The stopwatch's weight seemed lighter in Vincent's trembling hand, a silent challenge wrapped in steel and glass.
My mind set ablaze, the gears of thought spinning faster than the beat of my frantic heart. Time compression—three minutes of suspended reality, a bubble within the chaos of the world, a pause button carved into the relentless flow of existence.
Three whole minutes? That can't be enough—no, it's too much. Three minutes to suspend everything? Gods, the sheer arrogance of it. Or genius. Or both.
It was absurd, it was terrifying, it was utterly brilliant.
The implications alone flooded my brain with impossible possibilities, slicing through my resolve with the subtlety of a scalpel. A small, irrational part of me screamed to run, to escape before curiosity dug its claws too deep, but a larger, darker part rooted me in place, riveted by the unknown story that Vincent was about to unravel.
I was barely prepared when Vincent lifted a hand, fingers outstretched like a general calling for ceasefire in the midst of war. The command was wordless yet absolute, stopping my lungs mid-exhale and my hands before they could lash out in retaliation.
My pulse hammered in my ears, but the fire that had ignited inside me twisted now into something colder—curiosity sharpened by a touch of wariness. Vincent's movements were slow, deliberate, almost fragile as he pushed himself upright against the cold pillar, his crippled hand cradling the stopwatch like a fragile child. Through all of this, there was a certain softness in his eyes I hadn't seen before.
My instincts screamed for betrayal, but my heart thrummed with a strange, reluctant hope.
He lifted the stopwatch like a flag of surrender, his voice low and steady when he finally spoke. "I've already admitted defeat. Our fight... it's over."
His words fell heavy between us, saturated with a strange mixture of resignation and anticipation. "I've been waiting for a moment like this, Cecil. Waiting for you to see... to understand."
Understand what? That this was never a game? That I've been running circles in a cage of his design? Gods, what does he want me to see?
My brows knitted together, confusion prickling beneath the surface as I turned my gaze to his. Those eyes—soft, almost pleading—were magnetic, drawing me closer like a moth circling a flame. His hand extended toward me, an invitation coated with a fragile trust.
"Take it," he urged simply. "Trust me."
Every fiber of my being told me to recoil, to tear away from the danger simmering in that gesture. Yet curiosity—so damn insistent and unforgiving—won me over.
Slowly, my fingers closed over his, the contact electric and raw, as if we were bridging some unseen chasm. Vincent's movements were measured, deliberate, his every motion telling a story that words had never managed to capture.
Then, with a quiet click that echoed like a heartbeat suspended in time, he pressed the stopwatch and the world around us dissolved into silence.
A ripple spread through the air, a subtle shimmer blooming outward, folding space and sound into a tight bubble that wrapped around us in perfect stillness.
Time stopped.
The edges of the bubble blurred, the rest of the world becoming a hazy smear of muted colors and frozen chaos. I felt breathless, the silence pressing down like a living creature as I saw the dust motes in the air suspend themselves in eternal reverence, frozen dancers caught mid-twirl in a silent ballet.
We let go of each other then, the connection severing like a drawn thread, but the charged stillness remained, thick as molten glass. Vincent drew in a slow, deep breath and then exhaled loudly.
"We don't have much time," he said finally, voice low and urgent.
Three minutes.
The weight of that truth settled between us like a stone dropped in a well, rippling with unspoken meaning. I opened my mouth to ask why, to demand answers, but Vincent cut me off before a single word could escape my lips.
"There's something you need to understand," he began, eyes darkening with a distant shadow.
"That man you saw... the one who appeared the night Elias died, he has an influence that reaches beyond space, beyond the bounds we comprehend. He moves like a ghost through information, processing and reacting to cues whispered by those who serve him." His voice was grave, reverent even, like he was treading over sacred ground. "It's why I almost died the moment I tried to speak his name."
Vincent paused for a moment, his gaze drifting away as if searching for the right words. "I believed there had to be a way to cut through his influence, to fracture the web he's woven around me. I realized then... that it was time. Not moving through it, not bending it, but stopping it. If I could stop time, even for a moment, then I can step outside his reach, sever the threads that bind us."
The logic was stunning in its simplicity, yet terrifying in its implications. This ability, this stolen moment in eternity, was a rebellion against fate itself. I swallowed hard, unable to tear my eyes away from Vincent's face, which was an open book of caution and hope entwined.
I couldn't hold back any longer. One final time, I asked the question. "Who is he? Tell me..." My voice was raw, desperate, a final plea for clarity.
Vincent hesitated, the tension in his features like a dam holding back a flood. Then, with slow, deliberate care, he said the name.
"Japeth."
The moment the syllable left his lips, a strange sensation swept through me—not the searing pressure I'd felt before, but a heavy wrongness, like a shadow cast over my memories. My head began throbbing as if reality itself was protesting the name, clawing at the fragile edges of my mind. It was a name that wasn't meant to be spoken, a ghost haunting the halls of memory that should've been sealed away.
I blinked, trying to reconcile the weight of it. "Why," I murmured, my mouth running dry, "even with the name... I can't see him. I can't remember his face."
Vincent's expression softened, sorrow and reverence mixing in the dim light and yet he said nothing. I continued.
"What connection does Japeth have to me? Why was he there when Elias died? Was it… personal?"
Vincent's gaze faltered for a moment before he answered, his voice hushed with a reverence I hadn't expected. "Japeth...was our mentor."
The words didn't hit. They detonated.
"No." The word ripped out of me like a reflex. "No—bullshit. My father taught me everything. He was the one who raised me—who trained me." My voice cracked, the past twisting into doubt. "Gods, Vincent, you were there! We grew up together for fucks sake!"
Vincent shook his head slowly, eyes piercing. "Tell me Cecil, do you remember your father's face? His features? Anything at all?"
I laughed—a brittle, humorless sound that barely masked the rising panic, and then it hit me. My mind reached back, clawing at the dark. But there was… nothing. No eyes. No smile. No voice. Just a shape. A warmth. A presence that had long since rotted into shadow.
"N-No. I don't...w-why don't I remember? Why can't I remember?!"
Panic bloomed. Real panic—wild and ice-cold, spiraling out from my ribs like cracks through a mirror as I grasped the terrible truth. Vincent's next words were calm but cutting, slicing through the haze of my thoughts.
"It's not a result of faulty memory. It's a part of Japeth's power."
My mind spiraled, every memory fracturing under the weight of doubt. Who was I? What had been taken? What pieces of my soul had this man shredded and hidden away? I wanted to scream, to rage against the invisible thief that had stolen my life's foundation.
But Vincent cut through the chaos. "We're running out of time. Listen to me Cecil. You need to go back to Graywatch as fast as possible. You should have gone back long ago."
The bubble around us hummed faintly, the quiet ticking of the stopwatch softly floating in the air.
Vincent's warning echoed in my mind with a weight I hadn't fully grasped before. Turn back. For your own good. How many times had he said it? On the train, within the Tower. Each time, it felt like nothing more than a dismissive taunt, a shadowed jab from a man who enjoyed watching me scramble after him. But now—now it felt like a lifeline, a thread I had been blind to until this moment.
My chest tightened painfully, heart hammering in my ribs like a frantic drumbeat. I bolted upright, the world suddenly too sharp, too urgent. Everything Vincent said, every subtle look, every cryptic pause, it wasn't mockery. It was a warning. A real one. And that made the chill crawling up my spine all the more profound.
He spoke quietly, almost as if afraid to shatter the fragile calm that had settled between us. "I tried to warn you as subtly as I could." The words slipped out, soft but carrying the weight of hidden desperation. "Japeth is back in Graywatch. And he's planning something… something big."
His words crashed into me like a hammer blow. Just then, a thousand buzzing thoughts raced through my mind all at once. What kind of storm was gathering at home? My heart seized at the thought of Salem, Rodrick, Lysaria, Jules, Elian—all the people I'd left behind. Were they caught in the crosshairs of whatever dark scheme Japeth was weaving? Were they already in danger?
Or worse?
My voice cracked with a surge of fear and anger. "How am I supposed to trust you?" The words were jagged, raw. "How do I know you're not still under Japeth's control? How can I believe any of this?!"
Vincent sighed deeply. It was a tired, weary sound, the kind that carries years of burden. Slowly, deliberately, he held out his hand—palm down. It was an offering, a symbol of truce. I hesitated, the weight of his gaze anchoring me even as my instincts screamed caution. My fingers closed around his hand, tentative but seeking some fragile connection. Then he dropped the stopwatch into my palm, the cold metal a stark contrast against my skin.
"I won't be needing it for now," he said softly, "so keep it. Let it be a sign—a tether between us."
In that instant, time cracked open again—the bubble we'd been trapped in shattering with a sound like breaking glass, the world rushing back into vivid color and relentless movement. I blinked against the sudden rush, disbelief thick in my chest. Then I nodded at Vincent, wordless agreement passing between us.
I turned sharply, my gaze landing on the attendant standing quietly near the throne. "Is there a way to descend the Tower quickly?" My voice was steady, even as my thoughts raced.
She nodded. "Each floor has an express elevator built for descending straight to the bottom."
Relief flickered through me, tempered by the urgency curling inside. I turned to the others. "Follow her. We move now."
No one questioned it. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
Then, locking eyes with Vincent once more, I braced myself. His voice followed, calm but resolute. "Tell the Council I won't be chasing them any longer. I intend to keep my word."
I nodded once, yet last question clenched at my throat. "Why did you tell me you were forbidden from stepping foot into Graywatch?"
Vincent hesitated, then slowly shrugged off his coat. The fabric slid from his shoulders with a whisper, pooling at his feet like the remnants of a past he could no longer hide. Then he began to roll up his sleeves, methodical, almost ceremonial.
My breath caught the moment the fabric pulled back from his forearm.
There it was. Not a wound, not a mark of war or time, but a scar, forged in something far older, far darker.
It shimmered—black and glassy, like obsidian fractured under pressure, glinting faintly under the low light. Scales, sleek, angular, and unmistakable etched into his flesh like a secret long buried, like a sin he never meant to show. They ran along his arm in a jagged path, as though the night sky itself had clawed its way beneath his skin and refused to let go.
I stared, frozen.
Not in fear—but in recognition.
"You're...draconic," I whispered, disbelief ringing through me.
"Half, technically, " Vincent replied quietly, "but enough for the effects to take hold."
The word 'draconic' felt like something out of myth, legend—impossible whispers of a forgotten past. I could see it all then, the history veiled behind his scar.
Long ago, during the primordial days of Graywatch, when its cobbled streets were still soaked in the blood of ambition and empire, a brutal civil war erupted within the borders of Soloris. Two royal bloodlines—Virellion and Halgrave—clashed for dominion over the throne, tearing their nation apart.
Graywatch became their battleground.
Amid the smoke and ruin stood a figure who would pass into legend: the Great Magus, Merlin De Verrasi. A loyalist to the Virellion line, Merlin's power was said to rival the gods themselves. In desperation, the Halgrave family turned to ancient forces long thought extinct, forging pacts with the remnants of the draconic race in order to counter Virellion's rising strength.
But the final siege changed everything.
With the city on the brink of annihilation, Merlin unleashed a spell unlike any cast before or since—a cataclysmic seal laced into the very stone and soil of Graywatch. From that moment on, no being bearing draconic blood could set foot within the city's walls. Their power was exiled from its heart. With their advantage stripped away, the Halgrave rebellion crumbled, and the Virellion line ascended the throne.
I swallowed hard. This wasn't just history; it was a living truth woven into Vincent's flesh, into the very blood that ran through him. My world felt like it shifted on its axis but I held steady, letting myself come to terms with the fact. I turned, slowly, reverently to walk away.
Just then Vincent spun, stopping me with a sharp grab to the wrist. "I forgot to tell you."
"What?" I asked, jumping back a little.
"Relics at Second Stage Progression always carry a price. In my case, every time someone uses the stopwatch... a sliver of their lifespan slips away. Keep that in mind, if you ever decide to wield it."
The gravity of that fact sank into me like a stone dropped in deep water.
Then we broke apart. I picked up my discarded dagger and revolver before trailing into the side room my party had been lead too. The rest of my group was waiting patiently in the elevator.
I stepped inside, but my thoughts didn't follow.
Instead, they lingered—on him.
Vincent.
My oldest friend. My mirror. My rival. My ruin.
We'd both carried our own sins like heirlooms, some too terrible to name, others too ordinary to earn forgiveness. I had hated him. Loved him. Feared him. And yet, somewhere deep beneath all that—beneath the bitterness and betrayal, beneath the blade pressed to my throat—there had always been this: a shared helplessness. A truth neither of us could escape.
We were being moved—shaped—by forces greater than ourselves. Bent by divine relics, tangled in contracts written by the hands of dead gods and bloodied kings. Shoved forward by curses older than memory. I had spent so long trying to outmaneuver him, trying to stay ahead of the man he'd become, only to realize now that we were both caught in the same tide. That he, too, had simply been doing what he could to survive.
Maybe that didn't excuse what he'd done. Maybe it never would.
But it was enough, for now.
I lingered for a breath, then I turned back to Vincent, the weight of everything still pressing on my chest.
"What about you?" I asked quietly. "What are you going to do now?"
"I need to give Helena a proper burial," he said, voice hollow with something akin to grief. "She deserves more than what this Tower gave her. Once that's done... I'll have to go into hiding. I don't imagine I'll be welcome anywhere near my homeland for a while."
Then his voice came again, softer this time. "Cecil, whatever happens, keep that theatrical spirit of yours. Face whatever they throw at you with a smile. Plant your foot firmly on the ground, and don't let them shake you."
I wanted to scoff, or laugh, or say something clever in return. But nothing came. My throat felt raw, scraped hollow from everything I hadn't screamed.
Still, I nodded. The promise hung between us like a fragile flame—delicate, flickering, but unyielding in its presence. I didn't know if it would be enough. I didn't know if I would be enough. But I could pretend. I could perform. That much I had always known how to do.
Smile through the blood. Pose beneath the falling debris. Let the world think you're invincible, even as your ribs ache with every breath.
The doors closed behind us with a final, echoing click, and the elevator began its descent—carrying us away from the Tower's oppressive shadow and into whatever future awaited.