The sound of rain against the glass of his apartment window was a constant, a soothing backdrop that seemed to smooth the edges of his restless thoughts. Lying on his bed, Ezra Wolfe stared up at the ceiling, the soft rhythm of raindrops blending into the stillness of the room. It wasn't that he believed the universe cared for him-he knew it didn't. But the quiet hum of rain against the window made him feel as though, for a fleeting moment, the vast, indifferent cosmos had stilled just enough to let him think.
"So, this is it," he whispered, the weight of countless lives pressing against the edges of his mind.
Ezra had always been ordinary-at least in appearance. A man in his late twenties with unkempt black hair, pale skin, and green eyes that seemed to glow faintly under certain light, their brilliance at odds with his otherwise unremarkable features. Those eyes seemed to hold an eerie duality: they burned with a quiet intensity that spoke of his obsession with self-improvement, yet they often reflected the shadows of his self-doubt and escapism. Beneath his drive to transcend mortality was a man locked in a battle with his own weaknesses. He worked tirelessly to overcome his limits, yet moments of distraction and stagnation clung to him like old regrets. His ambition was relentless, but it was tempered by the sharp awareness of his flaws.
Two thoughts never left him: the inevitability of death and the fragility of humankind. To Ezra, luck and time were the ultimate luxuries-the very things he lacked. As an orphan, he had grown up keenly aware of existence's fragility. And though he grappled with profound fears, the ordinary distractions of life often pulled him back into their comforting grip.
But tonight, something had changed. Ezra was no longer the man he had been yesterday, or the day before that. He was more. He was less. He was the only one left.
It had happened in an instant, though the truth of it was too vast for any singular moment. Ezra had awoken three nights ago with a scream lodged in his throat, his body drenched in sweat. His chest heaved as memories not his own—memories of parallel lives, infinite versions of himself—flooded his consciousness in the form of short stories. He remembered the scholar in a universe of endless libraries, the warrior who fought wars in dimensions where stars burned cold, the dreamer who reshaped reality with thoughts alone. He remembered all of them. And then, he remembered their deaths.
Every quantum iteration of Ezra Wolfe had perished. All but one. The error that had claimed them—a collapse of probabilities, an implosion of universal constants—had spared only him. He was the sole survivor, the last echo of a multiverse that no longer existed.
And yet, he had gained something in the convergence: a system. Not the kind of sentient, guiding force he had read about in the novels he devoured. No voice whispered in his mind, no omnipotent being offered quests or rewards. It was a silent, mechanical thing, more akin to a natural law than a companion. It allowed him to learn-to adapt-at an exponential rate. Skills that once took years to master could now imprint themselves upon him in days, sometimes hours. The price? The overwhelming weight of knowing that every other version of himself had died to make it so.
Ezra rose from the floor and walked to the window, his bare feet making no sound. The city sprawled before him, an organism of light and motion. He traced the patterns of the raindrops with his finger, trying to make sense of the impossible truth he now carried.
"Why me?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
The answer, if there was one, lay buried in the silent mechanics of the system, in the memories of lives he hadn't lived. It wasn't resilience alone that had saved him. Ezra knew himself too well to believe that. He understood his weaknesses-his tendency to hesitate, his struggle with fear, his moments of crippling self-doubt. But he also understood his strengths. He was relentless. He was curious. He was willing to sacrifice anything, everything, to become something greater.
The candle sputtered, its flame dimming. Ezra turned away from the window and grabbed a notebook from his desk. Its pages were filled with diagrams, notes, and lists of skills he had yet to master. He flipped to a blank page and began to write.
Priority Objectives:
Learn human anatomy in detail—focus on surgical precision.
Master advanced physics—find the edge of known science.
Acquire survival skills for extreme environments—prepare for the unknown.
Experiment with system capabilities—push boundaries.
Beneath the list, he scrawled a single sentence:
Adapt or die.
Ezra's pen stilled as a thought surfaced, unbidden. If given the choice between humanity's survival and his own immortality, which would he choose? The answer clawed at his mind like a feral thing, raw and honest. He would choose himself. Not because he hated humanity, but because his obsession demanded it. To live forever, to experience everything the universe had to offer, he would give up anything-even the species that had birthed him.
The thought didn't bring guilt. Instead, it solidified his resolve. Humanity's extinction, if it came, would be a tragedy. But it would not be his tragedy. Not until he had taken all it had to offer.
The rain slowed to a drizzle, and Ezra's gaze returned to the candle. Its flame flickered but refused to go out. He reached out, cupping the fragile light in his hands.
"I'll survive," he said, his voice steady. "No matter what it takes."
In the silence that followed, the system pulsed within him, a subtle reminder of the impossible journey ahead. Ezra Wolfe, the last echo of a shattered multiverse, would adapt. He would grow. And one day, he would become something more. There was no need for external sources of permanence.