Other Versions of Me
title: "Chapter 9" wordCount: 3472
The scar tissue under my fingertips felt different from the ones I'd mapped in other timelines—thicker, ropier, like her body had fought harder to heal this time.
"You're doing it again," Lin Yue said.
I pulled my hand back. "Doing what?"
"Cataloging. Comparing." She sat up, the hospital gown slipping off one shoulder. "I can see it in your eyes. You're running through your mental database of every version of me you've ever touched."
"That's not—"
"Don't." She swung her legs off the bed. "Don't lie to me. Not after everything."
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Someone was coding three rooms down—I could hear the crash cart, the shouted orders, the flat mechanical rhythm of compressions. My hands twitched. Muscle memory from a thousand similar emergencies.
"I need to check on that," I said.
"No, you don't." Lin Yue stood between me and the door. "You need to stay here and finish this conversation."
"Someone's dying."
"Someone's always dying, Chen Wei. That's the job. That's life." She crossed her arms. "But right now, I'm asking you to choose me. This me. The one standing in front of you."
The coding alarm stopped. Either they'd gotten a rhythm back or they'd called it. I'd never know which.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Your body is." She tapped my chest, right over my heart. "But the rest of you? You're scattered across a dozen timelines, comparing notes, running simulations, trying to optimize for the perfect outcome." Her voice cracked. "I'm not a surgery, Chen Wei. You can't just keep cutting and stitching until you get it right."
"I know that."
"Do you?" She moved closer. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're still treating this—us—like a procedure you can perfect. Like if you just gather enough data, make enough observations, you'll finally figure out the correct sequence of moves."
My phone buzzed. I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
"Answer it," Lin Yue said. "I know you want to."
I pulled it out. Three missed calls from Zhao Kun. Two texts from the hospital administrator. One from a number I didn't recognize.
The unknown number's message was short: Dr. Qian's autopsy results. You need to see this. —Zhang
"Work?" Lin Yue asked.
"Yeah."
"Important?"
"Maybe." I looked at her. "Probably."
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's what I thought." She grabbed her clothes from the chair. "Go. Do your thing. Save the world. I'll be here when you get back. Or I won't. Depends on which timeline you end up in, right?"
"Lin Yue—"
"I'm tired, Chen Wei." She pulled her shirt on, wincing as the fabric caught on her IV site. "I'm tired of being a variable in your equation. I'm tired of wondering if the way you look at me is because of something I did or something another version of me did in a timeline I'll never remember." She grabbed her bag. "I'm tired of competing with ghosts."
"Where are you going?"
"Home. My apartment. The one that's still a crime scene, technically, but at least there I won't have to watch you mentally compare my scar tissue to the other versions."
She pushed past me. I caught her wrist—the one with the IV scar.
"Don't," I said.
"Don't what? Don't leave? Don't call you out on your bullshit? Don't expect you to actually be present in the relationship you claim to want?" She pulled free. "Be specific, Doctor. I need clear instructions."
"Don't go back to that apartment. It's not safe."
"Nothing's safe. That's the point." She headed for the door. "You taught me that. Every timeline, every reset, every version of me that died—it all proves the same thing. Safety is an illusion. Control is an illusion. The only thing that's real is what's happening right now, and you can't even see it because you're too busy looking backward and forward and sideways at all the other possibilities."
The door swung shut behind her.
I stood there, phone still in my hand, Dr. Zhang's message glowing on the screen.
The morgue was colder than I remembered. Or maybe I was just more aware of it this time—the way the chill seeped through my scrubs, settled into my bones, made my breath visible in small clouds.
Dr. Zhang was waiting by the examination table. Dr. Qian's body lay between us, covered by a sheet that didn't quite hide the Y-incision.
"You came," Zhang said.
"You said it was important."
"I said you needed to see it. Whether it's important depends on what you're willing to do with the information." He pulled back the sheet. "Look at the liver."
I looked. The organ was mottled, cirrhotic, far more damaged than it should have been for someone Qian's age.
"Toxicology came back," Zhang continued. "Elevated levels of industrial solvents. Specifically, the kind used in medical equipment sterilization." He met my eyes. "The kind we use in the hospital's central supply."
"Accidental exposure?"
"For six months? Consistently increasing concentrations?" Zhang shook his head. "This was deliberate. Someone was poisoning him."
My hands went cold. "Zhao Kun."
"That would be the logical conclusion, wouldn't it? Qian was about to blow the whistle on the equipment fraud. Zhao had motive, means, opportunity." Zhang pulled the sheet back over the body. "Except the exposure pattern doesn't match. This wasn't a sudden decision. This was planned. Methodical. Someone started poisoning Qian long before he discovered the fraud."
"Then who?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Zhang walked to the sink, started washing his hands. "But here's what bothers me more—Qian knew. The symptoms would have been obvious to someone with his training. Fatigue, nausea, cognitive decline. He would have recognized them."
"So why didn't he report it?"
"Maybe he did. Maybe he reported it to the wrong person." Zhang dried his hands. "Or maybe he was protecting someone."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Doesn't it?" Zhang turned to face me. "You've been acting strange for weeks, Chen Wei. Paranoid. Obsessive. Making decisions that don't align with your usual patterns. Asking questions about things you shouldn't know about." He paused. "Almost like you're working from information that doesn't exist yet."
The air in the morgue felt thinner.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Zhang moved closer. "I've known you for five years. I've watched you perform surgery, make diagnoses, handle emergencies. You're good. Brilliant, even. But you're not prescient." He tapped the autopsy report. "Yet somehow, you knew to ask about Qian's death before anyone else thought it was suspicious. You knew to look into the equipment fraud before the audit revealed it. You knew—"
"I got lucky."
"Nobody's that lucky." Zhang's voice dropped. "So either you're involved in something criminal, or something else is going on. Something that explains the impossible knowledge, the erratic behavior, the way you look at people like you're seeing them for the first time even though you've known them for years."
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Zhang glanced at the door, then back at me.
"I'm not your enemy, Chen Wei. But I need to know what's happening. Because if Qian was murdered, if there's a conspiracy in this hospital, if people are dying because of fraud and corruption—" He stopped. "I need to know if you're part of the solution or part of the problem."
"I'm trying to fix it."
"By doing what? Gathering evidence? Building a case?" Zhang shook his head. "Or by doing something else? Something that would explain why you seem to know things before they happen?"
The door opened. Zhao Kun stepped inside, flanked by two security guards.
"Dr. Chen," Zhao said. "Dr. Zhang. How convenient to find you both here."
Zhang's expression didn't change. "Director Zhao. We were just reviewing Dr. Qian's autopsy results."
"Yes, I heard." Zhao moved to the examination table, looked down at the covered body. "Tragic. A brilliant physician, taken too soon." He paused. "Though I understand the cause of death was... complicated."
"Industrial poisoning," I said. "Someone was exposing him to sterilization solvents. Deliberately."
"A serious accusation." Zhao's tone was mild. "Do you have evidence to support it?"
"The toxicology report—"
"Shows elevated levels of common industrial chemicals. Which could indicate occupational exposure, accidental contamination, or any number of innocent explanations." Zhao smiled. "Unless you have proof of intent, Dr. Chen, I would be careful about making inflammatory statements."
"Qian was investigating the equipment fraud," Zhang said. "He was about to expose the whole operation."
"Was he?" Zhao turned to face us. "Or was he suffering from the early stages of toxic encephalopathy, which caused paranoid delusions and erratic behavior? The symptoms would be consistent with the chemical exposure, would they not?"
The security guards shifted position, blocking the door.
"You're saying he imagined the fraud?" I asked.
"I am saying that a man suffering from brain damage due to chemical poisoning might not be the most reliable witness." Zhao moved closer. "I am also saying that two doctors who spend their time in the morgue, discussing conspiracy theories and making wild accusations, might benefit from a psychiatric evaluation themselves."
"You can't—"
"I can do whatever is necessary to protect this hospital's reputation and ensure patient safety." Zhao's voice hardened. "Which includes placing physicians on administrative leave pending investigation if their behavior suggests mental instability or substance abuse."
Zhang's mouth went flat. "This is a cover-up."
"This is risk management." Zhao gestured to the guards. "Escort Dr. Chen and Dr. Zhang to my office. We need to have a conversation about professional boundaries and appropriate conduct."
One of the guards reached for my arm. I stepped back.
"Don't touch me."
"Dr. Chen, please do not make this more difficult than it needs to be."
"You killed him," I said. "You killed Qian because he was going to expose you."
"I did no such thing." Zhao's expression remained calm. "But even if someone did—hypothetically speaking—one must ask oneself: what is one life... weighed against the thousands of patients this hospital serves? What is one whistleblower... weighed against the jobs, the funding, the medical advances that depend on this institution's continued operation?"
"That's not how it works."
"Is it not?" Zhao tilted his head. "You are a surgeon, Dr. Chen. You make these calculations every day. You sacrifice the gangrenous limb to save the body. You accept collateral damage to achieve the primary objective. You understand that sometimes... the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."
"That's different."
"Is it? Or is it simply a matter of scale?" Zhao moved to the door. "Come to my office. We will discuss your future at this hospital. Both of you."
The guards moved forward.
Zhang looked at me. "What do we do?"
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was Lin Yue.
The message was short: He's here.
No context. No explanation. Just those two words.
And underneath, a photo. Blurry, taken through a window. A man standing in her apartment. His back to the camera. But I recognized the posture, the build, the way he held himself.
It was me.
Another version of me. From another timeline.
Zhang was saying something. Zhao was giving orders to the guards. But I couldn't hear them anymore. All I could see was that photo, that impossible image of myself standing in Lin Yue's apartment while I was here in the morgue.
The timelines were collapsing. Bleeding into each other. And Lin Yue was alone with a version of me that might not have her best interests at heart.
I pushed past the guard, ran for the door.
"Dr. Chen!" Zhao's voice echoed behind me. "Stop him!"
But I was already gone, sprinting down the hallway, phone clutched in my hand, Lin Yue's message burning into my retinas.
He's here.
Traffic was a nightmare. Every light was red. Every intersection was gridlocked. I abandoned the car three blocks from Lin Yue's apartment and ran the rest of the way.
The building's front door was propped open with a brick. The elevator was broken. I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, my mind racing through every possible scenario.
Another version of me. In her apartment. Why? What did he want? What timeline was he from? What had he experienced that I hadn't? What choices had he made that led him here?
Her door was ajar.
I pushed it open slowly. The apartment was dark except for the light from the kitchen. I could hear voices—Lin Yue's, and another that sounded exactly like mine but wasn't.
"You shouldn't be here," Lin Yue was saying.
"Neither should you." The other me sounded tired. Defeated. "This timeline is compromised. You need to come with me."
"Come with you where?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere Zhao can't reach you. Somewhere the timelines are stable."
"There's no such place."
"There is. I've found it. A timeline where none of this happened. Where Qian is still alive, where the fraud never occurred, where you and I—" He stopped. "Where we're happy."
"I don't believe you."
"You don't have to believe me. You just have to trust me."
I stepped into the kitchen. They both turned. Lin Yue's eyes went wide. The other me—the other Chen Wei—just smiled.
"Right on time," he said.
He looked older than me. More worn. His hands shook slightly, and there was a scar on his neck that I didn't have. Yet.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"You know who I am." He gestured at himself. "I'm you. Six months from now. After everything goes wrong. After Zhao wins. After Lin Yue—" He stopped. "After you make all the mistakes I made."
"That's not possible."
"Isn't it? You've been jumping between timelines for weeks. Did you really think you were the only one?" He moved closer. "Did you really think there weren't other versions of you doing the same thing? Making the same desperate choices? Trying to save the same people?"
Lin Yue looked between us. "Chen Wei—"
"Which one?" the other me asked. "That's the question, isn't it? Which Chen Wei do you trust? The one who's been lying to you for weeks, comparing you to dead versions of yourself? Or the one who's offering you a way out?"
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Lin Yue said.
"Then you'll die. In three days. Zhao will have you killed to get to him." He pointed at me. "To get to us. Because you're the leverage. You're always the leverage."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He pulled out his phone, showed her a photo. I couldn't see it from where I stood, but I saw her face go pale. "That's you. In the timeline I came from. That's what Zhao does when he runs out of options."
"Stop," I said.
"Why? Because you don't want her to know the truth? Because you want to keep pretending you can save her?" The other me laughed. "You can't. I tried. I tried everything. Every possible combination of choices, every intervention, every sacrifice. And she still dies. Every single time."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I found a loophole." He looked at Lin Yue. "If she comes with me, if she leaves this timeline entirely, she becomes a paradox. She exists outside the pattern. Zhao can't touch her because she's not part of his timeline anymore."
"That's insane."
"Is it? Or is it the only logical solution?" He held out his hand to Lin Yue. "Come with me. Let me save you. Let me do what he can't."
Lin Yue looked at his hand. Then at me. Then back at him.
"If I go with you," she said slowly, "what happens to him?"
"He continues. He fights Zhao. He probably loses. But you'll be safe. That's what matters, right?"
"And if I stay?"
"You die. He watches. He resets. He tries again. The cycle continues." The other me's voice softened. "I've lived it, Lin Yue. I've watched you die seventeen times. I can't do it again. Please."
She took a step toward him.
"Lin Yue, don't," I said.
"Why not?" She turned to face me. "Give me one reason to stay. One reason to believe you can actually save me this time."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
Because I didn't have an answer. Because every timeline I'd tried, every choice I'd made, had led to the same outcome. Because maybe the other me was right. Maybe the only way to save her was to let her go.
"That's what I thought," she said quietly.
She took the other me's hand.
And that's when I saw it—the scar on his wrist. The same scar Lin Yue had. The IV scar. The one that proved she'd been in the hospital, that she'd survived the attack, that this timeline was real.
But he had it too.
Which meant he wasn't from another timeline. He was from this one. He was me, from the future of this timeline, come back to—
The apartment door slammed open. Zhao Kun stepped inside, flanked by four men I didn't recognize. Not security guards. Something worse.
"How touching," Zhao said. "A reunion across timelines. Though I am afraid I cannot allow Dr. Lin to leave. She has information I need. Information about Dr. Chen's... unique abilities."
The other me moved in front of Lin Yue. "She doesn't know anything."
"Does she not?" Zhao smiled. "Then why are you here? Why risk exposing yourself, revealing the existence of multiple timelines, unless she is somehow central to the equation?" He gestured to his men. "Take her. Kill them both."
The men moved forward.
The other me pulled something from his pocket—a scalpel, I realized. The same one I'd used in surgery yesterday. Or would use. Or had used in another timeline.
"Run," he said to Lin Yue.
But there was nowhere to run. The men were blocking the door. The windows were too high. We were trapped.
And then the other me did something I didn't expect.
He grabbed my hand. Pressed the scalpel into my palm.
"You have to cut," he said. "Right here. Right now. It's the only way to reset."
"What?"
"The timelines are collapsing. If you don't reset now, they'll merge completely. Everyone will remember everything. All the deaths, all the failures, all the versions that didn't work." He looked at Lin Yue. "Including her. She'll remember every time she died. Every timeline where you failed to save her."
"I can't—"
"You have to." He moved my hand, positioned the scalpel against my wrist. "Cut deep. Sever the radial artery. You'll bleed out in ninety seconds. The reset will trigger automatically."
"But you—"
"I'm already dead. I died six months ago in my timeline. This is just an echo. A ghost." He smiled. "Like you said—we're all ghosts here."
Zhao's men were three feet away.
Lin Yue was screaming something I couldn't hear.
The other me pressed down on my hand, forcing the scalpel against my skin.
"Do it," he said. "Save her. Even if it means losing everything else."
The blade bit into my wrist.
Blood welled up, hot and red and real.
And in that moment, I saw it—all the timelines, all the possibilities, all the versions of Lin Yue and me and Zhao and everyone else, spreading out like branches on a tree, each one leading to a different outcome, a different ending, a different truth.
And I realized the other me was lying.
The scar on his wrist wasn't from an IV. It was from this. From this exact moment. From the choice I was about to make.
He wasn't from the future. He was from a parallel present. A version of me who'd already made this choice, who'd already cut, who'd already reset.
And he was here to make sure I did the same.
To trap me in the same cycle he was trapped in.
To make me into another ghost.
I pulled the scalpel away.
"No," I said.
The other me's expression changed. "What are you—"
"I'm choosing." I looked at Lin Yue. "I'm choosing this timeline. This version. This moment. Even if it means I can't fix my mistakes. Even if it means I'm stuck with the consequences."
"You'll die," the other me said. "She'll die. Everyone will—"
"Maybe." I dropped the scalpel. "But at least it'll be real."
Zhao's men grabbed us.
And as they dragged me toward the door, as Lin Yue screamed my name, as the other me faded like smoke, I saw something I'd never seen before in any timeline.
Lin Yue was smiling.
Not a happy smile. Not a relieved smile.
an unreadable smile.
Like she'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Like she'd planned it.
And then everything went dark.