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There is a moment at the start of every reset where the Drifter has learned not to breathe.
It comes right before the rain.
The city of Höllvania always restarts like it’s holding its breath, lights flickering on half a second too late, neon signs stuttering through their loops, the sky hanging low and heavy as if deciding whether it wants to exist at all. The Drifter stands very still beneath a streetlamp that buzzes like a dying insect and waits for the world to remember itself.
It never does.
The rain falls.
Reset Twenty.
The Drifter exhales.
They are the only one who remembers what came before. The only one who remembers how many times the world has ended, how many times it has been almost saved, how many times love has been chosen in full knowledge of its expiration date.
Twenty times.
Twenty times, the same question has followed them like a ghost they can’t outrun:
If you knew how this would end, would you still choose me?
The Drifter already knows the answer.
Eleanor always says yes.
The Hex’s base smells like old concrete, machine oil, and borrowed hope. Arthur is awake before anyone else, because Arthur is always awake before disaster. He looks up when the Drifter enters, rain dripping from their sleeves.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m on time,” the Drifter replies. “You just don’t remember.”
Arthur frowns, like trying to remember something half-forgotten.
“You always say things like that, don’t you?”
The Drifter shrugs. “You always notice.”
Inside, the world is resetting itself into familiar shapes. Quincy cleaning his rifle. Amir pacing, muttering about signal anomalies and temporal bleed. Lettie methodically prepares for violence like it’s a third language she’s fluent in. Aoi staring out the window, headphones around her neck, eyes tracking a future she can almost see.
And Eleanor.
Eleanor stands near the back, checking her gear. Hair tied up, posture alert, expression open in that way that means she hasn’t learned yet how much she’s going to lose.
She looks up.
Their eyes meet.
This is always the hardest part.
There is barest of recognition in her violet gaze. No warmth born of shared nights and whispered promises. Just curiosity. Assessment. Polite interest.
‘Hey,’ Eleanor says. ‘Good to see you again.’
Polite. As if that’s all they are.
The Drifter smiles anyway. They always do. “Thanks.”
She nods, then looks back down at her gear, and just like that, the world continues as if nothing has been broken.
The Drifter turns away before their face can give them away.
In the beginning, long before Reset Twenty, they tried to fight the forgetting.
They told Eleanor everything.
About the resets. About the Void. About the way the world keeps asking the same question in different words. They told her about the first time she kissed them, breathless and laughing because neither of them knew if tomorrow would exist. About the nights spent arguing philosophy over bad food and worse odds. About the way she had looked at them once and said, If this ends, I want it to end knowing I chose you.
It had crushed her.
She had believed them, because Eleanor always believes the truth when she hears it, but belief didn’t mean readiness. It didn’t mean safety. It didn’t mean love could survive being pre-written like a tragedy.
So the Drifter stopped telling.
They learned to carry the weight alone.
They learned to love her without being loved back.
At least at first.
Months pass in the way they always do, stretched thin and coiled tight, waiting for the snap.
The Drifter moves through missions with the quiet efficiency of someone who has already lived through the consequences. They warn Arthur half a second before ambushes. They redirect Amir away from ideas that will collapse. They step in front of Eleanor without thinking, every single time.
Arthur notices.
“You don’t do that for anyone else,” he says one night, voice low. “Not like that.”
The Drifter doesn’t look at him. “She’s important.”
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s more than that,” the Drifter says, then winces. “Sorry.”
Arthur studies them, something wary and unsettled in his eyes.
“You talk like you’re already mourning her.”
The Drifter thinks of twenty endings. Twenty final moments where Eleanor’s hand slipped from theirs, or where she smiled bravely and said don’t look back.
“I am,” they say softly.
Eleanor starts noticing things around the same time the city begins to show the first signs of spring.
It’s small at first. A sense of déjà vu when the Drifter speaks. The way they finish her sentences, not like guessing, but like remembering. The way they never hesitate to trust her, even when they shouldn’t.
Once, during downtime, she asks, ‘Have we had this conversation before?’
The Drifter freezes for half a second too long.
Eleanor notices that too.
‘Because it feels like we have,’ she says. ‘Like… I’m behind myself.’
The Drifter forces a laugh. “Exposure to the void does that to people.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
The first real crack comes during a fight gone wrong.
Bullets scream. Concrete shatters. The air tastes like ozone and panic. Eleanor steps forward at exactly the wrong moment, and the Drifter grabs her, yanking her back with a force that borders on desperation.
“Trust me,” they say, voice breaking.
The words hit Eleanor like a hammer.
Not because of the danger, but because she remembers those words spoken over a very different soundscape. Sirens. Fire. The world tearing itself apart. The Drifter’s voice raw with fear and love and inevitability.
Her knees buckle.
‘What was that?’ she gasps.
The Drifter catches her before she falls. “Eleanor-”
She pulls away, shaken. ‘Don’t. Not now.’
But her eyes never leave them again.
The memories return like a tide.
Not all at once. Not neatly. They come as sensations before images. Longing without context. Grief without a cause. Love without permission.
Eleanor starts dreaming of endings she hasn’t lived yet.
In one, the Drifter is bleeding out, smiling anyway. In another, the sky folds inward like a dying star. In all of them, she is holding onto someone she refuses to let go of, even when the world demands it.
She starts writing things down.
Questions. Observations. Feelings she can’t explain.
Why does it hurt when they look tired?
Why do I trust them more than anyone else?
Why does it feel like I promised them something I haven’t said yet?
Eventually, she stops pretending this is normal.
They’re on the roof when she confronts them. The city below hums, oblivious, lights blinking like a heartbeat.
‘How many times?’ Eleanor asks.
The Drifter leans against the railing, already knowing where this is going. “How many times what?”
‘Has this happened?’ She gestures between them. ‘Us. The world. You looking at me like I’m already gone.’
The Drifter closes their eyes.
“Twenty,” they say.
Eleanor laughs, sharp and disbelieving, because it’s easier than crying. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
“No,” the Drifter replies. “I expect you to feel it.”
She does.
The memories surge all at once, overwhelming. Laughter. Arguments. Kisses stolen between missions. A question asked again and again, in different forms, always the same at its core:
If I forget you, will you still love me?
Eleanor staggers forward, gripping the railing.
‘We-' Her voice breaks. ‘We love each other.’
“Yes.”
‘And I forget.’
“Yes.”
‘And you still choose me.’
The Drifter swallows. “Every time.”
She turns to them then, eyes bright with tears and fury and awe. Violet beacons in the fog.
‘That’s not fair.’
“I know.”
Silence stretches.
Finally, Eleanor asks the question that matters.
‘If I don’t remember everything… would you still want me to choose you?’
The Drifter meets her gaze. “I don’t want your choice if it’s not yours.”
She laughs softly, tears spilling over.
‘You’re impossible.’
“You love that about me.”
She does.
She remembers now.
Arthur takes the truth hard.
Quincy pretends not to, but watches the Drifter like they’re a live wire. Amir oscillates between terror and academic delight. Aoi listens, really listens, and nods like this fits a pattern she’s always suspected. Lettie puts a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder and asks the only question that matters.
“Do you want this?”
Eleanor doesn’t hesitate. ‘Yes.’
The Drifter doesn’t breathe until she says it.
As the reset point approaches, the question hangs heavier than ever.
They know what’s coming.
They always do.
One night, curled together in the quiet aftermath of a mission, Eleanor traces the Drifter’s scars with gentle fingers.
‘Say it again,’ she murmurs against Drifter skull.
“Say what?”
‘That you’d choose me.’
The Drifter presses their forehead to hers. “I’d choose you even knowing how this ends.”
Eleanor smiles sadly. ‘Then ask me.’
The Drifter hesitates. Then, softly, “Would you fall in love with me again?”
Eleanor doesn’t answer right away.
She kisses them instead.
When the world begins to unravel, sirens wailing, sky screaming, reality folding in on itself, Eleanor is holding the Drifter’s hand.
‘Find me,’ she says. ‘No matter what I remember.’
The Drifter squeezes back. “I always do.”
The world ends.
Reset Twenty-One begins with snow.
The Drifter stands beneath the streetlight, heart pounding, waiting.
When they reach the base, Eleanor looks up.
This time, her smile is knowing.
‘Hey,’ she says softly. ‘You look like someone who’s been waiting a long time.’
The Drifter laughs, breath catching. “You have no idea.”
She steps closer. ‘Ask me again.’
“Ask you what?”
She tilts her head, eyes bright. ‘The question you always ask.’
The Drifter smiles through the ache in their chest.
“Would you fall in love with me again?”
Eleanor takes their hand.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Every time.’