POV: Time Variance Authority

Gavin snapped his fingers. "Got it!"

"You've got it again?" Elias said with a faintly annoyed look.

"Dude, all you have to do is double-check in your dream," Gavin persisted. "See if that girl's face is the same as someone you know in real life."

"Are you from five minutes ago, time-traveler? That's exactly what Dr. Morgan said." Elias sighed.

Dr. Morgan smiled as she nodded toward Gavin. "He is right."

"If, in your dream, you encounter someone from your real life, simply compare that person's words and behavior, cross-check them with their real counterpart, and you'll quickly determine the dream is fake," she explained calmly. "It's by far the simplest and most effective approach."

She offered an example, turning to Elias: "Suppose in your dream you discovered your workplace no longer produced skincare products, but instead was secretly building rockets and spaceships. Would you truly believe it to be real?"

"Of course not… I'm not a fool," Elias muttered, beginning to see how normal people draw that boundary.

Gavin gave Elias a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Bro, as much as I kind of want your dream to be real, if this finally wipes out your illusions and sets your mind at ease, that's a win."

"Let's hope so," Elias answered, a touch subdued.

They wrapped up a few final remarks with Dr. Morgan and then exited the clinic.

Outside, Gavin was practically glowing with pride. "So, Elias, you see? That three-thousand-dollar session was totally worth it! Back at my place, we couldn't figure out a proper method to verify your dream. But Dr. Morgan pinpointed the root cause in just a couple of statements!"

Elias gave a lopsided grin. "Hard to say. Let's just say well-off people and pricey counselors can find each other easily."

Gavin glanced at his shiny new watch. "Let's grab some food and talk more," he said, and hailed a cab.

Before long, they arrived at a familiar barbecue joint they frequented. Over sizzling skewers and a pitcher of cold beer, they sat in a tucked-away booth, jackets hung on the back of the chairs. The comforting smell of grilled meats filled the air, warm enough to ease the chill out of their bones.

Several drinks in, Gavin launched into his latest sales pitch story: the weird customers he encountered that day, each with stranger demands than the last. Elias half-listened, clinking a glass idly against the tabletop as his mind drifted back to how he might unmask Cipher in the dream. Many approaches sprang to mind. He felt certain he could do it, on one condition:

Don't bring along that blundering Claw, who was more of a liability than an ally.

He needed a plan to keep Claw out of the picture, but no immediate solution came to mind.

"Hey!" Gavin's loud shout snapped Elias back. "You messing with me, man?"

Elias blinked. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Gavin jabbed an index finger at Elias, his half-eaten fish tofu skewer in his other hand. "I was talking about next year's five-year reunion for our high school class. Since I was class president, I'm considering organizing a get-together. Are you in?"

"Oh, that." Elias popped a peanut into his mouth. "Sure. If you want to handle the details, I'll come and give you a hand."

Gavin, in fact, had served as class president for three straight years in high school—despite not being academically brilliant, his people skills and outgoing nature had earned widespread respect among classmates. Everyone appreciated how he was always ready to help.

"Hope they'd be willing to come," Gavin mused, rubbing his stomach. "I keep reading these stories about class reunions turning into pissing contests between those who did well and those who didn't, with some over-the-top drama. You never know how people may have changed in five years."

"True." Elias took a sip of beer. "But you won't know until you try. Even if only a few show up, it'd be nice. I'll definitely be there, if that helps."

"Thanks," Gavin said. "Biggest hassle is, how do I reach them all? Do I even have everyone's new phone numbers?"

Elias shrugged. "Social media, maybe? Or those old group chats from way back."

"Ah, you're living under a rock," Gavin teased. "We have a class chat group—remember? Even if it's been dead for years, the group is still around."

Elias realized he hadn't logged into that account in ages. After graduation, he'd hardly checked it, and his phone no longer even had the app installed.

"Speaking of which," Gavin continued with a wicked grin, "the mention of our old class chat group reminds me of your big shot showoff days."

Elias gave him a baffled look. "What big shot days?"

"Remember how in elementary school, group chats became popular and most kids had, like, a 9-digit ID, but you had an 8-digit account that was already at a high user level? You were unstoppable, changing avatars every day and lording it over us. I kept pestering you about where you got that 8-digit account, and you refused to spill."

Elias chuckled at the memory. It was true. That 8-digit chat ID had been a real status symbol in those times—particularly for someone so young.

He recalled that it had been a spare account from a cousin, who had joined those early chat circles even before it blew up in popularity. For a 12-year-old, it was pure gold.

"....!"

Then, mid-laugh, Elias's glass hit the table with a jarring thud. Beer foam sloshed over the rim, droplets spraying.

"Dude, what the hell!" Gavin yelled, jerking away as foam splattered his clothes. "Are you insane?"

But Elias was hardly paying attention. He stared into his half-emptied glass, as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

Eight… digits…

Eight-digit ID…

He thought of that deposit box with its 8-digit mechanical lock.

A realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

"So that's… it…" he breathed.