The country had turned into a warzone overnight. President McBraggart’s "national security" measures had dotted every major highway with military checkpoints manned by armed forces and various trigger-happy militias who thought orange hats and camouflage cargo shorts made them soldiers.

If Allie wanted to reach the White House in one piece, he’d have to stay off the radar.

"Time for some stealth mode."

He could’ve just warped reality to put himself in D.C. instantly, but that felt like cheating. Plus, given his track record, he’d probably overshoot and land in the middle of the Oval Office with a confused McBraggart asking why Spider-Man was in his house.

No, this had to be done carefully.

Step One: A Getaway Car

Allie needed a vehicle that wouldn’t draw attention.

Something boring. Unremarkable. The kind of car that blended into the background like elevator music.

He walked over to his local Walmart’s parking lot and surveyed his options.

A jet-black sports car with flaming decals? Too loud.

A massive pickup truck with flags and bumper stickers about how "REAL MEN DRIVE DIESEL" and “STANDING WITH PRESIDENT MCBRAGGART”? Absolutely not. But then again, the latter might make for good camouflage.

A bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle? Not unless he wanted to die as a joke.

Then he spotted the one.

A beige 2003 Toyota Camry.

Perfect.

It looked like it had been through seventeen different owners, at least one divorce battle, and three failed emissions tests.

Nobody would notice this car.

He didn’t technically own it, but with a snap of his fingers, the title and registration now belonged to him. Reality just accepted it.

"Sorry, previous owner," he muttered. "But you should’ve locked your doors."

Step Two: Avoiding Detection

Allie hit the road, cruising along at a perfectly reasonable speed, resisting the urge to use his powers to turn every red light green.

For the first hundred miles, things were uneventful.

Then he saw them.

A militia checkpoint blocking the road ahead, complete with sandbags, makeshift barricades, and a bunch of guys in matching sunglasses and beer guts waving rifles around like they were extras in a bad action movie. You couldn’t miss all the flags. They all screamed President McBraggart. Literally.

"Great. Walmart’s clearance section shoppers just formed a paramilitary force. Everything’s half off. Everything’s gotta go."

Allie took a deep breath. He could probably just warp past them, but he was trying to keep things low-key.

Instead, he pulled up, rolled down his window, and went for Plan B: Bullshitting.

One of the militia guys swaggered over, resting his hand on the way-too-big rifle strapped to his chest.

"Where you headed, buddy?"

Allie forced his best generic American guy smile. "Oh, just visiting family up in—"

His brain panicked. Where the hell did normal people have family?

"—uh… Ohio."

OHIO? WHY DID HE SAY OHIO?

The guy narrowed his eyes. "You don’t sound like an Ohio guy."

Allie cleared his throat. "Well, I mean, I’m originally from—uh, Nebraska."

NEBRASKA?? WHY WAS HE MAKING THIS WORSE?

The militia guy looked him up and down, chewing on an unlit cigarette like it was a personality trait.

"You don’t look like a Nebraska guy either."

Allie sweated internally. "W-Well, that’s because I—"

Then, a stroke of genius.

He flicked his fingers under the dashboard, subtly tweaking reality.

The guy blinked.

Then he grinned.

"Wait a sec, I know you!" The militiaman slapped the roof of the Camry like they were old drinking buddies. "You’re Jeff’s cousin! From…" He squinted, as if his brain was filling in the gaps on its own. "Yeah! From Ohio!"

Allie barely kept himself from sighing in pure relief.

"Yep!" he said quickly. "Jeff’s cousin. That’s me."

The militia guy nodded sagely. "Jeff’s a good dude. You tell him Dale says hey."

"Will do!"

The barricade was lifted for him.

Allie sped off immediately.

For a guy who could warp reality, Allie figured the rest of the drive should be easy.

It was not.

At all.

The first sign that this wasn’t going to be smooth sailing came when he almost got pulled over outside of Richmond. He had been perfectly law-abiding—as law-abiding as one could be in a stolen-but-not-stolen car—but then he saw the flashing blue and red lights in his mirror.

His stomach dropped.

A cop ambled up to his window, a flashlight in one hand and a very serious expression on his face.

“License and registration.”

Allie’s mind raced. He had no license with him so that he couldn’t be identified so easily if he was taken out or caught. No real ownership of the car. Absolutely nothing to give the cop.

So he did what any logical person with godlike reality-altering abilities would do.

He snapped his fingers under the dashboard.

The officer’s eyes glazed over for a second, like he’d just been hit with a Windows XP reboot. Then, slowly, he lowered the flashlight.

"Wait a second," the cop muttered. "What am I even doing? Speed limits are… kind of a social construct, aren't they?"

Allie nodded quickly. "Totally."

"Yeah…" The cop stared off into the distance, having a full-on philosophical awakening. "Who even decides how fast is too fast? It’s just a number, man. Numbers are arbitrary."

"Exactly," Allie said, barely containing his relief.

The cop clapped him on the shoulder. "You’re free to go, citizen. And drive as fast as your soul tells you."

Allie did not question it. He just hit the gas and left before the existential crisis wore off.

A few hours later, he pulled into a run-down gas station somewhere in Maryland to grab some snacks. He was exhausted, starving, and trying to pretend he hadn’t just manipulated law enforcement into abandoning traffic laws.

He grabbed a Red Bull, a bag of beef jerky, and a questionable-looking gas station hot dog before heading to the counter. Sadly they didn’t have any donuts. Sad face.

That was when he noticed the cashier staring at him.

Not just staring—squinting.

Allie stiffened. "Uh. Everything okay?"

The cashier, a grizzled old man wearing a tinfoil hat unironically, leaned forward. "You look real familiar, son."

Allie forced a smile. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

The cashier nodded slowly. "You wouldn’t happen to be that Allie Edison fella, would you?"

Allie’s brain screamed.

"Who? Me? Nah," he said way too quickly. "I’m just a totally normal guy who just happens to look like that guy. Crazy, right?"

The cashier squinted harder. "They say he’s some kinda reality-warpin’ anarchist."

"Wow, wild," Allie said, sweating bullets. He’s been caught already? How?

"Some people say he can bend time and space, mess with your thoughts, and even make hot dogs healthy for you."

Allie paused.

"...Wait, that last one? That’d be pretty cool, actually."

The cashier narrowed his eyes. "That’s what he wants you to think."

Did McBraggart know about him too? What the fuck?

Allie, deciding he did not have the energy for a full-blown gas station conspiracy debate, threw some cash on the counter, grabbed his stuff, and walked out very quickly.

As he got in the Camry and started the engine, he saw the cashier watching him through the window, nodding to himself like he’d just uncovered a deep-state secret.

Allie peeled out before things got any weirder.

The country was filling up with his kind of people entirely too quickly these days.

By the time Allie crossed into Washington, D.C., he was running on fumes—both metaphorically and, given the state of his questionably acquired 2003 Camry, quite possibly literally. The sheer absurdity of his cross-country escapade had drained him of all but the most stubborn reserves of energy. He longed for nothing more than to complete this ridiculous mission, find a place to collapse, and, ideally, consume an unholy amount of gas station snacks before unconsciousness claimed him.

That, of course, was when the drone strike happened.

It began subtly, as all completely unreasonable assassination attempts did. A faint mechanical whir, easily mistaken for an unusually aggressive mosquito or a distant power tool, filtered through the evening air. At first, Allie barely registered it. But then—

His car radio crackled, the static quickly giving way to an eerily detached robotic voice, devoid of anything remotely resembling human warmth.

"TARGET ACQUIRED. ELIMINATION PROTOCOL INITIATED."

Allie barely had time to process the words before something large and fast streaked across the sky, casting a fleeting shadow over his windshield.

"Oh, come ON!" he bellowed, his grip tightening on the wheel. He had endured armed militias, glitching cops, and a gas station attendant who was disturbingly certain he was a deep-state operative. Now he had to deal with this?

A missile, sleek and unmistakably aimed at him, dropped from above.

In an ideal world, this would be the moment where time slowed down, where he could reflect on his life, question his choices, and perhaps make peace with the fact that he was about to be reduced to a fiery stain on the pavement.

Fortunately, reality did not adhere to conventional storytelling structures when one had absolute power over it.

With an exasperated flick of his fingers, Allie forced the universe to reconsider its priorities.

The missile, mid-plummet—————squawked.

What had once been a high-tech, precision-guided instrument of destruction was now something far more ridiculous—a gigantic rubber chicken.

It hit the pavement with a comically underwhelming boing and squawking, rebounded once with an awkward wobble, then tumbled harmlessly into a ditch, where it lay in disgrace.

Allie, still gripping the wheel, exhaled slowly. He glanced in the rearview mirror, taking in the sight of the oversized rubber poultry carcass sprawled on the roadside like the aftermath of a deeply unsettling cartoon episode.

He let out a long, weary sigh.

"This country," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "is actually insane."

After what felt like an eternity behind the wheel, Allie finally crossed into Washington D.C.

The air here felt different—thicker, heavier, buzzing with tension. It wasn’t just the overbearing government presence; it was the city itself, a place where history had been made, where power had been seized and lost, where revolutions had been whispered and shouted in the same breath.

And he was about to rewrite it.

He pulled into the most forgettable, mind-numbingly dull parking spot he could find—wedged between two identical black SUVs that practically screamed "federal agency business."

He shut off the engine.

Took a breath.

Sat there for a moment, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, heart pounding.

Then, with measured control, he stepped out.

The cold air hit his face as he stretched, working out the stiffness in his limbs. His legs ached, his brain felt like it had been marinated in gas station coffee, but none of that mattered.

Because in the distance, it waited.

The White House.

And every barrier, every newly reinforced security measure McBraggart had ordered over the past four years stood between him and the front door.

Barbed wire. Guard towers. Surveillance drones humming in slow, methodical patrols. Armed men standing at attention, eyes scanning for even the slightest anomaly. Those were relatively new.

It wasn’t just a government building anymore.

It was a fortress.

A fortress built on fear.

McBraggart had made damn sure that no one could challenge him—not physically, legally, or politically.

But he had made one mistake.

He built his defenses for normal people.

And Allie Edison was anything but.

A slow grin spread across his face as he pulled his hoodie up. His fingers flexed—ready. His mind focused—clear.

He took the first step forward.

It was time to patch the system.

Getting into the most secure building in the country should have been a nightmare. Layers of security, facial recognition, armed guards trained to sniff out even the faintest whiff of a threat.

But Allie Edison didn’t need stealth, or a disguise, or even a plan.

All he had to do was tweak reality.

A flick of his fingers, a subtle rewrite in the Secret Service’s understanding of his existence, and suddenly—

He belonged here.

No alarms. No suspicious glances. No shouts of "Intruder!"

He simply walked right in. He slipped through it all. He had absolutely no trouble at all.

As he strolled through the grand entrance of the White House, the guards barely spared him a glance.

One agent even handed him a steaming cup of coffee.

"Hey, Patch, you on duty today?" the man asked, completely unfazed.

Allie hesitated for half a second before smoothly accepting the cup like this was totally normal.

"Uh… yeah," he said, nodding. "Thanks, man."

Thumbs up.

His brain screamed at him as he casually took a sip. Holy crap, this actually worked.

With an unreasonable amount of confidence, he strode down the gleaming hallways, passing by hardened security professionals who didn’t so much as blink at his presence.

His heart was pounding, but he kept his steps measured. Controlled.

It was like walking through a glitch in the matrix.

When he finally reached the massive doors leading to the Oval Office, he exhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, and—

—-pushed them open.

President McBraggart was sitting at his desk, surrounded by generals and several advisors who all had the exact same hugely yellow haircut and spray-on tan.

"Mr. President," Allie said, stepping into the room.

McBraggart looked up, squinting. "Who the hell are you? Never seen you before. Probably a nobody. A total nobody. Sad! Get out." He flipped his hand at Allie dismissively.

They didn’t know about him even after changing reality to have everyone in the White House accept his presence? Or was McBraggart really that dumb? Okay then.

Allie smirked and folded his arms. "Let me put this in a way you’ll understand, Mr. President—it’s gonna be a total disaster. Just the worst. Nobody likes martial law, okay? Very unpopular. Big mistake. And you? You’re about five minutes away from making history in the worst possible way."

The advisors scoffed. The generals looked confused.

McBraggart leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Listen, I don’t know who you are, okay? Never seen you before. But I don’t take advice from some nobody in a hoodie. Total nobody. Probably a loser. Low energy. Not good. Why are you talking like a complete idiot? Terrible. What part of get out didn’t you get? Go, loser! You know what…" He gestured at the men at his side with an evil smirk.

Allie cracked his knuckles and said quickly and loudly, "Oh, don’t worry. Trust me, I’m not here to argue."

He snapped his fingers.

And suddenly, something changed.

McBraggart blinked. His posture relaxed. The permanent scowl on his face softened into something resembling human decency.

"Whoa," he muttered, shaking his head. "What was I doing? Huh? Oh right. Executive orders! Martial law? I was gonna do that? Concentration camps? Wreck the economy? Keep all the power for myself? Terrible ideas. Just awful. Who thought of that? Not me. Never me. Bad move. Probably some low-IQ bureaucrat losers. It was Biddy’s fault. Total disaster. It was that stupid ProjectThisYear. Very bad people. A total disgrace."

All the advisor's jaws dropped to the floor together.

"Sir!" one of them shouted, nearly tripping over himself in desperation. "You were about to tell us to shoot this total weirdo. You were about to make America the greatest shopping destination in history! A monument to consumerism! It was sheer genius! You were on the verge of becoming America’s first king! A true legend!" He raised his gun and pointed it at Allie unflinchingly.

McBraggart put an orange hand on his gun and shook his head, looking confused, scratching his too yellow hair. “I was? That sounds... really dumb. Like, unbelievably dumb. People wouldn’t like that. Bad for ratings. A lot of people get hurt. You? Total disaster. Low IQ. Sad. Huh? Shooting this kid? Why would that even be necessary? Look at this guy—a good kid, folks, the best. Shooting him? That’d be a disgrace, a total disaster, believe me. Bad optics, very bad. Frankly, I don’t see why anyone would even consider it. He’s not a threat, he’s not a problem. Great guy, tremendous potential..” He shook his head.

His generals stared at him for a long moment.

The man who had been moments away from pulling the trigger now hesitated, awkwardly straightening his tie with a visible wince, as if secondhand embarrassment had just sucker-punched him in the gut.

He looked down at the President’s desk. His executive orders were now covered in doodles of happy cats and puppies.

"I think we’re gonna have to cancel that executive order," McBraggart said, nodding to himself like a man who had just unlocked the secret to happiness. "Terrible order. Just the worst. And you know what? Maybe I get a dog. Great animals. The best. Everyone loves dogs. I love dogs. Nobody loves dogs more than me!"

Chaos erupted in an instant. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface finally boiled over, sending the room into an absolute frenzy. Every man in the room—seasoned strategists, hardened enforcers, power-hungry bureaucrats—had been pushed past their breaking point, and now, all restraint had crumbled.

Advisors exploded in panic, voices colliding in a frenzy of outrage.

"Reckless policy reversals!" one shouted.

"Weakness is unacceptable!" another bellowed.

Within moments, murmurs of mental instability filled the air. Worried glances darted between officials, their expressions shifting from disbelief to something far darker.

And then—

The room froze.

A single beat of silence.

Then, all hell broke loose.

McBraggart’s advisors, his security detail, and even high-ranking generals lurched forward at once, a storm of suits, medals, and gunmetal. The most powerful men in the country piled onto Allie like he was a lone insurgent in a coup gone wrong.

"GET HIM!" one of the advisors shrieked. "He’s corrupting the president’s mind! It will take forever to reprogram him!"

"Unacceptable!" a general roared, ripping his sidearm from its holster.

"Soft liberal policies will doom this country!" another advisor howled, his jowls flapping in rage-fueled inertia as he lunged like an angry walrus in a power suit.

And this time—they were fast.

A shot rang out.

Allie felt a sudden, searing heat in his side.

His body jerked, pain slicing through his ribs as he stumbled backward. He barely had time to register the blood spreading across his hoodie before more gunfire erupted.

Too late to dodge.

He hit the ground, chest heaving, ears ringing. His vision blurred as the room erupted into chaos.

"Jesus, we actually managed to shoot him!" one of the agents hissed.

"Finish it!" another barked.

They raised their weapons again—but Allie moved first.

With the last shred of focus he had, he flicked his fingers.

Reality shattered.

The entire room glitched.

The walls flickered, warped, and distorted, breaking into pixelated fragments before snapping back into place. The presidential seal on the floor disintegrated into lines of garbled code before reassembling itself into something new.

And the people—

The people changed.

The advisors, the security detail, the gun-toting generals who had just tried to kill him—they all convulsed, their minds forcibly rewritten.

Their medals and polished uniforms disintegrated, replaced by aprons, name tags, and volunteer badges.

The rage and power-hunger in their eyes faded into something… different.

One of the generals blinked rapidly, confusion overtaking his face. His voice was softer now, his tone one of genuine concern.

"A-are you okay?" he stammered, lowering his gun. His expression twisted with guilt as he stared at the blood soaking Allie’s hoodie. "I—oh my god. I shot you. I am so… so sorry. That was—I don’t even know why I did that!"

An advisor shuddered, clutching his forehead. "I… I just had the overwhelming urge to open a soup kitchen. Why does that feel so right? Oh God, you are dying on the floor right in front of me. It is my fault. Fuck!"

Another, previously one of the president’s most cutthroat enforcers, collapsed to his knees. "Universal healthcare is a moral necessity," he gasped, as if the words had been lodged in his throat for decades and were only now being released.

The guns clattered to the ground.

Their old ideologies were gone.

The most powerful figures in the room had been patched.

McBraggart, watching the scene unfold with great amusement, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. "I gotta say, fellas—this is way better. Less yelling. More soup. Love that."

Allie, still gasping for breath, pressed his hand to his wound.

Apparently he was still oblivious to what was going on around him. A man was dying on the floor of his office. Someone had screamed all about it. Shit. Well anyway…

Time for one last fix.

He whispered a command to himself.

"Be healed."

The pain faded. The bullet hole in his hoodie sealed itself up like it had never been there. The blood vanished, leaving his hoodie immaculately clean and whole.

Good as new.

Allie exhaled, finally letting himself relax.

McBraggart’s regime had been built on fear, violence, and selfishness. Now, thanks to his most powerful patch yet, it was run by a president who loved puppies and social welfare, backed by a cabinet of reformed war criminals who now only wanted to feed the homeless.

Allie pushed himself to his feet, dusted off his hoodie, and smiled.

"Mission accomplished."

The news cycle exploded the next morning.

BREAKING: PRESIDENT McBRAGGART CANCELS MARTIAL LAW, ADOPTS 3 DOGS, STARTS VOLUNTEERING AT SOUP KITCHENS

EXTREMIST LAWMAKERS OUSTED AS CHECKS AND BALANCES RESTORED

NEW TAX ON THE ULTRA-RICH ELIMINATES ALL BILLIONAIRES

ALL NATIONAL SOCIAL SAFETY NET PROGRAMS FUNDED SUSTAINABLY FOREVER

McBraggart’s war with Congress and the Justice Department was swift and decisive. Once fully cleansed of his old authoritarian instincts, he wasted no time in reining in the extremists who had once fueled his worst policies.

Corrupt lawmakers were shown the door. Judges who had spent years stacking the legal system in favor of tyranny were swiftly removed from office. The balance of power—the very foundation of democracy—was restored.

McBraggart himself unexpectedly became the champion of the people he had always claimed to be.

Where once he had ruled through bluster and intimidation, he now governed with a shocking degree of actual leadership.

He had finally become a great man—without needing to demand it, orchestrate it, or constantly remind everyone around him.

America’s darkest timeline had been successfully patched.

One by one, his old executive orders were dismantled.

Martial law? Gone.

The environmental destruction projects? Scrapped.

Voter suppression laws? Repealed.

Migrants were released, with many finally becoming full citizens because a legal path had finally been opened for them, others were simply returned to their home countries humanely as immigration laws were enforced fairly and ethically.

McBraggart’s transformation wasn’t just political—it was personal.

Some had expected him to retreat into fast-food photo ops, pretending to work the counter for five minutes before calling it a day. Instead, he took actual action.

He volunteered at soup kitchens—not just for the cameras, but because he genuinely enjoyed it. 

“Turns out, feeding people is great PR. Being a good man is the best PR there is. Anything else would be a total disaster!”

As the headlines shouted, he had adopted three dogs, showering them with the kind of love and attention once reserved for his own ego.

He publicly denounced his old policies, calling them "very bad, very stupid ideas" that were "definitely not his fault, probably some bad people tricked him into them. Most likely the previous administration was to blame."

Perhaps McBraggart’s greatest achievement came in the form of a single, unifying national policy.

Every Sunday, every American citizen—regardless of tax bracket—would receive one free healthy hot dog, funded entirely by a newly implemented wealth tax on the ultra-rich.

No one around him was happy about it. Nor were the billionaires either.

Not at all.

But, for the first time in decades, they were forced to actually pay their fair share in taxes.

And the American people?

They loved it. Even President McBraggart’s most loyal followers began to realize that a nation free of hate and needless suffering was simply a better place for everyone.

President McBraggart had truly made America Louder than ever… in a good sense.

McBraggart’s reputation had done a series of 360s and finally a full 180.

What started as one of the most disastrous presidencies in history slowly transformed into one of the most celebrated.

National parks were saved.

Healthcare was expanded.

Worker protections were restored.

America’s global reputation—once in freefall—began to heal.

Although it was a far cry from an overnight fix.

Undoing the damage would take time.

But America had been saved.

And no one had any idea how it happened.

Allie had returned to his home, exhausted but satisfied with his work.

He kicked off his shoes, flopped onto his couch, and turned on the TV, taking a break from the computer.

Mr. Byte hopped onto his chest and panted, drooling all over him.

He grinned. "Guess what, buddy? I saved the country today. I really did it! Who’s the fuzziest, most awesome husky ever?!"

The husky covered his nose in sloppy saliva.

Allie stretched his fingers, grinning. The country had been saved, President McBraggart was now a puppy-loving humanitarian, and the advisors were out running soup kitchens. Flawless victory. He couldn’t bring himself to dislike the president anymore.

Craving a fresh donut and a Red Bull to recharge, Allie snapped his fingers. The moment wouldn’t be complete without his usual staples—and, of course, a bag of treats for Mr. Byte.

Nothing happened.

Surprisingly, nothing at all.

He waved his hands dramatically. Still nothing.

He focused, exhaled, and whispered, "Undo reality limitations. Enable god mode."

Absolutely nothing happened.

"Okay, maybe a soft reset."

Sighing, Allie gently moved Mr. Byte off his lap and made his way to the kitchen—the mundane, but tried-and-true way. If reality wasn’t cooperating, at least he could still walk.

He grabbed a fresh energy drink, popped it open, and downed it like a potion, hoping the caffeine would jog his system back into working order.

Still feeling off, he headed to his office. If his powers were glitching, maybe he could troubleshoot the issue best from there.

Dramatically, he slammed his hand onto his keyboard as he sat down—because if nothing else, he was going to look cool while figuring this out.

ERROR: POWER.EXE HAS CRASHED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO REPORT THIS BUG?

"...You've got to be kidding me."

Desperate, he tried one last thing.

"Mr. Byte, turn into a golden retriever!"

The little Husky looked up from his spot on his doggie bed, wagged his tail, and then—remained a Husky.

"Okay," Allie muttered. "Fine. That was a dumb test anyway. I like you better as you are. Huskies rock."

“Arrooooo rooo roooo rawwwrrr!” Mr. Byte agreed.

“Good boy.” Allie smiled and turned his attention to his empty coffee cup on the computer table.

Just to be sure, he dramatically pointed at it.

"Refill!"

Nothing.

"C’mon, refill!"

The cup continued to be tragically empty.

Allie groaned, rising and rushed to the living room. Mr. Byte followed him and as he flopped onto his couch, his dog immediately climbed onto his chest, plopping down as if to say, "Welcome back to being a normal loser, idiot."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Allie muttered. "I’m done."

He sighed, picked up the remote, and flipped on the news.

BREAKING: PRESIDENT McBRAGGART SIGNS EXECUTIVE ORDER TO HIRE A DIVERSE WORKFORCE OF COMPETENT EQUALS—INCLUDES CANDIDATES ORANGE OR NOT.

Allie smiled. His work here was done.

Even if no one would ever know. He’d even been repaid for his hard work with free donuts every week.

And honestly?

That was fine.

He had done what needed to be done, and now he could go back to his normal, obscure existence.

He was pretty sure that his freaky powers had vanished.

Just like that.

He couldn’t tweak reality anymore. No more patches, no more adjustments. It was as if the universe had decided, "Okay, you had your fun. Back to normal life, you bum."

Besides, he still had a slightly popular online book series to edit.

The world might not know who saved it.

But he did.

Maybe the universe had fired him. Maybe he’d finished the job. Either way, he was fine with it. But just in case… he kept his fingers ready.

FIN

(MAYBE…)