The words on the screen felt unreal.
"I took care of it. Modric won’t bother you again."
Bobby’s mouth went dry. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears.
"I took care of it."
He read the message again. And again. Hoping it would change, or that the words would soften into something less final.
But they didn’t.
---
He’s dead, Bobby thought, the truth sinking through the fog of exhaustion and fear. Future Bob hadn’t said “he’s gone,” or “he won’t find you.” He’d said “I took care of it.”
Bobby’s chest tightened, paralyzed by shock.
He tried to imagine it. Mr. Modric—who had droned on about tragic heroes and assigned essays Bobby barely read—lying still somewhere. Lifeless.
Maybe with his mask cracked and black vapor leaking. Maybe just… gone.
And it was Bobby’s futu
