Peter floated through the clouds, his body gliding effortlessly in the soft mist, the cold air cool against his skin, bringing a refreshing counter to the warmth of the bright sun above. He dived beneath the cloud cover, soaring across the rooftops of Manhattan, twisting in the air with tight, graceful turns. There was a sense of pure freedom in the flight, a liberation from the constraints of gravity. Gravity was nothing to him now—a weak force that he had conquered, bending to his will like a loyal servant bowing to a king.

He raised his arms above his head, cutting through the clouds with ease, the mist parting as though it feared his touch. He was in control, the master of nature’s fundamental force. The sensation was intoxicating as he dived once again, heading toward the ground in a rapid descent. His lips curled into a smile. He was invincible—unstoppable, the ruler of everything below him.

But the smile faded as he tried to pull up, to steer away from the fast-approaching ground. The control he once had vanished. Gravity, the force he had so arrogantly thought he’d mastered, now reasserted itself with cruel finality. Panic gripped him. He was falling, arms flailing helplessly as the ground came closer and closer. The fear was suffocating, spreading through his body like poison. His heart pounded violently in his chest. He was going to die.

The calculations were simple: at this speed, there would be no surviving the impact. A cold certainty settled in his mind—he was about to be obliterated. He would cease to exist in an instant. No miracle, no last-minute save. Death was coming, and it would be swift.

They say that in the final moments before death, your life flashes before your eyes, a rush of memories—both good and bad—play out like a movie reel. Peter had heard that before, but what flooded his mind was something different. His life did indeed flash before him, but it wasn’t just one life—it was two. Conflicting memories crashed together in a confusing, surreal collision.

He remembered school, finishing top of his class. He saw himself walking across the stage at Berkeley, receiving his diploma with honors, surrounded by applause. But then there was another memory—one where he was at Columbia University, with his parents proudly cheering as he accepted his degree. The two scenes blurred together, and yet each was vivid, each felt undeniably real.

And then there was the memory of his first kiss. Helen Crawley. He was twelve, and they’d gone to see Back to the Future at the movies. When he walked her home, she gave him a shy, sweet peck on the lips. He had felt like he was floating on air the whole way back, his face glowing with the excitement of the moment. His mother had seen the change in him immediately, as she always could, but he had said nothing about it. How could he forget that day?

But then—no, that wasn’t his first kiss. His first kiss had been with Emma McDonald at fourteen, after he’d gotten into a fight with Ronnie Bacon. He remembered the sting of his split lip from Ronnie’s punch, and Emma gently pressing her lips to the cut. The pain had melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through his body. It was as clear as day—he could even feel the softness of her lips, taste the faint hint of strawberry gloss.

Two different lives, two different first kisses. Both memories felt absolutely real, equally as true as the other. The confusion grew stronger as more memories piled in—his parents celebrating his graduation at a fancy restaurant, giving him a second-hand Ford as a gift. No, wait—his parents hadn’t been at his graduation. They had died when he was nine. He had been alone that day, working late in his office while his peers celebrated. And yet, the scent of leather seats from that old Ford was fresh in his mind.

How could both be true? How could both lives exist?

The ground was seconds away now. Peter’s mind couldn’t process the conflicting memories in time to find answers. With a horrifying crunch, he collided with the earth, limbs spread, face twisted in a grimace of agony. And then—

Peter bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, his heart thundering in his chest. Sweat poured down his face, his body drenched in the aftermath of the nightmare. He touched his forehead, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. It had been a dream, a terrifying dream. But why did it feel so real?

His breath steadied, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with trembling hands. It’s over now, he told himself. He was awake. Safe. In his own bed.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?" a soft, sleepy voice came from beside him. Peter froze as Jessica stirred, her head emerging from beneath the covers. "Is everything alright, hun?"

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. Jessica. He hadn’t seen Jessica in years—not since their breakup. But here she was, lying beside him, looking at him with that same familiar concern.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Peter blinked, trying to grasp the disorienting collision of memories. Jessica Simpson—no, Jessica Briggs—his wife. His head swirled as he grappled with the two conflicting realities, each as vivid as the other. Was this still a dream? No, he was definitely awake, sitting in his own bed, with his wife beside him, just where she was supposed to be. But at the same time, he knew he should be in his office, poring over reports.

"I'm fine, go back to sleep. Just a little nightmare, nothing to worry about," Peter muttered, pulling the covers off and getting out of bed. "I'm just going to grab a glass of water."

“Okay, hun. Hurry back; I fancy a big cuddle from my sexy man,” Jessica whispered, snuggling into the pillow, her voice still laced with drowsiness.

Peter walked briskly to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and closed the door behind him. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, hoping to wash away the lingering confusion. The icy sensation snapped him awake, but the two realities still buzzed in his mind, fighting for dominance.

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Jessica Simpson. That infuriating, arrogant woman. And yet, here she was, in his bed—Jessica Briggs, his wife of twenty-five years. His mind ricocheted between conflicting thoughts. That crooked smile that had once driven him mad now made his heart melt. The little freckles above her lip, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed—he adored every part of her. But then, why could he remember despising her? How could these two realities coexist?

Peter stared at his reflection, running his hands through his hair. It was thick, jet-black. But wait—hadn't it been thinning? He’d spent ten minutes every morning combing it just so, to hide the bald patches creeping in. His hands paused as he whispered, "Oh God, no..."

His reflection, however, showed a full head of hair. His heart raced as he splashed his face again, this time more frantically, hoping the water would shock his mind into clarity. But the confusion only deepened.

On one hand, he had gone to bed with Jessica after a charity gala, preparing for a normal day of work. He was supposed to invigilate the year 11 mock exams, then meet Ronnie for lunch at that cozy café with the scones he'd been craving. He smiled faintly at the thought. Everything seemed so clear, so right. This was his life—wasn’t it?

But another memory fought for space, equally real. He was the head of a civilian committee investigating the disappearance of Venus, preparing to meet the president of the United States. He had evicted that lazy fool Jon Handley from the office the night before, tired of his slacking. And Jessica—that Jessica—had dared to defend him.

How could both of these lives be true?

Peter gripped the edge of the sink, breathing heavily. He couldn’t stay here, pretending everything was normal. One part of him craved to slip back into the simplicity of his old routine, to climb into bed and pretend the other life didn't exist. But he couldn’t. The feeling of unease clawed at him. There was something fundamentally wrong.

“So, what's the plan, Peter?” he muttered at his reflection, trying to ground himself in logic. "Think, man."

Jon Handley. The memories flickered and clicked into place. That annoying twerp had mentioned something about the Brettell equation the night before, and it felt like the missing piece. Peter replayed the conversation in his head, feeling the spark of realization. Jon had mentioned the BB equations—Bonker Brettell equations. And Major Jim Adams, he remembered reading Adams' report describing a meeting with Dr. Brettell and a strange glowing machine that hummed. Too much was aligning.

“This is no coincidence,” Peter said, straightening up. The more he thought about this reality, the more it anchored itself, pushing the alternate memories aside.

He had a plan. He needed to find Jon Handley, Major Jim Adams, and the Brettell duo. They were the key to whatever was happening to him.

Luckily, Jessica was working today. The thought flashed through his mind with a brief moment of relief—he wouldn't have to explain anything to her. She’d just think he was at work as usual. He would have to call in sick, though. Even if they were short-staffed, this was more important. He couldn't let it go.

With a deep breath, Peter opened the bathroom door and headed back to the bedroom. He’d tell Jessica he was going out for an early run—something he had apparently done in both his lives. But as he stepped inside, Jessica was no longer sleeping.

She lay on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a teasing smile. “Have you come back to give me that big cuddle?” she purred, her voice playful as she fluttered her eyelashes.

Peter’s mind was already racing toward the mysteries he needed to solve, but Jessica’s presence—her smile, her body—pulled him back into the room. The conflicting emotions surged inside him again. He loved this woman, didn’t he? For twenty-five years, they had shared a life, a marriage. The memories were real, vivid, but they also felt foreign. How could he reconcile the warmth of that smile with the bitterness he felt from another life—another Jessica?

“Are you just going to stand there, or...?” she teased, her voice low and inviting as she stretched languidly on the bed, her hand beckoning him closer.

Peter swallowed hard, his body tensing as he stood at the threshold of the bathroom. Part of him—the part rooted in this current life—wanted to sink into her arms, to let everything go. To forget about the weird dissonance in his mind and live the life that felt so familiar. But then, another part of him—the part that remembered a planet called Venus and the disappearance he was investigating—fought back.

He couldn’t. Not now.

“I... I need to go for that run,” he stammered, his voice hoarse, betraying the internal battle waging in his head. “Clear my head a bit.”

Jessica’s smile faltered for a moment, her brow furrowing in concern. “A run? Now? We were... I thought we could...” She trailed off, a flicker of hurt crossing her face.

Peter felt a pang of guilt in his chest. His instincts told him this was his wife, the woman he had shared a life with, the one who wanted to be close to him. But the gnawing confusion, the wrongness of everything, made it impossible to focus on her. He needed answers, and he couldn't afford distractions. Not now.

“I know, I’m sorry. I just... I’ve got too much on my mind,” he said, trying to soften the rejection. He stepped over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed her forehead gently. “I’ll be back soon. We’ll talk, okay?”

Jessica sighed but didn’t press him. “Alright. Just don’t be too long, Peter,” she said softly, her eyes watching him as he straightened up.

Peter nodded, feeling her gaze on him as he quickly grabbed some clothes, throwing on a pair of jogging shorts and a T-shirt. His mind was already shifting back to Jon Handley, the Brettell equations, and the tangled web of memories. He needed to get out of the house, to figure out what was happening to him.

Without another word, he slipped out of the bedroom, leaving Jessica behind with her lingering invitation.

As he walked down the hallway, his thoughts swirled. How much of this life was real? What was real? The warm smell of coffee from the kitchen, the soft padding of their old dog moving in its bed—all these details felt so tangible, yet something was undeniably off.

He grabbed his phone from the hallway table and hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the bedroom. Could he just leave everything behind, chase after an unraveling mystery while pretending nothing had changed? Could he ignore the life he felt slipping away, or was it already gone?

“Focus, Peter,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. There were answers out there, and he was determined to find them. He needed to find Jon, Major Adams, and the Brettells—and fast.

With one last look back, Peter walked out of the front door, the cool morning air hitting his face like a cold slap of reality. He had no idea what lay ahead, but one thing was clear: his life was no longer his own.