I knew something was wrong with Cooper when the surveillance tapes started looping. Not obvious loops – subtle ones. A pedestrian walking past twice wearing slightly different clothes. A car changing color between frames. The kind of things most people would miss, but I'd spent the last 2 years tracking Parallaxers for the Bureau of Temporal Security. I notice details.

My name is Marcus Reeves, and I hunt people with impossible abilities for a living. The government calls me a "Parallaxer Containment Specialist." The powered community calls me a traitor. I call myself pragmatic.

"The Seattle target is in position," Cooper said, reviewing footage from our latest operation. My partner of three years looked exactly like he always did – pressed suit, regulation haircut, the slight tremor in his left hand from an old injury. But something about the way the images moved on his screen made my eyes hurt.

I pretended not to notice. "What's the probability assessment?"

"Ninety-seven percent chance she'll manifest within the next forty-eight hours. The timeline's solid."

That was Cooper's specialty – predictive analysis. He could spot potential Parallaxers before they manifested, tracking probability threads like bread crumbs. Made him the best analyst in the department. Made us the most effective containment team on the west coast.

Made me wonder why I'd never questioned it before.

The thing about hunting Parallaxers is that you learn to recognize patterns. The way reality bends around them. The way coincidence clusters in their vicinity. I'd seen every type of power manifestation: time manipulators, probability warpers, reality benders. But I'd never seen anyone who could predict manifestations with Cooper's accuracy.

"Remember Denver?" I asked casually, watching his reflection in the monitor. "The precog who could see potential futures?"

"Class Three manifestation. We contained her last spring." His voice was perfectly even. The tremor in his hand stopped completely.

"She could only see ten minutes ahead. Not exactly useful for large-scale operations."

"Some abilities are more developed than others."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I pulled up the Denver file on my tablet. The precog's containment record showed standard protocols, standard power classification. But when I looked closer, the timestamps were wrong. Subtle irregularities in the documentation. Like someone had carefully edited the official narrative.

"Cooper," I said quietly, "how long have you been altering records?"

The air in the office grew thick, like trying to breathe underwater. On his screen, the surveillance footage began to stutter, reality hiccuping around the edges.

"One year, seven months, and twenty-three days," he said, still not looking at me. "Since they contained my sister."

The truth hit me like a physical blow. Cooper hadn't been predicting manifestations. He'd been rewriting them. Changing the past to create perfect containment scenarios. Every successful operation, every clean capture – all carefully orchestrated through temporal manipulation.

"Why tell me now?"

"Because in the original timeline, you figured it out three years ago. And I had to kill you."

The tremor in his hand was back, but different now. Deliberate, like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. Reality rippled around us.

"How many timelines?" I asked.

"Hundreds. Thousands. I've been trying to find one where this works, where we can fix things. But every time I change something, it gets worse. The manifestations become more dangerous. The containment protocols become more brutal."

I thought about all the Parallaxers we'd contained. How many of those operations had been manufactured? How many lives had we altered in Cooper's desperate attempt to change history?

"Your sister," I said. "What happened to her?"

"She could heal people. Not just injuries – she could heal time itself, fix broken moments. The government thought it was too dangerous. They contained her in a temporal stasis facility. She's been living the same moment for fourteen years."

The Seattle footage was still playing on his screen, but now I could see the layers beneath it – dozens of potential timelines, all shifting and merging. In some, the target manifested peacefully. In others, the containment operation went bad, casualties mounting. Cooper had been trying to find the perfect scenario, the one where nobody got hurt.

"I can help you," I said. "We can expose the program, get your sister out—"

"I've tried that timeline. Multiple versions. It always ends the same way." He finally turned to face me, and his eyes were tired. So tired. "They've already detected the temporal anomalies. A containment team is on their way. In about forty seconds, they'll breach that door."

"How does this timeline end?"

"I don't know. This is the first time I've told you the truth. The first time I haven't tried to control everything." He smiled slightly. "It's kind of liberating."

I heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy boots, tactical team. Standard containment protocol.

"Cooper—"

"I've seen every possible future, Marcus. Thousands of variations. Want to know the funny thing? In all of them, you try to help me. Every single time. Even after everything I've done."

The door burst open. Time seemed to slow as the tactical team rushed in, reality warping around them like heat waves off hot asphalt.

"This time," Cooper said quietly, "let's see what happens when I stop trying to control it."

He raised his trembling hand, and the world fractured. I saw timelines splitting and merging, possibilities cascading like dominoes. Saw versions where we escaped, versions where we died, versions where none of this had ever happened.

Then Cooper smiled, dropped his hand, and let time choose its own path.