After the tenth time I died, a cold egg appeared in my arms.
The manual read: "Congratulations on becoming an Endtime Caretaker! Daily tasks: feed the Paradox, tend to the laws of causality, and watch the world perish with it."
I scoffed and kicked the egg like a ball. "Who wants to raise an apocalyptic boss?"
The shell cracked, revealing a pair of damp eyes. "Hungry..."
Later, when the Endtime hatchling chewed through the time loop and turned my pursuers into building blocks,
I flipped to the torn-out rules on the last page of the Caretaker's Guide, breaking into a cold sweat:
"Final warning: Under no circumstances may the caretaker fall in love with the Endtime."
