: "I did not kill myself, no, no, no!"

His conviction echoed, resonating through the wooden caverns, shaking himself, instilling terror rather than feeding it. With every heartbeat, every breath, and every word, he engraved the permanence of his will to live. The battle seemed eternal, yet time was both infinite and fleeting in the subconscious. Eventually, the echo of torment and persuasion waned. It faded with the desire for vengeance.

The echo of his torment soon dwindled, coercing him to retreat into the darker corners of his mind. The cry of another baby leered from the cradle— his twin. He was the embodiment of all Sejin's fears and insecurities— a ticking time bomb and a mesmerising siren of self-destruction. No longer could Sejin tolerate his existence; the fear transmuted into a raging want for revenge.

"If I die, you die with me, brother; you die with me."

For his death changed his life and the trajectory of his own future. And if he had to face the inevitable, so would his twin. He would end them both, he would do what happened to him, he would not let his twin live. No.

His eyes were bloody red, the sclera painted in a shade darker than the sin, hurt, and confusion marinating in them. He jerked down, his hands trembling as he reached for the blood-soaked dagger on the floor. Each second was a tortured eternity, the metal icy against his clammy palm, and something soaking deep within him— a dread he couldn't put a name to.

He shifted his gaze to the baby, the cherubic face with a halo of black hair, rosy cheeks, and an innocence so pure that it hurt him. But his pain weighed more than any other entity.

His existence was not a plaything of destiny; he was not a marionette dancing at the whims of time. The time offered him two choices: abide or challenge. The former would commit him to an act heinous and irredeemable; the latter was rebellion, defiance of the ordained, a war against fate itself.

But he was not just a character written by destiny; he was the author too, and his next act would frame a narrative devoid of bloodshed but brimming with hate and revenge. He wasn't bound to kill.

"We leave this world together brother..."

But the universe was not so forgiving.

Sejin quivered and winced, his trembling hands gradually losing their strength under the effects of sedation. The dagger, suspended in the air, plummeted with a chilling screech and landed helplessly on the floor. Peering downwards, Sejin watched in horror as his own body began to fade away, gradually turning translucent. His widened eyes betrayed the overwhelming realization of the severe consequences his actions had brought upon him.

It seemed as if destiny, taking on the guise of an impressionist painter, smeared the colours of remorse, lunacy, and retribution all over Sejin's journey through time. Each moment, intricately connected, vividly portrayed the life he had yearned for—the life he tragically denied himself. Reduced to a mere observer, he became like a ghost within his own timeline, transiently traversing existence with no trace left behind.

In a cruel twist, what started as a quest for an identity culminated in the loss of his very existence. Every time the wheel of time spun, it left him marooned in his self-imposed time paradox. Living the same life over and over without an end, a prisoner to his actions, and tirelessly trying to break the cycle. He was caught in a timeline, a void where he was no longer Sejin but a shadow— a paradox in the river of time.

With a cry, Sejin gripped his chest, feeling the floor give way under him. However, before he could carry out the deed of fratricide, he disappeared, a contradictory ghost exiled from his own time.

Then, as if overworked, the fabric of time snapped back, throwing Sejin into an all-consuming vortex of blue. Anointed by its mysterious power, he was propelled into a curiously familiar yet foreign place, left to stand in the carnivalesque limbo of a warped reality.

He was in the room again, but this time it was unique. The air was thick with a silence as dense and claustrophobic as a locked chest, broken intermittently by the echoing wails of two unseen humans. A woman's cry pierced the silence once again. Undeniably anguished, her voice echoed with a haunting question, "Why can't I conceive? Why Jonghin? Why?"

As Sejin prepared to counter, rise, and proceed, a sudden chaos engulfed the room, morphing it into a mind-boggling, ever-shifting kaleidoscope. The very fabric of reality screamed and distorted before Sejin's eyes, thrusting him into a tumultuous state of bewilderment. Summoning the last ounce of his strength, he made a fierce leap towards the disintegrating void, his fingers unnaturally elongating as they reached through the portal's maw. A radiant cerulean aura of temporal energy bathed his desperate visage, as he mustered every bit of determination to embrace the ineffable power before him.

This time he appeared in the middle of everyone— faces he knew. And the handcuffs were quick to be tagged to his wrists.

"Ah, Sejin," Mingyu began, the corners of his lips twisted into a knowing smirk. "We knew you would be here." His eyes, dark but illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights, bore into Sejin's, probing for any signs of surprise, guilt, or regret.

The crowd watched their exchange with bated breath, multiple eyes each filled with their own form of betrayal. Sejin himself felt a heavy knot in his stomach as he glanced around, recognising the familiar faces etched with different emotions. He knew their names, their stories, and the smiles and frowns that once belonged to them.

"What confuses me," Mingyu continued, his casual demeanour infuriating as much as it was concerning, "Is not the fact that you were running away, but why you chose to come back." He studied Sejin carefully, as if waiting for any signs of regret on the latter's face.

Before he could even finish his thought, the familiar sensation of being pulled back began to course through him. There was a twinge of fear that flashed across his face. He recognised the sensation all too well— the same chilling mix of nausea and bewilderment that came with an involuntary jump through time.

And he woke up in another space with those similar faces in a different lifetime.

Sejin then looped into another timeline, doomed to live a life resembling a worn-out cinefilm, forever replaying. He was trapped in a never-ending flow of temporal flux, stuck in a life that he once led, only starkly different.

In a captivating symphony of hopelessness and madness, Sejin gracefully swayed to the melodies of his bygone days, tirelessly yearning to reclaim a reality that had irrevocably slipped away. His story serves as a profound testament to the perils of assuming divine authority and acts as a powerful cautionary tale to those bold enough to meddle with the hallowed fabric of time.

This time he reached another day, as Sejin found himself outside a deserted house. The door lazily drooped open. His heart pounded in his chest as he guided himself towards the entrance. The scent of oak and blood hung in the air, drawing him closer.

Inside, a gruesome sight unfolded— a woman sat amidst a river of crimson, her clothes stained, her heartbeat fading. Three lifeless bodies surrounded her like hushed sentinels in the wake of a deadly massacre. Her face, obscured with matted hair and blood, gradually registered Sejin's presence.

"You are late this time, Sejin-ah..." Her words wavered, a weak echo in the grim silence.

"Eomma..." He fell to his knees, his mind and body buzzing. Was it a dream? A reality? Many realities coalesced?

He wandered through the endless sameness, yearning for a change, a ripple in the stagnant waters of his existence. As a scientist, he refused to surrender. Each loop, he laboured tirelessly, adjusting minute details, desperate for a change. Yet he was bound by an unforgiving law: the more things change, the more they remain the same.

He knew he would again be thrown into another version of this story; he understood he was now caught in a loop, in a twist of fate, and every day he would be reminded of his failure.

"Eomma..." He whispered, a last try of the many lasts he was to face.

Maybe this time he could ask his question before time trapped his soul, again? 

__________

What Sejin did, in scientific terms is known as "Temporal Paradox."

Now the time loop will haunt him.