Martina wanted to log out.
The mission was complete. Pliny had been tagged. Attilius had been tagged. ARS had confirmed that the backups had arrived at the Vatican data center. Everything was fine—or as fine as it could be under the circumstances.
She typed the command to exit the simulation.
Nothing happened.
She typed again.
The keyboard didn't respond. The surroundings around her—the steaming baths, the blackened columns, the sky turning red—remained frozen. Like a picture that stopped moving.
“ARS?” she said.
No answer.
„Michael?“
Quiet.
Then – a figure at the entrance to the thermal baths.
Martina turned around. Her hand went to the invisible menu that didn't appear. Her heart beat faster.
The figure approached.
Young. Dark hair blowing in the simulation's wind – even though there was no wind down here. A face she knew. One she'd seen her whole life.
But younger. Maybe thirty. Maybe less.
It was Michael. But it wasn't her Michael.
"Hello, Martina," said the doppelganger.
His voice was different. Deeper. Or perhaps just calmer. She couldn't quite tell.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He sat down on one of the stone benches closest to the hot springs. The water steamed around him, but he didn't seem to feel it.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “The best one you can ask. But I don’t have a simple answer.”
"Try it anyway."
He smiled. It was Michael's smile—but not the one she knew. It was the smile of a man who had seen things he could not forget.
“I am one possibility,” he said. “One of many. Your father—the Michael you know—made choices in his life. Every choice has a branch. Most branches die. But some remain. Some continue to grow.”
“The many-worlds interpretation,” said Martina. “Every decision splits reality into two strands. In one you have said yes, in the other no. And both exist in parallel.”
"Did your father tell you about it?"
"Back then. When I was little. I thought it was a fairy tale."
"It's not a fairy tale." The doppelganger leaned forward. "It's physics. But it's also more than physics. It's the foundation of everything we are—and everything we could be."
Martina stared at him. She wanted to ask who he was—who he really was. But she was afraid of the answer.
“In another reality,” he said slowly, “I am your father.”
The words hung in the air. The steam rose. The pillars stood still.
"That's not possible," said Martina.
"Why not?"
“Because—” She paused. Because it was insane. Because it went against everything she knew about the world. But was it? She had studied the many-worlds interpretation—not as a physicist, but as a historian who wanted to understand how choices shape history. If the theory was correct, then there were infinitely many versions of Michael. Infinitely many versions of her.
“Because I never saw you,” she finally said. “Because you were never there.”
“I was there,” the doppelganger said. “But not in your world. In another one. One where things played out differently.” He stood up. “But that’s not important. What is important is that you’re in danger. So is your mother. InSim knows you’ve marked the agents. They know ARS is in the Vatican. And they won’t hesitate.”
"How do you know that?"
“Because I’ve seen in my own world what happens when you hesitate.” His voice sharpened. “Listen, Martina. I don’t have much time. The simulation is about to freeze—ARS can’t keep it going forever. You need to log out immediately. Go to your mother’s. Pack the essentials. Delete all the files on your systems. A black Mercedes will pull up in front of the house. Get in. Don’t ask any questions.”
"And where are we going?"
"To safety. Or at least to where the danger is less." He took a step back. "I won't be able to go with you. But I'll make sure you get there."
Martina wanted to ask how he planned to do it. But the doppelganger raised his hand – a gesture she recognized from her father. Stop. No further questions.
“Trust me,” he said. “Even if you have no reason to.”
Then he disappeared.
Not like in a movie, not with a special effect. Simply – he was there, and then he was gone. The thermal baths were empty. Only the steam, the columns, and the red light of the volcano.
The keyboard reappeared. The logout command worked.
Martina logged out.
She sat in her study in Pompeii. The screen was black. Her hands were trembling.
In another reality, I am your father.
She thought of the stories Michael had told her as a child. About quantum physics, which he didn't understand but loved. About the many-worlds interpretation, which he called "the great maybe".
Every decision divides the world, he had said. But division is not the end. It is the beginning of something new.
She hadn't understood what he meant. Now – perhaps – she was beginning to understand.
She stood up and went into the living room. Her mother was sitting on the sofa, a book in her hand that she wasn't reading.
“Mom,” said Martina. “We have to go.”
Julia looked up. She didn't ask why. Maybe she had known. Maybe she had known all along.
"I'm packing," she said.
A black Mercedes was parked outside. The engine was running. The windows were tinted.
Martina opened the door. The driver looked at her – a young man she didn't know. But behind him, in the back seat, sat his doppelganger.
He didn't smile. He said nothing.
He simply made a hand gesture: Get in.
Martina helped her mother into the car. Then she got in herself. The doors closed. The Mercedes started moving.
She looked back. The house shrank. The streets of Pompeii shrank. Everything she knew shrank.
"Who is he?" whispered Julia.
Martina shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe – my father. But not the one we know."
Julia remained silent. She took Martina's hand and held it tightly.