CH 20 – Seoul — Off-Key Confession
The rain that had been threatening since dusk finally decided to mist the alleys of Hongdae, and Lucas Vale welcomed it. Water muffled footfalls, blurred CCTV lenses, and mercifully cooled the tendon fire in his knee. The whiskey-warm glow from the hostel rooftop still flickered somewhere above, but he and Serena were already three blocks distant, weaving past shuttered fashion stalls in search of noodles and breathing room.
At 01:14 the district was far from asleep. Neon cat cafés shared walls with all-night vinyl bars, and every basement seemed to exhale a different kind of bass. Lucas's head sketched soundwaves over the foot-traffic until one particular beat snapped into focus: a muffled, off-key chorus of drunk university students murdering an old Epik High hook two metres under his shoes.
Serena noticed the same thing. "Karaoke joint," she said, wiping drizzle from her lashes. "Cheap food, private booths. We can talk without a hundred cameras."
Lucas cocked an eyebrow. "Thought you wanted ramen, not a captive audience for my greatest hits."
"You'll survive one song." She nudged him toward a stairwell painted with glowing treble clefs. "And I need walls. Too many eyes on the street after that little fireworks show upstairs."
A bell chimed as they descended into a lobby the size of a postage stamp. The desk clerk hardly glanced up, engrossed in a web-toon. Serena booked a soundproof "secret" room—no CCTV, cash only. Lucas slipped enough won across the counter to buy an hour, plus two bowls of jambong and a bottle of makgeolli. The clerk didn't bother with change.
Inside the booth, purple LEDs pulsed behind acoustic foam. A scratched coffee table supported a battered karaoke tablet, a pair of mics, and a laminated menu that smelled of soy and hand sanitiser. Lucas slid into the booth first, shoulder protesting. Serena keyed in a soft rock playlist and collapsed opposite, exhaling like she'd dropped a granite backpack.
For thirty seconds neither spoke. Rain pattered the frosted window. Somewhere overhead, an out-of-tune falsetto held a note long enough to make paint peel.
Serena broke the silence. "I spent the last six months chasing a phantom. Casinos with impossible wins, surveillance glitches, rumours of time standing still. And every thread led back to one Australian with a grin too wide for the trouble he caused."
Lucas traced a ring of condensation around his glass. Her voice wasn't accusatory—more… tired. "I'm flattered my grin made headlines."
"I'm serious. I keep wondering if I've stapled my career to a campfire story. My editor's beginning to look at me like I'm pitching Bigfoot exposés." She swallowed, eyes glossy. "Am I insane, Lucas?"
There it was—the soft question under all her steel. He felt the pull to reach across, to thread fingers through hers and download every memory of paused seconds and telepathic echoes straight into her mind. Honesty beckoned like a cliff edge: exhilarating, lethal.
Instead, he deflected with half-truth. "You're not insane. The world's just broader than most reports allow."
She laughed, a brittle sound. "That—and you dodge direct answers better than any politician." She lifted the mic, scrolling until she found a seventies ballad with more key changes than the Tokyo subway. "Fine. When words fail, sing."
Lucas groaned theatrically but accepted the partner mic. The instrumental track bloomed through tinny speakers. On the monitor, pixelated dolphins leaped over mistranslated lyrics. Serena launched into verse, two beats ahead of the score, voice husky from rooftop chill. Lucas harmonised badly on purpose, earning her first true smile of the night.
Halfway through, the noodles arrived. The delivery kid peeked in, saw adults howling into microphones, and left as fast as politeness allowed. Steam fogged the window, turning their small room into a capsule bubble drifting beyond time zones.
Lucas let Serena eat first, gathering courage. The Ouroboros card in his pocket had fallen silent, but he could almost hear its latent pulse ticking along his heartbeat. Decline incurs observational escalation. The memory scraped his nerves. Between the Curators' ultimatum and Graves's drone feed, confession to Serena suddenly felt like the least dangerous of his problems.
She slurped broth, then set chopsticks down with surgical precision. "Your turn: favourite childhood near-death experience."
Lucas blinked. "That's a category?"
"Journalist icebreaker. Answer and I'll owe you an equally morbid anecdote."
He thought of green ocean and the panic choke of saltwater fifteen metres off Cottesloe Beach. How the world had slowed to molasses, sunlight refracting through bubbles like shattered stained glass, and time itself had stepped aside out of pity. Without that drowning, no powers; without the powers, no midnight confessions. "Nearly drowned when I was fifteen," he said quietly. "Rip current. Surfboard leash snapped. Woke up onshore vomiting seawater while some pensioner in a bucket hat tried CPR he learned in 1965."
Serena's gaze softened. "That explains your eyes."
"Salt damage?"
"The look of someone who already cashed in their second life. People like that take risks because they've tasted the worst-case and it didn't stick." She tapped the laminated table. "But adrenaline rushes aren't purpose, Lucas. Sooner or later we have to pick a reason bigger than the thrill."
He wanted to tell her he was trying. That each jailbreak and heist had begun as a joyride but now felt strangely small beside a single refugee child coughing seawater into a life raft he'd frozen time to reach. But words tangled at the exit.
Instead he pushed the jambong toward her, covering the tremor in his hand with a joke. "Eat before the noodles revolt."
Serena rolled her eyes but accepted. Between bites she asked, "What was that metal card pulsing? Part of the magic trick?"
Lucas's chest tightened. Confess now—control the narrative. Or stall and risk her finding out through a scarier source. He wiped broth from his thumb. "Call it an invitation. From a group that studies… anomalies."
"Anomalies like CCTV glitches?"
"And people who cause them."
She leaned in. "You're one of the anomalies."
The air between them throbbed. Lucas heard her surface thoughts slamming around like sneakers in a dryer—Say it. Trust me. I won't run. He felt the Zippo lighter in his other pocket, warm with the residual static of earlier pauses, as if power itself eavesdropped.
He opened his mouth.
A vibration rattled the table—the karaoke tablet flashing a system alert. Lucas frowned. The building's Wi-Fi had hiccuped all night; likely nothing. But the timestamp in the corner jittered, rewinding three seconds, then correcting. A glitch only chronowalkers would spot.
Serena saw nothing odd. "Router's garbage," she muttered.
Lucas's fatigue-fried nerves screamed. The Curators? Graves? A network ping from an intercept team triangulating devices? He scanned outside thoughts—too dispersed. But his instincts rarely mis-fired.
He forced calm. "How about we take this conversation somewhere with fewer corporate karaoke updates?"
"Lucas—"
"Please." The plea wasn't laced with influence; raw sincerity carried more weight.
Serena sighed but gathered her coat. "Fine. But you owe me a straight answer before sunrise."
They eased into the hallway. Fluorescent lights strobed, bleeding buzz into Lucas's temples. Near the exit he caught two men in plain jackets ascending the stairs: lumbering builds, purposeful steps, earpieces half-hidden. Not cops—wrong posture. Corporate security? Graves's subcontractors?
Lucas touched Serena's elbow, spinning her back toward the corridor. "Bathroom break," he said loudly, hoping the eavesdropping walls liked the lie. She played along, following into a narrow service passage that smelled of bleach and fried squid.
"What now?" she whispered.
He weighed options. A hard freeze could bypass the men, but his muscles twitched with exhaustion; sustaining even fifteen seconds risked collapse. Plus cameras in the lobby might capture the frame-skip. On the other hand, brute-forcing exit through guards would expose Serena to fists before answers.
Time to gamble with finesse.
He found a janitor's closet, door half-ajar. Inside: mop bucket, industrial cleaner, pair of neon-green overalls. Lucas lifted them, eyebrow arched. Serena smirked, grabbed the second set.
Moments later they emerged, uniforms hanging loose, ballcaps pulled low. Serena wheeled the mop bucket; Lucas carried a plastic spray bottle of questionable liquid. The intercept men stepped aside automatically—service staff invisible as wallpaper. Lucas suppressed a grin. Sometimes the best disguise was a minimum wage aura.
They reached the foyer. The desk clerk still consumed comics, oblivious. Lucas whispered Korean apologies about a "pipe leak" and waved them through. Night air slapped faces as they climbed back to street level.
Rain had thickened to a needle curtain. Neon halos fizzed against puddles, warping depth perception. Lucas steered them under an awning beside a shuttered ramen bar—ironic fate.
Serena shivered, polyester uniform doing nothing against wind. "Those guys were looking for you."
"Possibly. Either Graves's private hounds or fans of my karaoke career."
She didn't laugh. "Lucas, you keep pulling me into deeper water. If you can't tell me the truth, at least tell me the danger level."
He exhaled fog. "Remember the phantom you've been chasing? He's real. But the abyss staring back isn't a single phantom—it's a council. And they just RSVP'd to my life."
Her jaw tightened. "Council?"
"Curators. Shadow archivists of all things off-script." He ran thumbs over cold knuckles. "They want a meeting. Might dissect me, might offer sponsorship."
"And you haven't said yes because…?"
"Because sponsorships come with cages." Lightning forked over the river, silhouetting a skyline of ambition and debt. "And I'm not sure I deserve to drag someone else—" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "Drag you into that maze."
Serena's laugh was small but bright. "News flash, mate: mazes are my day job. Just give me the thread to hold."
He looked at her, truly looked, letting telepathy drop barriers. Her thoughts vibrated with fear and stubborn loyalty, but below that, a quieter pulse: If he trusts me, I can anchor him. The warmth of it struck deeper than adrenaline ever had.
His reply died as a pair of headlights swung onto the alley mouth. Black sedan, tinted glass, coasting slow. Not police. Lucas registered the faint ping of a radio scan from inside—encrypted coms. The sedan stopped, engine purring.
Serena moved first, slipping behind the ramen bar's steel trash skip. Lucas followed, wincing as knee ligaments protested. He risked a telepathic probe toward the car—too far for clarity. But the blankness he sensed suggested disciplined minds, maybe even counter-scan tech. Graves spared no expense.
The passenger door cracked open. A boot splashed. Lucas's fingers twitched toward his Zippo.
Serena caught the motion. "No cameras in the alley," she whispered. "If you have to… do the tick."
He almost smiled at the new slang. But fatigue crawled icy legs up his spine. One full pause might drop him unconscious. And if the Curators were already "observationally escalating," any chrono-distortion could ping their sensors like sonar.
Bootsteps approached. Rain masked their count—two? Three? Lucas felt the old itch of boredom replaced by clarity: protect Serena, retain freedom, avoid detection. Three variables, one solution.
He reached into his pocket, not for the lighter—but for the Ouroboros card. Coldness bit skin. He pressed the centre.
Nothing happened. Then everything happened.
A ring of pale light fanned out from the card, invisible to ordinary sight but scalding Lucas's chrono-senses. The alley froze—not in the usual glassy stillness but in a muted hush, as if someone dialled down reality's volume without stopping the track. Rain still fell, but each droplet traced blurred after-images, jittering through micro-loops he couldn't interpret.
An overlay blossomed before his eyes: Secure Channel Established. Branch-ΔK synchronization in progress. Please state intent.
Serena stared wide—she could see nothing, but she watched Lucas's pupils contract. "What did you do?"
Radio static crackled from the sedan, then cut. The men in boots stood motionless at the alley mouth, as if awaiting orders that hadn't downloaded.
Lucas swallowed dry panic. The Curators hadn't teleported in; they'd hijacked the local timestream, like splicing a live feed. He held Serena's gaze. "I opened the door a crack," he whispered. "And now the monsters are peeking."
The overlay pulsed: Dialog window: 30 seconds.
Intent? Survive. Protect. Negotiate? The word formed in his head and the overlay accepted, spinning lotus-like.
A new line: Negotiation quorum scheduling: Redirect to neutral ground. Coordinates to follow.
The light ring contracted, winking out. Sound returned—mid-raindrop, mid-footstep, mid-engine growl. Serena gasped, knuckles white on the skip's rim. The men at the alley mouth jerked, confused, checking earpieces. One barked an order in English: "Target lost visual—sweep left!"
Lucas pocketed the card. He grabbed Serena's hand. "Time to go."
"Where?" she hissed, but followed.
No hard freeze this time—they sprinted. Knee pain blazed but adrenaline shoved it aside. They ducked into a graffiti-strip tunnel, hopped a chain barrier, emerged onto a subway platform seconds before the northbound train hissed open. They boarded amid late-night commuters oblivious to the chase unraveling one level above.
Doors slid shut. Lucas collapsed against the wall, lungs burning. Serena steadied him, hair plastered to cheeks. "Tell me that was your power surge and not the apocalypse."
"Can't separate the two anymore," he wheezed, then managed a grin. "But I promised you a straight answer by sunrise, right?"
She nodded, fierce. "And I'm holding you to it."
An overhead speaker crackled in Korean: next stop, Gongdeok. The tunnel swallowed them, fluorescent lights strobing past like timestamp markers on a film reel. Lucas felt the faint thrum of GPS coordinates stitching into his subconscious—Curator breadcrumbs for a meeting he'd inadvertently confirmed.
He squeezed Serena's hand. Sunrise was five hours away, and every tick of the rails felt like a magnet dragging them toward a crossroads he could no longer dodge.
Outside, unseen in the dark, the Ouroboros symbol on the card glowed once—then dimmed, satisfied the game had advanced another move.
CH 21 – Incheon — Silent Luggage
Lucas Vale watched Seoul blur past the AREX train window, city lights smearing like glow-stick streaks across rain-polished glass. It was 03:07, far too late for night and far too early for morning, that hollow hour when even owls grew quiet. At his side, Serena Kaur dozed against the vinyl headrest, elbows folded defensively across the camera bag she refused to let out of reach. The carriage rattled in time with the ache in Lucas's knee; each vibration unlocked another pinprick of pain.
He could still feel the Curators' breadcrumb—an after-image of numbers engraved behind his eyelids:
25.1406 N, 55.2478 E — T-48 hrs
Longitude and latitude meant nothing without context, but the faint sense of wind-scoured sand and engine roar that came with them told his subconscious exactly where they pointed: the deserts outside Dubai. How the Curators had chosen that as "neutral ground" he couldn't fathom, but the timing overlapped suspiciously with a rumor he'd seen on an encrypted bettors' forum—an illegal endurance rally promising obscene side-bets on sabotage.
Adrenaline surged, half thrill, half dread. He'd promised Serena the truth by sunrise. Sunrise was now less than two hours away, and he still hadn't worked out how to unwrap a lifetime of impossible moments in a single conversation.
The train slowed into Incheon's subterranean platform. Fluorescent lights flickered over a handful of travelers dragging red-eyed toddlers and duty-free haul. Serena stirred, blinking fog from her gaze. "We're here already?"
"End of the line," Lucas said. He stood, shoulder protesting, and offered his hand. She took it without comment, but the earlier warmth between them had cooled to pragmatic focus; promises had expiry dates.
They surfaced into the cavernous departure hall. Incheon at pre-dawn felt like a spaceship terminal between galaxies—acres of polished floor reflecting banners for cosmetics, crypto exchanges, and K-pop reunion tours. The air smelled of cinnamon-steamed buns and floor wax.
Lucas scanned minds in a lazy sweep—mostly travel anxiety and coffee cravings—until he hit a blank zone, a pocket of disciplined silence. He flinched back as if touching a live wire. Graves's people. The blankness felt identical to the sedan's occupants in Hongdae.
He angled Serena toward a convenience kiosk. "Breakfast pretzels," he improvised, yanking her behind a row of shelves stacked with instant seaweed.
She narrowed her eyes. "You sensed something."
"Two somethings. One at four o'clock, another near the baggage wrap." He grabbed a pack of vitamin gummies for camouflage and pretended to read the back label while extending telepathic feelers. The voids skulked just outside range, careful not to think anything incriminating. That in itself was evidence.
Serena selected canned coffee and edged closer. "Can we outrun them?"
"Only if we change vectors." Lucas pocketed the gummies, headed for the self-checkout. "We're buying tickets east."
"East is water."
"Exactly. We'll pivot after security."
Serena's skeptical look said Explain, but she followed, scanning journalistic radar for tails. Lucas paid cash, pocketing change as an excuse to shoulder-check a businessman. The man's surface thought—Got to hide the bribe envelope—was irrelevant but proved Lucas's radar still worked.
Step one: book any outbound flight before Graves's team boxed them in. Step two: reroute once inside the international concourse. He tugged Serena toward a deserted airline counter where a sleepy clerk in navy blazer fought yawns.
"Two tickets to Honolulu," Lucas said, brandishing his Australian passport. He flashed the weary grin that buttered clerks on four continents. "Earliest departure."
Serena blinked but kept silent; she had trained herself to improvise on the run. The clerk keyed options. "Connecting through Dubai, sir. EK three-two-three leaves at 07:45. Ten-hour layover, then Dubai to Honolulu."
Dubai. Perfect camouflage. Lucas signed away a chunk of his 2.5 BTC via travel-crypto app and accepted paper boarding passes. Serena's face remained unreadable.
When they stepped aside, she grabbed his sleeve. "Honolulu?"
"Code word for 'anywhere but here.' Once we're air-side we can adjust the second leg—or disappear entirely." He softened his tone. "Trust me a few hours longer."
"Sunrise in ninety-three minutes," she said, tapping her watch.
Lucas felt the noose tighten: Graves behind, Curators ahead, Serena's deadline strangling what remained of his improvisation buffer.
Incheon's pre-check lines were mercifully short. Still, Lucas's stomach fluttered at every metal tray. His Zippo lighter went into one. The Ouroboros card, ice-cold again, he taped beneath the insole of his left sneaker while pretending to retie laces. He slipped the ledger wallet into a TSA-approved pouch inside his backpack; crypto might be legal, but suspicion wasted time.
Halfway through, the blank-mind agents joined the next queue. Lucas resisted the urge to micro-pause—the hall's ceiling bristled with cameras. Instead, he engaged low-grade micro-influence on the nearest elderly tourist, nudging confusion about liquids. The tourist began debating a guard about peanut butter classification, clogging the lane between agents and scanners. Small victories.
Serena breezed through body scan; Lucas followed, heart stuttering when the machine bonged. "Random swab," the guard said, wanding his backpack straps. Lucas forced a relaxed smile. The guard's thoughts were mundane: Hope graveyard shift ends on time. No danger.
Once reunited, Serena exhaled. "Remind me never to vacation with you."
"If you survive, you'll have great material for your memoir." He guided her toward a lounge area disguised as an art exhibit—white benches beneath kinetic sculptures of butterflies.
Serena folded arms. "Time to pay the honesty tax."
Lucas eyed the kinetic butterflies; their wings rotated in perfect increments—like ticks. He braced himself. "I can influence perceptions a little. Read thoughts. Pause things… briefly." He spoke quietly, giving her bullet points without the demonstration he still feared. "Call it cheating at physics."
Serena's mouth opened, shut, opened again. "Define 'pause.'"
He held up a thumb and finger an inch apart. "I stop time. For everyone except me."
Silence swallowed them. Even the hiss of ventilation felt distant. Serena's pupils widened, reflecting the spinning butterflies. "That's impossible."
Lucas shrugged. "So was landing on the moon until someone did it."
She ran both hands through her hair, fighting logic. "Show me."
"Not here—too many cameras."
"Then after we board?" Her voice was part challenge, part plea for proof.
Lucas hesitated—he hadn't attempted a mid-air pause longer than a breath. Small cabins amplified fatigue effects. But sunrise would occur over the Yellow Sea while they were still climbing. A promise was a promise. "In the lavatory. Brief demo. No more than half a second."
Serena nodded, but distrust hadn't vanished; it simply took a seat, legs crossed, waiting.
The gate for Emirates 323 occupied a quiet corner of the terminal. Passengers clustered near charging ports—mostly oil-exec types and insomniac influencers live-streaming duty-free hauls. Lucas located three blank-mind signatures: one near the window photographing planes, second disguised as janitorial staff, third standing stoically with a newspaper upside down. Graves had escalated.
He and Serena queued. As Lucas offered passports to the agent, a ripple of déjà vu prickled his spine. He sensed—not heard—a subvocal command: Tracker ready? Stage left. The thought was a whisper ricocheting off another mind, just beyond clarity.
Tracker.
Lucas's pulse jumped. He scanned the immediate throng. An apron worker wheeled a stack of infant strollers past the queue. Her mind radiated one purpose: Clip, drop, walk. In her gloved palm, half-hidden, nested a matte-black disc barely larger than a coin battery.
Lucas calculated distances, security angles, and the shoulder pain already throbbing. A hard freeze here might flag every camera on the concourse. Yet letting the disc reach his bag would hand Graves GPS until Doom's Day.
Serena nudged. "Problem?"
"Hold my boarding pass," he murmured.
He coughed—loud, sudden—drawing eyes. The stroller attendant glanced up reflexively. In that micro-gap, Lucas telekinetically twitched the disc sideways. It slid off her palm, pinged a steel stanchion, and skittered under the shoe of a man reading Korean comics. The attendant blinked, confused, then wheeled on.
Lucas reclaimed his pass. The comics reader lifted his shoe, discovered the disc, and pocketed it with childlike curiosity. One tracker misdirected to an innocent stranger Great; maybe Graves would tail the wrong passenger to Kuala Lumpur.
Still, Lucas's victory tasted hollow. Every maneuver cost him seconds of stamina he no longer banked. He shuffled down the jet bridge feeling older than twenty-seven.
The plane pushed back at 07:48, dawn bleeding coral across the windows. Lucas and Serena occupied economy bulkhead—legroom essential for a knee that screamed at ninety-degrees bend. After seat-belt signs dimmed, Serena glanced at the aisle. "Lavatory?"
Lucas nodded, clutching his Zippo. He limped toward the rear galley, ignoring curious flight attendants. Inside the cubicle he waited exactly twelve seconds; Serena knocked twice—their signal. He opened, let her squeeze past, then locked the door behind them.
Barely space to breathe. Lavender deodorizer fought burnt-coffee odor. Turbulence thrummed faint.
"Ready?" he whispered.
"Show me."
Lucas thumbed the Zippo—snap, spark, flame. He inhaled, drawing focus down the wick, letting chronology coil like a spring. He flicked shut.
Stillness cracked the universe—but not absolute. He limited the pause to 0.4 seconds, enough to illustrate but not debilitate. Air molecules halted mid-eddy; droplets from the lavatory faucet hung like chrome beads. Serena's eyes wobbled, brain trying to process frames out of order. Lucas placed his index finger against her floating hair, felt sweat freeze against fingertip.
Then the world unpaused.
Serena gasped, knees buckling. Lucas steadied her. She whispered one word: "Tick."
He smiled ruefully. "Nickname sticks, apparently."
Her mouth shaped questions faster than lungs could feed them. Tears prickled—not fear, but comprehension finally freed from doubt's grip. She grabbed his shirt. "You're alone with this?"
"Until now."
She shook her head in wonder, then steadied breath. Journalist instincts clicked. "Okay. This changes but doesn't change everything. We still have men chasing us and a secret society scheduling a chat in the UAE desert?"
Lucas huffed a laugh. "Short summary, yes."
"Then we work the problem." She wiped her face. "Step one: stay alive until Dubai."
Lucas's shoulders sagged—in relief as profound as exhaustion. "Deal."
They exited separately to avoid suspicion. Lucas returned to seat, pulse trying to match engine hum. The adrenaline crash lashed him: vision sparkled at edges, shoulder throbbed like shifting glass.
Seat-back screens flickered to life with flight map. Serena leaned over aisle, eyes still star-struck. "Those coordinates you've been chasing—Dubai?"
"Desert outside," he whispered. "Forty-eight hours."
She pursed lips. "Plenty of time to plan, assuming Graves doesn't have our scent."
Lucas allowed a small, grim smirk. "I sent him on a scavenger hunt."
Across the cabin, a passenger two rows up—the comics reader from Incheon—dug into his pocket, pulling the matte disc. He laughed, showing seatmate his "random tech toy" and stuck it to the metal magazine rack. Lucas suppressed a laugh of his own; if Graves read that telemetry, he'd think Lucas was stuffed under seat 34B en-route to Kuala Lumpur and developing a sudden love for manhwa.
Serena followed Lucas's gaze, saw the disc. Realization dawned. She stifled a snicker behind safety-card. "Misdirection level: magician." Her laughter dissolved into soft awe. "You really might be the strangest story I'll ever tell."
"Long as I'm not the last," Lucas said.
Thirty thousand feet below, Mason Graves leaned over a portable console in an unmarked van idling outside Incheon's freight gate. A red dot blinked—then veered south by southwest at eight hundred kilometers an hour. Destination Kuala Lumpur.
Graves's jaw tightened. "He's decoying."
The tech beside him swallowed. "Orders?"
"Let him run. We know his next addiction." Graves tapped the drone footage from Hannam rooftop, freeze-framing Lucas's micro-pause ripple. "He needs crowds, spectacle. Dubai rally's our next net. Prep local assets."
He flicked a switch, opening encrypted line. "Team B, retain visual search inside terminal. He may have accomplice in play."
Inside Gate 234, two blank-mind agents received the order. One adjusted a janitor cap, scanning lines. His gaze landed on Serena, only half-recognizable in borrowed hoodie. He took a slow breath, adjusted earpiece, and quietly boarded the same Emirates flight at final call.
Lucas never noticed; exhaustion finally won, tipping his head against cabin wall. Dreams came fractured: dunes swirling into butterfly sculptures, stopwatch hands melting into Ouroboros scales. Somewhere in the static a whisper repeated T-47:12, counting down.
The airplane chased sunrise across the Yellow Sea, fuselage glowing peach. Serena wrote frantic notes in her reporter's pad—bullet points about "Tick," Curators, ethical lines, and a single underlined phrase: Boredom = enemy. Occasionally she glanced at Lucas's sleeping profile, brow knotted in uneasy fondness.
In Lucas's backpack, the Ouroboros card pulsed once—soft but insistent—synchronizing its own countdown with the aircraft's estimated arrival in Dubai.
Four rows back, the blank-mind agent reclined, eyes closed but mind sharp, tracker pinging the seat frame. Graves's contingency nested inside the same pressurized tube, waiting.
Outside, the thinning clouds resembled white dunes—practice shapes for a race that would test how far boredom, or destiny, could push a man who refused to let time itself dictate terms.
The game pieces were in motion; the board had changed hemispheres, but the stakes only grew sharper. And somewhere, two opposing factions—Curators with their looping snake and Gatekeepers with their silent hourglass—watched the sky-bound pawn hurtle toward the next square, betting on which tick he would skip next.
Chapter 22 – Dubai Desert — Frozen Grit
The wheels of Emirates EK 323 kissed the tarmac at Dubai International just before dawn, the horizon still bruised purple. Lucas Vale felt every knot of fatigue in his spine as the Airbus rumbled to a stop, but the Ouroboros card taped to his insole pulsed cold, steady, insistent—T-46 h now. No chance to rest. Beside him Serena stretched, dark curls escaping her travel scarf. She had slept little; belief in the impossible made sleep a fragile thing.
Immigration was a blur of fluorescent light and polite efficiency. Lucas nudged one guard's irritation into professional boredom so Serena's half-filled arrival form went unremarked. In the taxi queue the desert air tasted like a hair-dryer set to low, even before sunrise. Serena checked the address she'd pulled from a motocross forum—"Al Qudra testing dunes, see? Private event. Cash only, no livestream." Lucas raised a brow. "Cash I have. Privacy we'll negotiate."
He hadn't told her the full plan. Better she could honestly deny knowledge, he told himself, ignoring how that excuse grew thinner each lie. The driver eyed their lack of luggage, shrugged, and floored the hybrid sedan toward the western edge of the Emirate.
By mid-morning the dunes boiled under a white sky. The makeshift paddock sprawled like a wandering carnival: repurposed shipping containers painted with sponsor graffiti, pop-up gazebos where mechanics sweated over engines, and a ring of spectators in mirrored shades placing bets under misting fans. The race—"Sandsurge Rally"—would sprint thirty kilometers across soft dunes, turn around an outcrop marked by a rusted tanker shell, then slalom back. Five custom dune buggies, million-dirham toys for gamblers with too much money and not enough fear.
Lucas paid the entry fee—five hundred U.S. just to stand trackside with the gamblers—then drifted, reading minds the way one tastes appetizers. Surface thoughts bubbled: Boosted nitrous line.Driver's hungover.Odds crash if Kadal withdraws. Money wanted a hero and a scapegoat. Perfect.
Serena recorded B-roll on her phone, pretending tourist curiosity. "You have that look," she murmured when Lucas rejoined her behind a dune. "The one that precedes questionable decisions."
"Calculated decisions," he corrected, though his grin gave him away. "I need ten minutes alone with the vehicles. Then I place a bet, we watch, and we get cab fare for a year."
"Sabotage?" Her journalist conscience warred with survival math. "Someone could die out there."
Lucas's smile thinned. "Not if I pick the right moment. Trust me."
She exhaled through her nose—acquiescence, not approval. "Ten minutes. Then you explain everything, including why that card in your shoe is clicking like a metronome."
He slipped into the service lane between containers, where heat smelled of petrol and optimism. A crewman cursed in Hindi at a stripped bolt; another in Russian argued tire pressures. Lucas touched sunglasses to settle his nerves, then slowed the world.
Sound vanished. Flags froze mid-flutter; a spanner arrested in mid-arc. Chrono-pause wrapped him in syrupy silence. He inhaled, the air tasting oddly sweet inside the stillness, and jogged to Buggy #3—the crimson monster favored to win. A quick scan: upgraded turbo, redundant ignition, ceramic bearings. Overkill. His fingers brushed the coolant line; with a micro-flick of telekinesis he loosened the clamp by half a thread—enough that vibration would bleed fluid and overheat the engine after five kilometers.
Next, Buggy #1—mid-tier odds but backed by a loud Lebanese bookmaker whose thoughts had stank of launder the haul in Macau. Lucas jammed a pebble behind the throttle stop. Non-fatal, but the pedal would stick wide open on descents. The driver would panic, brake, lose seconds.
Fatigue pricked his temples. He'd paused the world barely twenty seconds subjective, yet he already felt the pull, like gravity increasing. He breached the final buggy only for insurance: Buggy #5, boring beige body panels. Instead of harm he tightened its oil cap—no leaks, no surprises. He would bet on Five.
Exiting freeze took effort; the world resisted, a heavy door needing a shove. Then sound crashed back—engines, shouts, the desert wind hissing across canvas. Twenty-three seconds. Not bad, though spots danced at his periphery. He blended into the crowd before any mechanic noticed a clamp turned oddly.
Serena waited near the betting counter, aviators masking worry. "Tell me we're not funding warlords."
"Buggy Five," Lucas said, handing over his last physical cash—seven thousand U.S.—at 14-to-1 odds. "Driver's name is Anika Fahd. She's here on sponsorship fumes. She'll never suspect fortune's about to love her."
"What did you do?" Serena whispered.
He steadied her gaze. "Offset the odds. No fatalities. Just a very expensive lesson in humility for certain men."
She accepted that with a grim nod, slipping reporter mode back on. "I'll document. But know this goes in the ledger of unethical stunts."
Lucas's retort died as a cold ripple snaked across his scalp—the unique absence where a blank mind should be. He scanned the paddock. Crowds were thick, but there: a tall figure in linen, face obscured by shemagh and mirrored goggles, his mental signature a perfect void. Same null pressure Lucas had felt at Incheon. Agent. Maybe Curator, maybe Graves's merc.
They were forty meters apart. Lucas nudged Serena's elbow. "Void at ten o'clock."
She swung camera casually. "Got him. Any plan?"
"Win race, leave crowd, vanish before he plays his hand."
"Simple," she muttered. "Like defusing jet fuel with a toothpick."
A klaxon blared; engines roared. Spectators climbed dune crests for vantage. Lucas and Serena found a ridge of loose sand that granted full view. The sun climbed, hammering them with light.
Dust geysered as the race launched. Five buggies lunged forward in staggered start, tires ballooning over soft ridges. Lucas tracked them through binoculars. At two kilometers Buggy #3 began to spew pale steam exactly on cue; it slowed, engine protesting. Cheers morphed into groans among bettors. The Lebanese bookmaker cursed loud enough to share.
Lucas's pulse drummed. He tasted adrenaline like metal on his tongue; victory rush, same addictive spike he chased across continents. Beside him Serena watched without judgment, only careful study.
At the halfway tanker marker, Buggy #1 crested a dune, throttle jam catching. It fishtailed wildly, driver over-braking, sand plume spiraling. No roll, but time bled away. Now Beige #5 surged into second behind the unexpectedly spry Buggy #2.
Lucas swore. He hadn't touched Two; odds differential had seemed safe. He reached with telepathy, skimming driver thoughts: steady… hold line… sponsor watches… Nothing to exploit. Too late for a full pause—crowd stare risk; plus, fatigue cramped his calves. He needed a subtler lever.
He opened his sense wider, hunting emotional nodes in the watching masses. There—a cluster of mechanics supporting Buggy #2, minds wired with pride. He nudged, just a feather: loose wheel lug? maybe catastrophic. Doubt sparkled. One mechanic shouted, leapt off his crate waving arms. Another echoed. A marshal's drone swept lower to inspect alleged loose hardware; rules allowed mid-race safety stop. The driver, hearing frantic radio, hesitated, slowed. Beige #5 blasted past.
Serena's jaw slackened. "Did you—"
"Legal enough," Lucas said, though dizziness swayed the horizon.
Five kilometers to finish. Anika's buggy bounced across final moguls, suspension squealing but intact. The crowd's roar tasted sweet. Lucas closed eyes against shimmer of heat, letting the sound baptize him. When he opened them, the void-mind agent was gone from the ridge opposite.
"Lost him," Serena warned.
Lucas scanned. Nothing.
A commotion burst near the betting booths—angry bettors demanding recount, a bookmaker accusing cheat. Lucas sensed raw fury, knives of intention. Money moved people faster than ideology.
Their winnings—nearly hundred grand in cash chips—would be ready soon. They descended the dune, Serena filming reactions. Lucas's satphone buzzed; unknown ID. He flicked it open.
A synthesized voice: "Tick-Skipper. Coordinates confirmed. Proceed to Silica Gate, T-39 h. Alone." Click.
He pocketed phone, skin prickling. The card's pulse matched the voice's cadence now—two per second. Curators calling.
At the payout counter, the clerk eyed Lucas's ticket, then the frozen display of odds. A manager conferred hurriedly with security. Lucas felt the decision tipping and pushed micro-influence: Legitimate win, honor debts, keep reputation. The manager's resistance folded like damp paper; chips hit counter in a canvas satchel.
Serena slung it over shoulder. "Congratulations, outlaw. Now we run?"
"Now," Lucas agreed, but his gaze snagged on a reflection in tinted trailer glass: void-mind agent approaching from behind, slow, deliberate, hand dipping to waist.
Lucas's heart kicked. He grabbed Serena's arm, pivoted—
—paused the world.
Time shattered into stillness. Mid-stride, the agent's coat billowed like sculpture. His hand, inches from a holstered taser, was stone. Frost crept Lucas's vision edges; the pause came harder, heavier each use. He staggered toward the man, feeling leaden.
Closer inspection: the taser bore no manufacturer logo, only an Ouroboros etching. Curator? The agent's goggles reflected Lucas's own sweat-streaked face. Lucas searched pockets—no ID, but a transparent vial labeled in Cyrillic, content navy gel. Unknown threat.
He considered disarming him permanently. Instead he wrenched the taser free, crushed trigger assembly with a TK pinch, and tucked vial into his own pocket for later scrutiny. Then he turned, hauling Serena's frozen form by elbow three meters to the left, out of suspected firing arc.
Release.
Sound thundered back. The agent's hand grabbed empty holster; momentum unbalanced him. He spun, confused. Lucas and Serena were already moving toward the Land Cruiser they'd hired earlier.
"That was him," Serena hissed once inside, slamming door. "Curator?"
"Close enough." Lucas cranked engine. "We've got a bridge to cross before answers."
They barreled down packed sand track. In rear mirror, the agent blurred into shrinking figure.
They reached the city outskirts by late afternoon, skyscrapers shimmering like digital illusions. Lucas booked a room at a modest Deira hotel under a Thai alias, paid cash. Upstairs, curtains closed against neon, Serena emptied the satchel onto bed—bundles of dirhams and dollars. She looked at him not with celebration but trepidation. "That man nearly shot us."
"Stunned, maybe." Lucas peeled sweat-stuck shirt off. Shoulder ached—pause tax. "Curators want me alive. The taser was theirs."
He produced the vial; Serena filmed macro close-ups. The gel inside pulsed faintly. "Maybe anti-chrono tech."
She sank onto mattress. "You realize the ethical sinkhole we're in? Sabotage, brain-nudging bookmakers, now theft from a potential ally or enemy we can't identify."
Lucas knelt, voice low. "I know. But the rally was bait. I needed a win—cash for escape routes—and to see who'd bite. They bit."
"And what of the people you manipulated? The driver with jammed throttle?" Her eyes shone, not with tears but moral heat.
He swallowed. The thrill afterglow already dimmed, leaving metallic guilt. "No injuries. I monitor variables."
"That's not ethics. That's statistics."
Her words cut deeper than bullets. He started to reply when hotel generator flickered power, plunging the room into brief darkness. In that pulse, the Ouroboros card's chill surged up his leg—T-38 h.
Emergency lights glowed. Serena's phone chimed—news alert in Arabic scrolling about "an unscheduled sandstorm advisory near Al Qudra." She looked at Lucas. "Your sabotage might have dominoed. Authorities shutting the region. Evidence could point back."
Lucas exhaled. "Then we move sooner. Silica Gate—wherever that is—likely in desert. Storm window complicates things."
He paced, counting steps against dizziness. The agent's empty mind still clung to him like vacuum. "Graves will trace the Kuala Lumpur decoy soon. He'll realize Dubai is live. Multiple vectors converging."
Serena stood, gentle but firm. "Rest matters. Your body refuses to keep up with your ambition."
"I'll nap en route." He checked satchel weight—comfortable to carry. "We leave before dawn. Less surveillance."
She touched his bruised shoulder. "Lucas, adrenaline can't be your compass. Purpose can."
He met her gaze, the silence dense. Before he could answer, a soft click sounded in hallway—metal on metal, door across corridor opening. Lucas dipped into telepathy: housekeeping mind two doors down, mundane. But behind it, a cold void shimmered briefly then vanished. Another agent, or the same.
"We're not alone," he whispered.
Serena nodded, pocketing phone. "Window exit?"
"Seventh floor," he said. "Nothing impossible."
He stepped to sill, bent the latch with TK. Sand-laden wind slapped his face. Neon smeared below like molten circuits. The alley drop was three stories to an awning, then dumpster. Doable. He offered hand to Serena.
She took it. "Lead the leap."
Behind, the corridor latch clicked again—closer. Lucas breathed, centered, then vaulted, Serena following. They landed in a billow of canvas, rolled, thudded against plastic bins. Pain sparked but bones held.
Upstairs, their room door slammed open, footsteps pounding. Lucas caught a whiff of ozone—crushed taser, null agent furious.
Sirens wailed distant; storm sirens or police, impossible to tell. Lucas pulled Serena into shadow, clutching satchel and vial. The skyline loomed like a promise and a warning.
T-37 h, the card pulsed. The game sprinted. And for the first time since powers awakened, Lucas felt the slightest tremor of fear that boredom might not be his deadliest enemy after all.
A shadow detached from the alley wall—another void-mind, blocking the street ahead, and Lucas had no strength left to pause time again.
Chapter 23 – Gilded Shadows
The alley smelled of fry-oil and sun-baked refuse, the kind of odor that wrapped itself around memory and refused to let go. Lucas Vale felt it in his lungs with every ragged inhale. One hand clenched the satchel of winnings; the other hovered instinctively over the pocket where the navy gel vial rested, cool against clammy skin. Ten paces ahead, the void-mind agent blocked the narrow exit to the street, a silhouette cut from obsidian. No thoughts emanated from him—only that unbearable hush, like a blank page stretched taut.
Lucas's muscles shook with exhaustion. The desert sabotage, the thirty-second chrono-pause, the window leap—each flare of power had drained him in jagged chunks. He doubted he could freeze a blinking cursor, much less time itself, and the agent seemed to sense it. A small silver device—a twin to the crushed taser—glinted in his opponent's grip.
Serena slid to Lucas's side, camera in one hand, a half-collapsed selfie stick in the other. Her eyes flicked from Lucas's pallor to the agent's weapon. "Options?" she whispered, never glancing away from the threat.
"Minus freezing? Improvise," Lucas muttered.
As if on cue, the alley's only functioning streetlamp sputtered, its filament inside rattling before it gave a final pop and died. Evening shadows thickened, cloaking trash cans and sagging awnings. For a heartbeat the world teetered—then Serena acted. She hurled the selfie stick like a javelin. It spun, catching the agent across the wrist with a metallic thunk. Surprise registered even on that blank aura; the silver weapon clattered to asphalt, skidding toward Lucas.
Reflex took over. Lucas snapped a fragment of telekinesis—a single spark, nothing more—just enough to arrest the weapon's slide beneath his boot. Pain forked through his shoulder as if jagged glass were lodged in the joint, but the taser stayed still. He kicked it behind him and felt Serena scoop it up.
The agent lunged. Lucas backpedaled, dragging Serena with him deeper between dumpsters. A chain-link gate loomed at their backs, padlocked, rust eaten. Lucas pressed fingers to the corroded latch, pushed. The lock resisted. The agent advanced, footsteps muffled by sand blown into the alley.
"Keys?" Serena asked, half-laugh half-terror.
"None. But," Lucas rasped, "physics is only a suggestion."
He focused on the lock, not on the pain, not on the swirling dizziness. A caffeinated tremor of telekinesis threaded through the metal's tumblers. Pop. The shackle sprang. Lucas shoved the gate inward; hinges squealed like a struck chord. Beyond lay a service courtyard, beige concrete baking out the day's stored heat.
They ducked through as the agent's hand grazed Lucas's collar. Too close. Lucas slammed the gate; Serena snapped the lock back in place. A barrier, flimsy yet precious. The agent's opaque goggles appeared between links, expression unreadable.
Behind them the courtyard opened to a low parapet overlooking Sheikh Zayed Road—sixteen lanes of nighttime traffic, headlights streaming like electric arteries. Sixty feet of vertical drop. No convenient awning this time.
Serena's voice was quiet steel. "We jump rooftop-to-rooftop, not asphalt. We go up."
A maintenance ladder rose from the courtyard wall to a hotel's fifth-floor service balcony. Lucas felt each rung bite his sore palms, but adrenaline drove him. Serena climbed behind, the satchel thumping her hip. From the alley came rhythmic impacts—the agent battering the gate.
On the balcony, Lucas found a utility door cracked open. A wind gust rattled it, revealing an unlit laundry corridor. They slipped inside. Bleach tang mixed with industrial detergent. Distant music thumped from the hotel lounge below—Arabic pop fused with techno, a bassline that vibrated tiles.
They threaded between laundry carts, emerging in a service elevator lobby. Lucas punched the "UP" arrow, then, thinking twice, pressed "B" for basement. When the cab arrived, they stepped in and hit every floor button from mezzanine to rooftop bar. A schoolboy prank, but enough to scatter a pursuer's expectations.
Doors shut. Serena leaned against mirrored wall, chest heaving. "That thing you said about physics?"
Lucas forced a grin. "Borrowed quote. I tweak parameters, that's all."
"You nearly snapped your arm for a paperclip's worth of TK," she said, voice gentler than her words. "We can't keep paying power debt like this."
"I know." He massaged the bruised shoulder. The elevator dinged at basement; they slipped out before the cab continued its confused journey.
The service basement emptied into a valet sub-garage that smelled of brake dust and overpriced cologne. A rank of vehicles waited under fluorescent glare—Bentleys, Teslas, a sand-spattered Land Cruiser identical to the one they'd abandoned. Dubai loved its symmetry. Lucas tried three doors before a pearl-white Mercedes clicked open under his coerced intent—no alarms, no questions. Valet keys beneath sun visor. Of course.
Serena slid into passenger seat, securing the satchel between her boots. She examined the recovered taser husk and navy vial under dome light. "Logo matches the card," she said, tracing the Ouroboros emblem. "Curators field tech."
Lucas started the engine, eased up the ramp. "File for later. Our friend can't tail what he can't find."
They merged with traffic, gliding south toward Downtown's neon skyline. In the rearview mirror, no sign of pursuit. On a whim Lucas selected the Burj Khalifa-adjacent Palace Royale Hotel from the nav screen—five stars, all marble and skyward fountains. If Curators wanted him, let them search among the wealthy, he reasoned, a needle among identical gold-plated straws.
Serena watched city lights flick across windshield glass. "Heading to the opulent hideout phase of recklessness, are we?"
"Strategic camouflage," Lucas said. But he felt the absurdity: a schoolteacher's son from Perth masquerading as oligarch.
Their suite on the fifty-ninth floor unfolded like a billionaire's daydream: satin sofas, crystal light fixtures, a balcony cantilevered over the world's tallest fountain. Serena dumped the satchel on a Persian rug, scattering bundles. Lucas let the concierge swipe his last credit card imprint for "incidentals," tipping with a flash of hundred-euro notes. Once alone, he leaned on the balcony rail, city heat rising in solar ghosts. Below, the fountain's choreographed jets fired, each plume lit aquamarine.
Serena joined him, camera forgotten for once. The card's pulse in Lucas's shoe synchronized with the fountain's rhythmic booms—T-36 h now. He tried to imagine the Curators: men and women playing puppeteer with seconds, testing him like a lab rat.
"I can still smell the alley," Serena murmured, folding arms. "The void of that agent's mind felt… wrong, like a hole in reality."
Lucas nodded. "Silence where thought should be. Maybe it's tech shielding, or training. Either way, effective."
She faced him. "You need food, hydration, eight hours unconscious."
"I need answers," he countered, but belly acid reminded him she was half right.
Room service arrived in obscene quantities: mezze platters, saffron biryani, wagyu sliders because the menu said they were "Dubai essential." Lucas waved away tablecloth etiquette; they ate on plush carpet, shoes off, exhaustion turning bites into mechanical motion.
Between mouthfuls Serena powered her tablet, cross-referencing satellite overlays. "Silica Gate," she murmured, searching. "Closest nominal landmark is Silica Ridge, forty-five kilometers south-west of Al Qudra. Desert currently under sandstorm advisory. Figures."
Lucas swallowed rose-water cheesecake. "Storm generosity—less drones, fewer eyes."
"And less visibility for us," she pointed out.
He lifted his glass of pomegranate juice. "To improbable success."
She didn't toast. Instead she opened the taser shell with a hotel butter knife. Inside, a thumb-sized capacitor edged with what looked like polished obsidian. "Disruptor crystal," she hypothesized. "Gel likely stabilizer."
"Or poison," Lucas mused.
"Touching my birthday champagne will be poison if we're wrong," she deadpanned. After a beat the tension broke; they both laughed, relief venting through absurdity.
Hours blurred. Lucas took a scalding shower that left his bruises technicolor. Steam fogged the mirror; he traced an infinity symbol unconsciously, then scrubbed it away. When he emerged in hotel robe, Serena sat at the room's grand piano, fingers trailing keys without pressing. Her phone recorded her quiet commentary: ethical quandaries, personal reactions, raw notes for an article she hadn't yet decided to publish. She paused video when she saw him.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Body's a fractal of pain, but nothing broken." He poured two fingers of expensive scotch from the minibar, sipping. Liquid warmth didn't fill the hollowness yawning inside. He glanced at the satchel on bed—cash mounded like dragon hoard. "Funny how quickly money turns to wallpaper when you can cheat gravity."
Serena's brows arched. "Feeling empty already? You just became a hundred-thousand dirham richer."
"Temporary asset," he said, gesturing at the city. "All this glitter—people chase it for decades. I bent seconds, nudged neurons, and here we are. Yet the void in my chest is louder than any engine."
She closed the piano lid softly. "Power without purpose becomes static. Noise in skull."
"I wanted the high." He turned the scotch glass, watching amber swirl. "Turns out the comedown is longer."
She rose, walked to balcony doors, threw them open. Night breeze carried notes of motor oil and sweet hookah smoke. "Dubai excels at filling voids—with gold, neon, illusions. Let's see if yours budges."
They descended to the hotel club around midnight, Serena's idea—a field test. Lucas wore tailored blazer purchased in boutique downstairs, tags cut moments prior. Serena, in wine-red dress from the same spree, glided beside him like a cardinal in desert dusk. The club pulsed with bass, lasers splintering air into emerald shards. Everything smelled of spent adrenaline and perfume that cost more than rent.
Lucas bought a VIP table outright: three bottles of Cristal, charcuterie tower, a fog cannon because the host offered. Money felt weightless in his fist, like confetti. Photogenic influencers drifted over, laughing at Serena's jokes, touching Lucas's sleeve when he described skydiving through a thunderstorm (only a minor exaggeration). He read their thoughts effortlessly—vanity, curiosity, hunger for status. Old thrill might have bitten, but now the insights felt shallow, two-dimensional.
He tried micro-influence once, nudging a bouncer to allow a barefoot tourist through velvet rope. The man complied; the tourist's elation flashed bright—gratitude, awe. Yet inside Lucas the needle barely twitched.
An hour later he slumped on leather banquette staring at LED ceiling. Champagne fizzed flat on his tongue. Serena leaned close, voice cutting through EDM. "This isn't working, is it?"
"Feels like the matrix without color correction," he said. "I thought indulgence might refill the tank."
"It never does," she murmured. "Not when the tank is existential."
On stage a DJ triggered CO₂ jets; white plumes roared overhead. Spotlights froze mid-pleat—no, not time freeze, just Lucas's own dissociation. For a heartbeat he wished he could rewind to Perth rooftop before everything accelerated.
He rose abruptly. "Let's leave."
Serena didn't protest. Outside, the fountain show reached midnight crescendo—jets choreographed to Hans Zimmer, water turning to flame under hidden gas nozzles. Hundreds filmed on phones. Lucas watched apathetically until the soundtrack ended, silence rushing in like low tide.
"Next step," Serena asked, pulling shawl tight. "Card says Silica Gate in thirty-three hours. And your body still writes checks your mitochondria can't cash."
Lucas glanced at his shoe; the card's pulse felt colder. "We secure gear, a vehicle, water. Then we cross the storm. Tonight."
Her lips parted in protest, then closed—a battlefield where logic and loyalty fought. "If you collapse mid-dune—"
"I won't," he lied. "We don't outrun fate by sleeping."
She exhaled, misting desert-warm air. "Fine. But one condition: we read the gel vial first. Could be antidote to their taser, could be nerve agent. We need knowledge."
Lucas nodded. They returned to suite. Serena laid vial on marble coffee table, angled under desk lamp. Viscous navy liquid glowed slightly, internal motes drifting like plankton.
"No solvent smell," she observed. "Need lab."
Lucas fetched minibar ice bucket, filled sink with water, snapped off glass stirrer. "Poor man's test." He dipped stirrer tip into vial (arm's length, breath held), then into water. A faint shimmer spread but water remained clear. He touched his fingertip to surface—no burn, no chill. A risk, but curiosity pushed. He dabbed droplet on hotel's complimentary stainless pen. The pen's ticking second hand—novelty gift—froze instantly, quartz stilled. Serena gasped. Lucas waited five seconds, wiped gel away with towel. The second hand twitched, resumed.
"Chronal dampener," Lucas whispered. "Temporarily halts local time field—micro scale."
"An anti-freeze weapon," Serena said, horror and fascination entwined. "They could stop your powers, maybe you, outright."
"Or stabilizer for training," Lucas countered. But unease thickened. The agent had carried enough to immobilize him; only luck—Serena's throw—saved them.
He rinsed sink, sealed vial in plastic toiletry bag, double-bagged. "We keep it. Might need to sabotage their gear."
Serena packed med-kit, desert scarves, sunglasses. Lucas counted cash into smaller packets, pocketed most, stashed rest in wall safe under alias. Riches meant nothing if they died in sand.
Before dawn they were in hotel underground again but this time legitimately: Lucas purchased a rented ZX off-road buggy from concierge's exotic fleet at a rate to make bankers sweat. Metallic bronze, twin 40-liter tanks, GPS dead-zone upgrade. Lucas insisted on analog compass too.
As service lift rose with them and two bellhops, Serena laid hand on Lucas's. "Sleep in passenger seat," she said. "I'll take first drive. I haven't frozen time lately, but I can handle a throttle."
He squeezed her fingers. "You're the compass when mine spins."
Elevator chimed open. Heat from subterranean garage rolled in. The sandstorm advisory flashed amber on overhead monitors: "Visibility <200 m, travel not recommended." Lucas inhaled petrol-scented air, felt his pulse align with Ouroboros rhythm. T-32 h, ticking louder.
They loaded supplies. Serena in driver's harness, Lucas reclining. As they rumbled up ramp onto Sheikh Zayed, dawn's first peach glow diluted the horizon. Behind them Burj Khalifa speared clouds; ahead, desert edges blurred in dust.
Lucas watched mirrored skyline shrink, money and marble and neon replaced by endless dunes. Emptiness did not recede; it morphed—no longer void of meaning, but space for something undefined, potentially vast. He closed eyes, letting Serena's steady driving lull him toward rest.
Sleep reached for him. Just before it claimed, a dream-voice—same synthetic cadence from the satphone—echoed across subconscious:
Tick-Skipper. Purpose is a vector. Direction decides gravity.
Lucas fell into restless darkness wondering which way the arrow pointed.
Thirty kilometers beyond city limits, the buggy's dashboard flickered—GPS scrambling, engine stuttering—as sandstorm wall appeared ahead, towering and alive, and Lucas sensed not just weather but another void-mind waiting within.