The timeless fall

Part 1 the first day

I never played World of Warcraft—until I met Archie.

I met him on my first day moving into university dorms. We’d been assigned to the same room. As a local, the endless summer holidays had left me restless, so I’d dragged my oversized suitcase—packed with every university essential I could think of—to campus at dawn. I was certain I’d be the first to arrive. But when I pushed open the dorm door, Archie gave me my first real shock of university life.

Looking back four years later, I realized every memorable shock of those years came from him.

It was mid-September. The suffocating summer heat had faded, but autumn’s chill hadn’t settled in yet. Golden sunlight filtered through leaves still clinging stubbornly to the trees, their green dulled to something wiser. Archie sat by the window, so motionless that for a heartbeat, I mistook him for a statue. His features were unremarkable—small eyes, thick brows, a flat nose, full lips—but the sunlight catching his dusty blond hair made him look like a figure from an old oil painting. I swear I could almost see cracks in the "canvas," as if time itself had worn him into something melancholic.

He turned when I entered, flashing a grin. “Early bird, eh?”

“Not as early as you,” I mumbled, thrown off-balance.

His reply made no sense at the time: “Might be the last one here, actually.”

I busied myself unpacking. For a first-year, I’d brought enough to fill a shipping container—it took me two hours to sort it all. The whole time, Archie stayed frozen in that chair. Didn’t shift, didn’t blink. Does he even breathe? I tried stealing glances, but every time my eyes lingered, he’d turn and smile.

That was shock number two. His smile didn’t belong to him. It hovered around his face like a mask, never quite touching his eyes.

Shock three came when our other roommates arrived. “Let’s share ages!” I suggested later, trying to break the ice. “I’m August ’98.”

“May ’99,” said the guy with the rugby build.

“November ’98,” yawned the one already claiming the best bed.

We all looked at Archie.

He scratched his stubble, awkward. “Better not. I’m… older than you’d think.”

In any dorm, the oldest usually claims “seniority.” The others chuckled, assuming it was a joke about wanting to be “alpha.” But when Archie spoke, I didn’t see a 20-year-old. I saw something ancient hiding behind his babyface.

Am I hallucinating? Or is this jet lag from three hours of sleep?

Later, I’d learn it wasn’t sleep deprivation. Archie was just… different.

Part 2: The Dota Showdown

By mid-semester, nearly everyone in the dorm had a gaming setup.

Next door lived Luke, a Dota 2 legend with a laptop that looked like it had survived a zombie apocalypse. The trackpad was worn to bare metal, the keyboard slick with sweat stains, and the “W” key permanently dented. “A real gamer’s rig,” he’d say, shrugging when anyone asked.

Luke was the kind of guy who lived in cargo shorts and energy drinks. His hair was a bird’s nest, his posture permanently hunched—but the second his fingers touched that mouse, he became a warlord. His eyes locked onto the screen like a sniper’s scope, his clicks rapid-fire as he last-hit creeps or denied allies with robotic precision. He boasted he was “unbeatable” in Dota 2, and honestly? He wasn’t wrong. Watching him play was like watching a chess grandmaster play blitz—calculated, ruthless, and borderline supernatural.

Then came Kai.

Kai was a med student and a Dota 2 demigod. He’d once written a viral Steam guide comparing the game to surgery: “A surgeon doesn’t see a person—they see tissue, bone, and disease. A real Dota player doesn’t see heroes. They see extensions of their will. You don’t control them—you become them.” No one at his hospital rotations could last 10 minutes against him. Rumor was, Kai didn’t just win—he dissected opponents, leaving them questioning their self-worth.

When Kai challenged Luke, it wasn’t a request. He showed up at our dorm at noon, gaming mouse in hand, voice flat as a cadaver: “Best of three. No pauses.” Normally, Luke would’ve told him to piss off. But this time, there was Sienna.

Sienna—the girl every engineering student doodled about in lectures—was why Kai had come. And Luke, stubborn bloke that he was, accepted.

The room filled fast. By the time the hero picks loaded, even the RA was peeking in. Luke muted his game; Kai maxed his volume, smirking as the crowd thickened.

First match: Kai won.

Luke chugged his Monster Energy, jaw tight. He reminded me of a cornered kangaroo—quiet, but you knew the kick was coming.

Second match: Luke clawed back.

Kai just cracked his knuckles, grinning like a kid in a candy store. If Luke was a boxer, Kai was the guy who’d steal your gloves mid-fight.

Third match: Kai wiped Luke’s Ancient.

“Good effort,” Kai said, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Tell Sienna I’ll take her to Pancake Parlor after this.”

We all knew why he’d come. Sienna—campus crush, Kai’s latest obsession, and the reason Archie hadn’t touched a haircut in a year.

Archie.

I glanced at him slouching by the mini-fridge, his hair a tumbleweed of split ends. He’d sworn to Sienna in first year: “I’ll look like a yeti till you go out with me.” Now it was a campus landmark—half homeless poet, half unhinged prophet.

As Kai packed up, Archie stepped forward. “One match. $500 AUD. You in?”

The room froze. Kai knew Archie didn’t game. Hell, Archie once asked if “GG” stood for “Good Grief.” But the way Archie said it—like he was ordering a kebab, not facing a predator—made Kai bite.

“Your funeral,” Kai snorted.

Archie won.

Not just won. Obliterated. By the time Archie razed Kai’s Ancient, Kai’s hero had died thirty-seven times. The crowd didn’t cheer. They just… stared.

Later, Luke picked up the Razer mouse Kai had left behind in his scramble to flee. The scroll wheel was busted. “Now this,” he said, almost reverent, “is a real gamer’s mouse.”

March 7th, Sienna’s birthday.

Archie became a myth.

Part 3: The Mystery Deepens

The next day, Kai sent over $500 AUD. Archie folded the notes neatly and tucked them into the back of his desk drawer. Inside were stacks of cash—his earnings from a year of relentless work.

Archie hustled harder than anyone I knew. Five tutoring gigs ate up his weekends and weeknights. After tutoring, he’d deliver Uber Eats until 2 AM. Lunch breaks Spent waiting tables at a pub near campus. He hoarded every dollar but never spent a cent. We’d joke about him buying us beers at the Uni Bar, but he’d just shrug and say, “Maybe next year.”

What baffled me wasn’t his grind—it was how he never cracked. No dark circles, no zombie shuffle. While the rest of us mainlined energy drinks during exams, Archie glided through weeks of 4-hour sleeps looking annoyingly fresh. I’d doze off in lectures; he’d sit statue-still, eyes sharp, like he’d been caffeine-preserved.

Even stranger: he aced exams without trying.

Most of us crammed for weeks—hugging textbooks in the 24-hour library, trading notes like contraband. Archie, He’d skim the material the night before, flipping pages like he was speed-reading a takeout menu. Sometimes he didn’t even bother. “Open-book exam? Nah, I’m good,” he’d say, then stroll out with a High Distinction.

Campus gossip painted him as a genius. “Archie’s got that Einstein-Ronaldo-Dostoevsky hybrid DNA,” someone posted on the uni’s meme page. “Money, grades, Dota—bloke’s cracked life.” Even the skeptics agreed: Sienna would fold eventually.

But I knew better.

I’d seen him “study.” His eyes would lock onto a page, unblinking, as if time itself paused around him. And that Dota match against Kai? Every kill felt… off. Enemies’ health bars didn’t drain—they snapped from full to zero, like a glitch in reality.

No one else noticed. To them, Archie was just Archie: the weirdo with the man-bun who somehow won at everything.

But I saw the cracks.

The more he hustled, the older he looked—not in wrinkles, but in energy. His smiles grew thinner, his jokes rarer. That “ancient” vibe he’d had since first year sharpened into something jagged, like a war veteran trapped in a 20-year-old’s body.

One night, after he stumbled in at 3 AM reeking of fried chips (courtesy of his pub shift), I finally asked: “Why the hell are you saving all that cash?”

He stared at his drawer, voice hollow. “To fix something.”

“Fix what?”

But he’d already turned to stone again.

Part 4: After defeating Kai, challengers came crawling out of the woodwork. Gamers from other unis, Twitch streamers, even a cocky esports scout—Archie took them all on, no bet too small. They’d scoff at his clunky keyboard shortcuts pre-match, then leave pale-faced, muttering about hacks. By second year’s end, no one dared challenge him. His earnings had long overflowed the drawer; he’d opened a savings account labeled “FUTURE” in all caps.

I watched every match. Noticed the same glitch every time: enemies’ health didn’t drop—it teleported to 1% right before Archie struck. And he always played Faceless Void, Dota’s time-bending hero. The lore tab gave me chills:

“Once human, Faceless Void was lost to the of spacetime. Returned with mastery over chronology, he freezes enemies, rewinds his injuries, and exists outside the flow of time itself. None see him move—they only feel his wrath.”

I started playing Dota that month. Practiced Faceless Void until my eyeballs dried out. Then, during an empty Thursday lecture block, I cornered Archie.

“One match. Secret stakes.”

He didn’t look up from his econ textbook. “Secret?”

“I’ll pay $200 AUD if I lose. But if you lose…” I leaned in. “You tell me how you bend time.”

His pen froze mid-equation. “What?”

“The statue act. The way you never sleep. How every kill you get feels like… a cheat code.”

Archie’s jaw tightened. For a second, I swore his pupils flickered—like a corrupted video file. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I pick Faceless Void.”

“Too late. I called dibs.”

First round: Archie crushed me.

Second round: I exploited the “lag.” Waited for that split-second stutter when time reset—then struck. His Ancient fell.

Third round: Archie’s fingers faltered. I won.

The dorm hummed with the dying whir of his laptop fan. Archie stared at the “DEFEAT” screen, face blank. Guilt curdled in my gut. Some secrets aren’t meant to be dug up—they’re landmines wrapped in skin.

“Forget the bet,” I said quickly.

He shut his laptop. “Sienna’s the only one who ever noticed before.”

My breath hitched. Fourth-year me would’ve ranked this as Shock #2.

“Noticed what?”

Archie stood, his hoodie hanging like a shroud. “That I’m not gaming.” He gestured at the screen. “I’m buying time.”

Before I could ask, he was gone—leaving his rig still logged into Dota, Faceless Void’s eerie, clockwork idle animation looping endlessly.

Part 6: Part 6: The Loop

By third year, Archie’s hair had silver threads woven into his ponytail. To strangers, he still looked like any uni student—but up close, the crow’s feet and sunken cheeks betrayed a man a decade older.

Then, one morning, he shaved it all off.

The buzz cut was jarring. Sunlight glinted off his scalp as he buttoned a crisp flannel, whistling Somebody That I Used to Know like a man reborn. For weeks, he’d been a ghost haunting our dorm; now he practically glowed. I didn’t ask why. After three years of his gloom, I feared breaking the spell.

The campus gossip hit by lunch.

“Saw Archie and Sienna holding hands at the Uni Café!” a first-year squealed.

Our dorm threw a barbie that night—sausage sizzles, cheap goon sacks, the works. Everyone toasted “the three-year grind.” Even the rugby lads clapped him on the back. “Mad respect, mate!”

I faked a smile. He bought her day. But what happens when the clock runs out?

Yet the next morning, Archie buzzed through the room, humming the same song, wearing the same flannel. And the next. And the next.

By day five, dread curdled in my gut.

This isn’t joy. It’s a glitch.

I buried myself in GRE prep—library at dawn, instant noodles at my desk, highlighters bleeding neon across textbooks. My life narrowed to a suffocating loop: study, eat, study, sleep, repeat. The only color came from dorm chatter about Archie and Sienna’s “romance.”

“They were slow-dancing in the rain!”

“Sienna knitted him a scarf!”

“Archie’s applying to med school for her!”

Same stories. Same details. Every. Damn. Day.

I’d stare at my reflection in the library window—pale, sleep-deprived, aging in real time—and wonder: Is this what madness feels like?

Then I’d catch Archie across the quad, hand-in-hand with Sienna. Her laugh echoed like a broken record. His grin never wavered.

But at night, when the dorm quieted, I’d hear him mutter in his sleep:

“Just one more day.”

Part 6: Part 6: The Loop

By third year, Archie’s hair had silver threads woven into his ponytail. To strangers, he still looked like any uni student—but up close, the crow’s feet and sunken cheeks betrayed a man a decade older.

Then, one morning, he shaved it all off.

The buzz cut was jarring. Sunlight glinted off his scalp as he buttoned a crisp flannel, whistling Somebody That I Used to Know like a man reborn. For weeks, he’d been a ghost haunting our dorm; now he practically glowed. I didn’t ask why. After three years of his gloom, I feared breaking the spell.

The campus gossip hit by lunch.

“Saw Archie and Sienna holding hands at the Uni Café!” a first-year squealed.

Our dorm threw a barbie that night—sausage sizzles, cheap goon sacks, the works. Everyone toasted “the three-year grind.” Even the rugby lads clapped him on the back. “Mad respect, mate!”

I faked a smile. He bought her day. But what happens when the clock runs out?

Yet the next morning, Archie buzzed through the room, humming the same song, wearing the same flannel. And the next. And the next.

By day five, dread curdled in my gut.

This isn’t joy. It’s a glitch.

I buried myself in GRE prep—library at dawn, instant noodles at my desk, highlighters bleeding neon across textbooks. My life narrowed to a suffocating loop: study, eat, study, sleep, repeat. The only color came from dorm chatter about Archie and Sienna’s “romance.”

“They were slow-dancing in the rain!”

“Sienna knitted him a scarf!”

“Archie’s applying to med school for her!”

Same stories. Same details. Every. Damn. Day.

I’d stare at my reflection in the library window—pale, sleep-deprived, aging in real time—and wonder: Is this what madness feels like?

Then I’d catch Archie across the quad, hand-in-hand with Sienna. Her laugh echoed like a broken record. His grin never wavered.

But at night, when the dorm quieted, I’d hear him mutter in his sleep:

“Just one more day.”

Part 7: " Part 7: The Fall

My GRE prep blurred into a numb routine: 5 AM alarms, microwave noodles at my desk, highlighters staining my fingertips neon. Days dissolved into weeks. The only sparks of life were the dorm gossip about Archie and Sienna—“They slow-danced at the Uni Ball!” “He’s taking her to Byron Bay!”—always the same stories, same awed tones.

Then, one afternoon in the 24-hour library, I dozed off over a calculus textbook.

When I woke, golden hour light slanted through the windows. My phone showed 6:17 PM, but my body felt like I’d hibernated for years. Outside, students sprinted toward the Law Building. Luke nearly collided with me, face bloodless:

“Sienna jumped.”

They’d already zipped the body bag. A paramedic hosed blood off the pavement, the water swirling pink down the drain. The air smelled like copper and Windex. Someone retched in the bushes.

I texted Archie: Where are you?

No signal.

By nightfall, campus security swept the dorms. The dean issued a statement about “mental health resources.” Sienna’s parents flew in from Melbourne, demanding answers. The uni offered a hush-money settlement; they sued instead.

Archie’s bank account? Empty. His laptop? Gone. Even his toothbrush vanished. The AFP listed him as a “high-risk missing person,” but we knew the truth:

He’d evaporated.

At the coronial inquest, classmates repeated the same script:

“They were so happy!”

“Saw them holding hands at the café that morning!”

“No warning signs!”

I wanted to scream. How could you miss it? The same stories, same day, looping like a stuck record?

But when the lawyer pressed me—“As his roommate, did you notice anything unusual?”—I lied.

“No.”

Because what could I say? He trapped her in a time loop. She chose death over eternity. Now he’s stuck watching her fall forever.

The case closed. No body. No closure.

Some nights, I’d glimpse Archie’s shadow in the law building’s glass facade—older, frailer, staring up at that 20th-floor window.

Waiting.

Aging.

Alone."

Part 8: The Timeless Fall

No one knew why Sienna jumped. No one knew where Archie vanished. Except me.

I thought back to those GRE prep days—waking, studying, eating, studying, sleeping, repeat. Was there any difference between yesterday and today? Even the gossip at lunch: “Archie and Sienna slow-danced at the Uni Ball!”—always the same stories, same awed tones.

And every morning, Archie buzzed through the room, humming the same love song, wearing the same flannel, radiating the same manic joy.

No difference. None at all.

“I’ll buy her one day,” Archie had said.

The truth was simple. He’d bought her a day—then bent time into a loop, trapping them in a sunlit Tuesday that stretched into decades.

For Archie, it was paradise. For Sienna, a prison.

The first time, she’d escaped by leaving him. This time, she chose the window.

That afternoon in the library, when I’d dozed off and felt like I’d slept for years—that was Archie freezing time mid-fall. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t change anything. All he could do was pause her descent, stretching her final seconds into his final years.

I pictured him there, alone in the frozen world, aging as he watched her hang in the air—hair streaming like dark flame, face forever caught between fear and peace.

How long did he wait? A decade? Two?

And Sienna—if she sensed his power, did she feel time stretch around her? Did her terror linger, stretched thin over decades, as she waited for the ground to rise?

This was it. The #1 shock of my university years. Not the time loops, not the frozen falls, but the sheer, unbearable weight of love stretched across eternity.

I booted up Dota, selecting Faceless Void. The hero’s lore mocked me: “He exists outside the flow of time itself.”

Archie’s face flickered in the screen’s glow—young, old, gone.

I closed the laptop.

Outside, clouds drifted. Somewhere, a clock ticked.

Epilogue: The Void

I returned to the dorm, booted up my laptop, and launched Dota 2. My cursor hovered over Faceless Void, the time-bending hero Archie always played.

Memories flooded in:

Luke’s battered laptop, its keys worn smooth. “A real gamer’s rig,” he’d said.

Kai’s Steam guide: “A true player doesn’t see heroes. They see souls.”

The hero’s lore tab: “Lost to the gap of spacetime, he returned with mastery over time itself.”

Archie’s hollow laugh: “You think I’m lucky? You don’t know the cost.”

I clicked Play.

Faceless Void stood idle on the screen, his clockwork armor glinting. For a moment, I swore his glowing eyes met mine—judging, accusing.

I closed the game.

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. I stared out the window, where the sky stretched endless and indifferent.

Somewhere, a clock ticked.