1. The Weight of a Decade
The newsstand's paper, dated ten years into the future, crumpled in Lucas's trembling hand. The headline blared, "CLOCK TOWER RESTORED AFTER DECADE OF RUIN," but it was the photograph beneath that tore at him. Him. Older, a hollowed-out version of himself, standing beside Eira. But it wasn't his Eira. Her eyes in the photo were distant, almost empty—a reflection that didn't reflect. He didn't remember this future, this moment, this woman. The air around him seemed to thicken, tasting of ozone and forgotten time. He ran, not from the newsstand, but from the looming shadow of a fate he didn't recognize. Every stride was a desperate attempt to outrun the phantom chill creeping up his spine, a cold that had nothing to do with the city's damp air and everything to do with the uncanny silence of a future he hadn't yet lived.
2. The Ghost in the Alley
He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to escape the city's mocking familiarity. His feet carried him unconsciously to the alley behind the school—the same one where Daryl had… where it all began. The grimy brick walls, the overflowing dumpster, the faint scent of damp concrete. It was all there, exactly as he remembered. Too exact. His breath hitched, a knot tightening in his gut.
Then, a faint, metallic scraping. From the shadows near the dumpster, a figure emerged. Tall, gaunt, dressed in tattered rags. Its face was obscured by matted, dark hair, but Lucas felt a primal scream rise in his throat. It was Daryl. Or what was left of him. His skin was the color of ash, his eyes sunken pits, and the stain on his chest, where Lucas had… it was still there, a darker void against his ruined shirt. A sickening chill washed over Lucas, colder than any rain, as the decaying presence before him seemed to drink the very air from his lungs.
The figure didn't speak. It just raised a hand, slow and deliberate, pointing a skeletal finger at Lucas's chest, directly at the faint, broken gear symbol on his palm. A cold, echoing whisper seemed to come from the very air around them: "You took it. You took my future." The words were not spoken aloud, but resonated directly inside Lucas's mind, a voice that was both Daryl's and something ancient, something that grated against his very soul.
Lucas stumbled back, falling over a forgotten crate, his heart hammering against his ribs. When he looked up, Daryl was gone. Only the lingering cold remained, a phantom touch on his skin, a promise of consequences yet to fully unfold.
3. The Custodian's Warning
He found himself back on the rooftop, the rain now a soft drizzle. He was soaked, but didn't feel it. He was shaking, but not from cold. The custodian was there, leaning against the rusty railing, watching the city below. His obsidian eyes seemed to drink the light, reflecting the distorted neon glow of Veyruhn City back at Lucas.
"Running won't help," the custodian said, his voice as smooth as polished stone, yet carrying the weight of eons. "You're linked now. Every timeline you touch, every truth you unravel, leaves a mark. On you. On them." He gestured vaguely at the labyrinthine city below, at the myriad lives unfolding beneath the oppressive sky.
"What mark?" Lucas choked out, clutching his throbbing palm, where the broken gear symbol now pulsed with a dull ache.
"The echo," the custodian replied, turning to face him fully. "Every action, every shift, leaves a residue. A ghost of what was. You're not just changing reality; you're accumulating its discarded pieces. And some of those pieces… they're starting to adhere." His gaze was unwavering, piercing, as if seeing not just Lucas, but the swirling chaos within him.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a sound that bypassed Lucas's ears and settled directly in his mind. "The girl you saw. The second Eira. She's not a vision. She's a possibility that was overwritten. And she's not happy about it. She exists in the margins, and the more you twist time, the stronger her hold on the present becomes."
4. The Cracked Reflection
That night, Lucas couldn't close his eyes. Every shadow in his room seemed to writhe, every creak of the old house was a whisper. He felt watched, hunted by invisible forces that tugged at the edges of his sanity. He went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to wash away the lingering dread. He looked into the mirror, willing his reflection to be normal, to be his.
But it wasn't.
For a terrifying second, his reflection wavered. The eyes in the mirror didn't match his own. They were the hollow, dead eyes from the newspaper photo, ancient and weary, holding a depth of sorrow that choked him. Then, a spiderweb crack appeared, spreading across the mirror's surface, not on the glass, but within the reflection itself. His own face fractured into splintered shards, each one showing a different version of him: one screaming silently, one weeping tears of blood, one with the bloody handprint on his chest, fresh and horrifying. The fragments twisted, a kaleidoscope of agonizing possibilities, each one a whisper of a life he might have lived, or destroyed.
He slammed his fist against the sink, the sharp pain a welcome anchor, and the reflection snapped back to normal. But the cold dread remained, a persistent phantom limb. He touched his face, his chest. Was he truly himself anymore? Or just an amalgamation of shattered timelines, bleeding into a single, fragile form?
5. A Voice from the Static
The next morning, Lucas was a zombie, moving through the world like a ghost. The static in his head had grown louder, a cacophony of white noise and fragmented memories, like a thousand muted radios all playing at once, each broadcasting a different, terrifying reality. He tried to text Elian, to just hear a normal voice, a grounding presence in the temporal storm, but his phone buzzed, then fizzled. The screen flickered, showing only a chaotic mess of black and white lines, a digital reflection of the chaos in his mind.
Then, through the static, a voice. Faint. Distorted. But he recognized it—the silver-haired girl. Her voice was laced with urgency, desperate and thin, but it broke up, swallowed by interference, as if speaking across an impossible distance.
"…Lucas… hear me?… The device… not what you think… it's a… key… to… the… paradox…"
The signal intensified for a moment, sharp and clear, piercing the static. "…They're coming… for the… source… The tower… the true anchor… It's bleeding… because of you…"
Then, just as suddenly, the signal vanished. His phone went dead in his hand, a cold, inert block of plastic.
6. The Clock Tower Calls
Lucas stared at the dead phone, his gaze drawn irrevocably towards the distant silhouette of the Clock Tower. The one that shouldn't exist, but now stood proudly on campus. The one that bled in his dreams. The one whose restoration was hailed in a future newspaper, binding him to a terrifying destiny.
He had to go there. Something was calling him, a resonant hum that vibrated in his very bones. He knew it was dangerous, knew it was probably a trap, a lure from the forces that haunted him, but a desperate, primal urge pulled him forward. He moved as if in a trance, his feet knowing the way, his mind racing with a chilling certainty.
He arrived at the campus, the familiar buildings now feeling like an illusion, shimmering at the edges of his perception. The Clock Tower loomed, casting a long, skeletal shadow, a monument to a reality that refused to be fixed. Its grand, ancient gears whirred, a symphony of forgotten time, a sound that twisted Lucas's stomach into knots.
As he stepped onto the base of the tower, the ground vibrated beneath his feet, a low, resonant hum began, growing in intensity. It wasn't the sound of gears; it was the sound of a thousand realities grinding against each other, the very fabric of existence fraying around him.
And then, from within the tower's depths, a blinding flash of violet light erupted, followed by a sound that wasn't a tick, wasn't a hum, but a shriek—the sound of something ancient and broken finally tearing itself apart, of time itself screaming in agony.
Lucas felt a violent pull, as if the world itself was trying to rip him in half. His vision blurred, colors bled from the world, and the broken gear on his palm burned like a brand, searing into his flesh. He screamed, a raw, primal sound that was swallowed by the escalating temporal maelstrom.
A familiar voice, cold and calm, echoed from the swirling chaos, not from outside, but from within him, a possessive whisper that filled his mind.
"Welcome, Lucas Virel. The loop closes. Now, you get to play your part."
The world went black.
TO BE CONTINUED...