Chapter 8: The Ripple Effect
Despite all my caution, planning, and rule-making, I knew it was only a matter of time (ha) before my extraordinary actions caused some unpredictable consequences. By the start of the next week, I began to notice small ripple effects radiating out from things I'd done with my power, subtle shifts in the pattern of events around me—some good, some troublesome.
The first ripple surfaced on Monday in a relatively innocuous way. Grace pulled me aside first thing and said, "Alex, I wanted to let you know I'm recommending you for the Genesis Project team."
I blinked. The Genesis Project was a new high-profile initiative at our company, something every ambitious person wanted to be on. "Wow, I—thank you. May I ask why?" (Not that I thought I was undeserving, but it was sudden).
She smiled. "Your performance lately has been stellar. Your insight in that meeting last week, your initiative on tasks… You've really leveled up. Keep it up and there's a leadership position in your future."
I managed to stammer appreciation. Inside, I felt a mix of pride and guilt. Pride because yes, I had been kicking butt at work; guilt because I knew at least some of it came from "cheating" with time stops to get ahead or appear insightful. This was a ripple: my misuse (or creative use) of the power to excel had tangibly altered my career trajectory. Was that fair? Others put in honest hours; I bent time. But then again, I still did the work, just in a different way. I decided to accept it, resolving that I'd work just as hard without power to prove I deserved it.
Another ripple effect: Ryan, perhaps spurred by seeing my uptick in confidence, was pushing himself too. On Tuesday, he asked me to hit the gym with him after work, something we'd rarely done together. In the weight room, as we spotted each other, he admitted, "Seeing you so on top of things, man… it's motivated me. I feel like I was coasting. Time to step it up."
I felt a twinge. My best friend was comparing himself to me, not knowing I had an unfair advantage. "You're doing great, Ry," I said honestly—he was a solid performer, if a bit more laid-back. But he shook his head. "Nah, I could do more. Like you. Who knew the quiet Alex had this beast mode in him?" He laughed, bench-pressing an impressive weight. I chuckled along, masking discomfort.
It's not a terrible ripple; if my improvement inspired someone positively, that's great. But it placed a new pressure: I was inadvertently becoming a role model based on a lie (or at least incomplete truth).
The more troubling ripple manifested mid-week. A stern man in a suit appeared at our office to meet with Grace and upper management. Word trickled down that he was from corporate security. The rumor mill churned: perhaps a data breach or someone misusing credentials. My heart skipped when I heard that—had some security camera or system flagged unusual behavior (like my login times being weirdly quick or me accessing files at impossible speeds)?
I became quietly paranoid. In a freeze, I slipped into the empty conference room where I knew they were meeting and quickly skimmed some docs on the table. It wasn't about me; it was about strange anomalies in building systems, timings of badge-ins not matching people's apparent presence, odd glitches. Essentially, a bunch of tiny inexplicable data points that, separately, meant nothing, but someone had compiled them.
This rattled me. I recognized a few items: one was likely the lobby camera "glitch" when I got my package; another was the security lock showing my badge on the 14th floor just a minute after I'd badged in at ground floor one day (yes, I'd frozen and zipped up). There were other things unrelated to me likely, but still, I realized my actions were leaving digital crumbs.
Ripple effect indeed: I had disturbed the waters and now corporate security was sniffing around. They didn't suspect a time-stopper, of course, but they suspected some kind of technical malfunction or possibly some employee hacking stuff. Grace sent a memo later that day: "All employees: please ensure you use your ID badges correctly and report any tailgating or system issues."
I resolved then: no more using the power in ways that digital systems could log. That meant rethinking things like door swipes and camera coverage. This was a sobering reminder that even if people didn't catch me, machines with time stamps might.
A different kind of ripple hit closer to home. The older lady from the sidewalk collision (the one I didn't or couldn't save) turned out to be the grandmother of an acquaintance, and she had a fracture. Ryan mentioned in passing, "Remember that accident outside our building? That lady's family is suing the city, I heard, for some sidewalk hazard."
It got me thinking: If I had intervened, maybe she wouldn't have broken her ankle. Or maybe I'd have made it worse somehow, who knows. But my inaction was a conscious choice then (deeming it not life-threatening). Now others were feeling repercussions. A classic ripple: do something, consequences; do nothing, other consequences. You can't win them all. It reinforced that I had to be selective but also accept I can't prevent all harm.
On a more personal front, I noticed subtle changes in how people interacted with me. Trevor, for instance, now often asked my opinion on his projects (a far cry from him doubting me before). Grace looped me in on higher-level discussions. Even folks like the office receptionist, Clara, would smile and chat more—she even jokingly asked if I had any more "daring rescues" planned. My bit of fame from the car incident and my improved presence had elevated my profile.
While flattering, it put me under a sharper lens. If things went weird around me now, people might pay more attention than when I was a wallflower. A ripple of increased visibility.
Thursday evening, I decided to take a break from responsibilities and use my ability for a pure personal indulgence that wouldn't risk systems or exposure: an early screening of a much-awaited movie. I froze time, walked into the theater unseen, and watched it by myself (had to unfreeze or at least partially unfreeze to get the projector going and sound—figured out how to allow just the projection booth computer and audio to run by tinkering, while I sat alone; a bit tricky, but hey, free movie).
It was a delightful experience, until the end when I resumed time outside the theater. Immediately I saw a series of missed calls and texts from Ryan and from… Maya.
Panicked, I checked. Apparently, while I was in my bubble, there was a situation: Ryan's younger sister had gotten lost downtown (she was visiting), and he was frantically trying to find her. He had called me for help since I knew the city well, and Maya (who had been out with him) texted that they were driving around looking.
A cold wave of guilt washed over me. Here I was, selfishly tuning out the world for a movie, while my friend was in distress needing me. And ironically, I had the perfect power to have helped—if I'd known. The ripple of isolating myself from communication during a freeze meant I couldn't respond in real-time to something important.
I immediately called him. They'd found her by then (she'd wandered into a bookstore and phone died; minor scare). Ryan was a bit curt on the phone, probably annoyed I went AWOL. I apologized, saying I'd silenced my phone in a movie (true enough) and didn't see the calls.
It's a small thing, but it shook me. If it had been more serious—what if something dangerous happened and I could have intervened but I was off "paused" from the world? It's another flip side: using the power can sometimes make you less available to people who might need you normally.
I met up with Ryan and Maya after to express relief and apologize in person. All was fine; we grabbed late-night burgers. Maya did ask, with a curiosity that made me slightly nervous, what movie I'd vanished to see since apparently I hadn't mentioned plans. I stammered some answer (can't even remember what, something forgettable). She gave me a funny look like she didn't quite buy it. Did she suspect something off? Or was I reading into it? Hard to say.
The cumulative effect of the week's events weighed on me. That night I wrote in my journal about unintended consequences. No matter how carefully I tread, something will always ripple out. The best I can do is try to anticipate and mitigate negative effects, but I won't catch all.
I added another rule or rather a corollary: Try to foresee second-order effects. Think a step beyond the immediate use of power. For example, if I speed through task A, how does that impact environment B? If I skip out frozen, who might look for me? Basically, be mindful.
I also pondered the ethical ripple: was I getting too comfortable lying? White lies so far, but I'd definitely fibbed more in the last couple months than probably years before (explanations for whereabouts, downplaying how I got stuff done, etc.). Little social deceptions to cover my tracks. Those can erode integrity or trust if I'm not careful. If one ripple is that I become a chronic liar, that's not good.
Yet, full honesty isn't an option either. Not yet. Maybe eventually with someone like Maya or Ryan, but I needed to be sure.
Friday morning, I was in a thoughtful mood. At work, I intentionally slowed down my pace a bit. I didn't jump on solving a problem instantly even though I could have with a quick time freeze. I let the team puzzle through it a while and contributed normally. Why? Because I realized the ripple of me being super efficient was that others felt pressured or overshadowed. Ryan's comment at the gym stuck with me—he's now overworking to "keep up." That wasn't my intent. So I eased off the gas to what felt like a more human (if still productive) level.
Interestingly, no one thought less of me; things proceeded fine. It was a reminder that I don't always need to maximize everything with this power. It's okay to operate at normal speed and let others shine too.
That evening, Trevor, of all people, invited me and a few others for drinks. Over beers, he got a bit tipsy and said something that struck me: "You know, Alex, at first I thought you were... I dunno, too good to be true recently. Like, nobody just... changes overnight. I even thought maybe you were on some brain-enhancing drug or something." He laughed, as if at a silly idea. My heart pounded. "But then I figured, people can change when they find their stride, right? So, good on you."
There it was. Someone did notice the abruptness of my jump. He rationalized it away with typical explanations, thankfully. But it's a ripple of suspicion that could have grown if I wasn't careful to make my progress seem organic. I made a mental note to pace any further "levelling up."
All in all, Chapter 8 of my journey was a sobering one. The ripple effect taught me that no action—especially not extraordinary ones—exists in a vacuum. Everything I do with this power can affect the world and people around me in seen and unseen ways.
By the weekend, I felt a renewal of cautious resolve. I wouldn't stop using my ability (it was part of me now and still so valuable), but I would be more strategic and thoughtful. The pond of life has a lot of ripples already; no need for me to splash recklessly.
I also realized perhaps I should have a contingency plan if anything ever went truly wrong—like if security anomalies piled up or someone got too curious. Maybe I could fabricate a plausible story? Or have an escape plan? That was a dark line of thought, but prudent.
However, a more optimistic solution to many ripple issues was clear too: having an ally who knew. That could solve lying, isolation, maybe help foresee consequences from another perspective. This brought me back to considering confiding in someone. The front-runner in my mind was of course Maya. We'd grown closer; I felt a connection intellectually and emotionally. But telling her was huge. What if it backfired? That fear held me back.
I decided I'd feel it out more. If trust deepened and an opportunity came where telling her made sense (perhaps if she directly observed something inexplicable), I might.
Little did I suspect that soon enough, circumstances would force my hand in ways I couldn't anticipate—those ripples might swell into waves, pushing me toward revealing my secret to someone whether I was ready or not.
But that was in the chapters to come. For now, I went to sleep Friday with a humble mindset, aware of my footprints in the fabric of cause and effect, and determined to create ripples of the positive kind if I could help it.
Chapter 9: Into the Gray
I always thought of myself as a decent person. Not saintly, but well-intentioned, law-abiding, kind enough. However, possessing the power to stop time had begun to test and blur the edges of my morality. By the time I stumbled into what I'd later call the "gray" chapter of this journey, I found myself wrestling with ethical dilemmas I never imagined and making choices that put my own rules to the test.
It started with a secret. Not mine—Trevor's. And I discovered it by doing something arguably unethical: I spied.
Let me set the scene. Early the following week, our team was neck-deep preparing for a major presentation to some executives. Trevor had a section to deliver, and I noticed he was unusually anxious. He snapped at a couple of junior analysts, had dark circles under his eyes. Something was off.
One evening, I stayed late to polish my part. The office was nearly empty, lights dimmed to nighttime mode. I heard a muffled, frustrated yell from Trevor's cubicle across the way. Curiosity piqued, I quietly wandered over. He was on the phone, clearly upset.
"I can't just come up with money like that!" I heard him hiss. "Please, just give me another week… No, I'm good for it. I will be, I swear—" He noticed me then, peering over the partition. He hung up abruptly, flushing with either anger or embarrassment or both.
We locked eyes. His were bloodshot. In that moment, I felt a pang of empathy. This wasn't the smug rival I often contended with; this was a guy in trouble.
"You uh, okay Trevor?" I asked gently.
"Fine. I'm fine," he said, too quickly. He gathered his bag. "Working late, huh? See you tomorrow." He brushed past me and left.
I stood there, mind whirling. Money? Owed? Trevor lived a flashy lifestyle—nice car, expensive clothes. Perhaps he was in debt, or worse, in some kind of shady situation.
This ate at me. And here comes the questionable part: I decided to investigate. My rationalization: if he was compromised financially, that could affect the project or be a risk to the team. Also, if he needed help, maybe I could quietly offer it (I had some savings).
But investigating meant prying. The next day, I froze time for a brief window mid-morning when Trevor left his desk for coffee. In the stillness, I sat at his computer (unlocked in his absence) and combed through what I could—emails, open documents. Yes, an utter invasion of privacy.
I discovered enough: large gambling debts, some cryptic exchanges with what looked like a bookie or loan shark, and a desperate plan of his to perhaps steal or "borrow" some company funds to cover it (there were excel sheets open with amounts that looked suspiciously like he was fiddling with expense reports).
I felt a chill. This was serious. A ripple about to turn into a wave that could wreck Trevor's career, maybe more. In that frozen moment, I realized I held this man's fate in my hands. I could intervene—how?
Option 1: Confront him directly, admit I knew (can't, without revealing how).
Option 2: Anonymously tip off someone (that could get him fired or arrested).
Option 3: Try to solve it quietly—maybe use my power to fix the financial side?
Option 3 was ethically gray but tempting. I had the power to perhaps locate where he keeps evidence of debts or even use time-stop to, say, win a lottery or something and funnel money to clear his issues (though that opens a whole other ethical can of worms).
I stepped away from his desk and resumed time, heart pounding. This was beyond just me now; someone else's wrongdoing entangled with my secret knowledge.
All day, Trevor's strained face haunted me. By evening, I made a decision: I'd try to save him from this mess, using my abilities covertly, but only to the extent that I was preventing a greater harm (the company being defrauded, his life possibly being at risk from criminals).
This led me down a slippery slope I hadn't anticipated. That night, I basically played vigilante accountant. I snuck into Trevor's office after hours (freezing time to bypass security, cameras, etc.) and located physical evidence of his dealings—a notebook in his drawer with figures, some threatening letters. I used my phone to snap pictures.
Then I did something that really sits in the gray: I adjusted the company's accounting system. I knew which expenses he was likely planning to siphon from (thanks to those Excel sheets). During a time-stop, I created preemptive corrections: basically ensuring any bogus transaction he attempted would get flagged or not go through. It's as if an invisible hand was safeguarding the money.
I also composed an anonymous letter (printed at a library to avoid tracing) to him: something like, "I know what you're considering. Don't. There are other ways out. Get help for your gambling. A concerned friend." I slipped this into his home mailbox (time-stopped to do so unseen).
The next day, he was quieter, jumpy. He definitely got the letter because I overheard him on a very hushed call setting up an appointment with a therapist (good) and telling someone he'd have their money soon.
That someone—loan shark presumably—still posed a threat. So I took yet another step into gray territory: I tipped the police anonymously about an illegal gambling ring at a certain location referenced in Trevor's notes. During a brief freeze I looked through his phone for addresses of these unsavory contacts (I know, I know, terrible breach). With that intel, the authorities could crack down, maybe taking the heat off Trevor by removing the sharks from play.
Within a week, word spread in city news about a gambling den raid. Trevor's frightening contact went silent (I saw an email from the guy basically saying to all clients "We're out of business" in not so nice terms).
Trevor, without naming anything, confided in me that things were "looking up" and he "owed me one" for talking to him that night, as if my mere presence jolted him to rethink. Little did he know.
So here I was, meddling in crime, saving a person who never asked for saving, altering financial systems and tipping law enforcement—all from the shadows. I felt exhilaration at effectively averting a potential disaster and possibly helping Trevor onto a better path. But I also felt dirty. I'd used invasive tactics; I'd broken laws technically (hacking, trespassing, vigilantism).
That's the gray. Good ends, questionable means.
And it didn't stop at Trevor's case. The more comfortable I got straddling that line, the easier it became to justify. For example, I started eavesdropping regularly to gather intel on various things—Grace's conversations, HR discussions (I discovered a round of layoffs was considered but then scrapped after we won a contract—insider knowledge that relieved me but I wasn't supposed to have).
I also once froze time to help a stranger in a way that felt morally ambiguous: I was out at night and came across a heated argument between a street vendor and a drunk man that was getting physical. The drunk knocked over the vendor's table, broke some items. The vendor looked so distressed. The drunk walked off laughing. I was furious. In a split-second choice, I froze time, went to the drunk, took his wallet, and then returned to the scene and resumed time. I feigned that it must have fallen from his pocket in the scuffle.
The vendor found it and was able to get compensation (I nudged him to take out whatever his damages cost; the drunk was too confused to object much when he realized his wallet was out and money missing, especially since others were now chastising him).
It felt like poetic justice, but reality: I stole money. Vigilante retribution. Very gray.
Each of these incidents on its own I could morally rationalize: Trevor might have stolen far more— I prevented that and possibly saved him; the drunk owed that vendor— I enforced it roughly.
But taken together, I noticed I was more readily breaking rules to serve what I saw as the greater good or my sense of justice.
It concerned me. Was I sliding toward some kind of complex where I think I know best and can act above the law? That's a classic downfall in those cautionary tales of superpowered individuals.
One quiet evening, I sat with these thoughts. The mirror inward was stark: I had to acknowledge I'd violated at least three of my own rules in recent days:
Used power for significant deception/manipulation. Possibly harmed someone (the drunk lost money, though arguably deserved). Definitely engaged in illegal acts (trespassing, hacking).
I felt I did it for mostly right reasons, but that's what everyone thinks when they do something shady, right? Nobody is the villain in their own story.
This introspection led me to a personal crossroad. How far will I go? I asked myself. Where is the line?
I resolved some new boundaries. For example, I promised not to keep any stolen money or benefit personally in material terms from such acts (so at least I wasn't doing it for greed). Also, I decided I should seek alternative, legitimate solutions first before time-fixing a problem.
Trevor's case arguably I could have just confronted him normally or alerted Grace to a concern. I chose cloak and dagger because it was easier and ensured the outcome I wanted. That's playing God a bit.
I talked hypothetically with Maya one day (keeping things vague) about whether ends justify means. We were discussing a movie plot actually, where a character lies to take down a corrupt official. She surprised me by saying, "Sometimes doing the wrong thing is the only way to do the right thing. But it can cost your soul if you're not careful."
She said it lightly, but looked at me intently. I got the sense she suspected I was chewing on something personally relevant. I deflected with a joke about my soul being too stubborn to corrupt.
But her words stuck: cost your soul.
After all my secret heroics, did I feel my soul lighter or heavier? Honestly, I felt a bit burdened. Maybe I saved Trevor's, but I carried the weight of the lies and rule-breaking needed to do it.
It reached a peak when at week's end, HR sent an email about "anonymous workplace concerns" and that everyone should report things through proper channels, etc. Perhaps someone sensed odd stuff (maybe the security guy who compiled anomalies, or Trevor's near-incident with finances came to slight attention though ultimately no money was missing due to my intervention). It was a generic email, but it felt pointed at me—like the universe or my conscience reminding me I was bypassing proper channels too often.
The gray had to be temporary, I told myself. I wouldn't make a habit of playing secret savior or judge. Ideally, Trevor gets straight, vendors get justice via normal means, etc.
Still, a part of me also realized this might be wishful thinking. Having this power means I'll always be tempted to solve things directly. And sometimes, frankly, it works brilliantly and quickly, far better than normal bureaucracy or chance.
Is it arrogant to think I can manage it better than the system? Yes. But sometimes it's true—the system fails people often. I have the one cheat that can fix things behind the scenes.
Thus, into the gray I went, acknowledging it's not black or white.
By the end of that chapter, I solidified my resolve to be cautious but not paralyzed. Maybe I'm not a paragon of virtue, but I'll strive to keep my heart in the right place and my actions as clean as possible, knowing there will be times I step over lines.
In a way, it reminded me why many heroes in stories form a code—like never kill, or always give a choice. I might need a clearer code for myself if I continue this double-life do-gooding.
I revisited my rules list and amended it with something like: "If breaking a law or rule, be sure it prevents greater harm and try to minimize collateral damage; never do it for personal gain or out of malice."
That's the best I could come up with to navigate the moral fog.
I also confronted the possibility: what if I mess up? What if one of these stunts goes wrong or gets me caught? I'd better prepare for that eventuality—maybe have something in place like a fake explanation or an escape plan. I jotted a few ideas (like claiming I was working with police if cornered in one of these interventions—they'd likely not believe it but you never know).
That weekend, I took it easy on heroics and tried normalcy—spent time with Ryan and his sister at a daytime event, had a lovely long chat with Maya at a coffee shop where we delved more into our personal histories (I learned she had a rebellious streak in college, leading protests; she hinted she isn't afraid to break rules for justice either—that made me smile and wonder what she'd think of my escapades).
As I went to sleep Sunday, I felt a cautious optimism. I'd navigated the gray and hadn't lost myself yet. If anything, I felt more mature, though perhaps that's just self-justification.
One thing was certain: the simplistic boundary of "never do wrong" was behind me. I was now operating on a more complex moral algorithm—one I hoped would hold and not degrade.
Little did I know, the gray would soon shade darker and force me to finally break my isolation and bring someone into the fold. The aftermath of these choices was on the horizon, and I would need all the ethical clarity and support I could get when it arrived.
For now, I allowed myself a tentative pat on the back for trying to do right in tricky situations, and an admonishment to stay vigilant about my own intentions. The mirror was watching, after all, and I wanted to still meet my own eyes with pride at the end of the day.
Chapter 10: Maya's World
In the end, it was trust—simple, human trust—that pulled me fully out of the gray and back into the light. Trust, and Maya.
After weeks of secret-keeping, moral gymnastics, and near-misses, fate (or perhaps my own accumulating missteps) orchestrated an event that made me finally reveal my power to someone. That someone was Maya, and it changed everything.
It happened on a Thursday evening. Maya and I had started a tradition of sorts: mid-week dinner at a modest rooftop restaurant near the office, just to unwind. It wasn't explicitly a date, but it had that energy—comfortable, anticipatory. I looked forward to those dinners more than I dared admit.
That evening, we were on the rooftop finishing dessert as the sun set golden over the skyline. The conversation was easy, flowing from light office gossip to deeper life aspirations. I found myself opening up about feeling different lately, in a guarded way.
"I went through a period of…intense self-improvement recently," I told her as I stirred my coffee. "It's hard to explain. Like waking up and seeing things clearer."
Maya gave me that perceptive, gentle look. "I can tell, you know. There's a new confidence. But also something weighs on you. You can trust me if you ever want to talk about it."
My heart thudded. Was this the moment? The urge to tell her welled up, but fear still clamped my tongue. I managed only, "Thank you. I…maybe soon. There are things I'm still sorting out myself."
She smiled. "Fair enough. Just know I'm here."
Those words did something. I realized how badly I wanted someone to share this with, and how much I wanted that someone to be her. But I didn't want it to be out of selfish relief; it needed to be right for her too.
As we left the restaurant, twilight settling, we decided to walk a bit, enjoying the warm evening. The streets were moderately busy. We passed an alley near an upscale bar where a few people loitered. I was half-listening to Maya recall a silly anecdote when I caught a threatening tone from the alley: a man's raised voice, angry, a woman's voice pleading.
I paused, holding Maya's arm lightly. "Did you hear that?"
We inched toward the alley entrance. Inside, under a flickering lamp, a man was aggressively confronting a woman, pinning her to the wall. She looked terrified. It took me half a second to recognize: the man was the drunk from the vendor incident (small world, or just city life). He was yelling slurred insults; the woman might've been a date or stranger, not sure, but she was definitely in distress.
I felt a surge of righteous anger. This guy again.
Maya whispered, "We should call 911."
The man slapped the woman—hard. She cried out softly.
No time. Without thinking further, I said to Maya, "Stay here," and I stepped into the alley.
"Hey!" I shouted. The man spun around, surprised. I saw his face contort with drunken rage. Not again.
He advanced toward me, letting the woman scurry a few steps away. "Mind your business, hero," he spat, recognizing me perhaps (or just sarcastic).
Maya was behind me, I could sense her anxious presence at the alley mouth. This could get bad—he was bigger than me, and possibly armed? Who knew.
He lunged at me, surprisingly fast in his stupor. I reacted on instinct the only way I could ensure no one gets hurt: I froze time.
The world went silent and still—except, to my shock, one thing: Maya.
She gasped audibly. I turned. She was not frozen—she stood at the alley's entrance, eyes wide, watching me and the frozen man mid-lunge.
I think my heart stopped for a beat. How? How was she…?
Then I realized: In my rush, I had grabbed her arm earlier instinctively as I stepped forward. I was touching her when I triggered the freeze. Like objects I carry with me, she was carried into my time-stop bubble.
We stared at each other, the impossible reality around us. She looked at the motionless attacker inches from me, the suspended flicker of the alley lamp, even a tossed trash lid frozen mid-roll on the ground. Then back at me.
Her lips parted, but no sound came— she was in such shock.
I managed to say softly, "Maya, I can explain."
She fainted.
I caught her before she hit the ground—thank god I still had enhanced reflexes in this state. I gently eased her to a sitting position, heart pounding not from danger now but from the sheer magnitude of this moment.
I hadn't anticipated that bringing someone into the frozen world might overwhelm them physically or mentally. Her eyes were closed, pulse faint but present. She was breathing—just out cold.
Alright. Focus. This was a mess, but also an opportunity I couldn't back out of. She knew something now, even if she might think it a dream or hallucination. I had to handle this right when she came to.
First, to resolve the current situation: The attacker was still frozen, arm outstretched angrily. The woman he'd been harassing was also frozen a few yards away, mid-run.
I gently lifted Maya in my arms (she's light) and carried her out of the alley onto a bench on the main street, away from immediate danger.
I resumed time for a split second to see if she'd rouse— she stayed unconscious. The world sprang to normal, sounds of traffic and distant chatter.
The woman in the alley shrieked now that the man's attention was off her; I peeked— he looked confused, as if he lost a few seconds (which he did). She seized that moment to wriggle free. He cursed and stumbled after her.
Not good. I froze time again (Maya in my arms now, so she came with me into freeze by contact—this time she remained limp, luckily our weird dynamic didn't drop her).
I set Maya gently on the bench. I had to finish this encounter with the drunk decisively so I could focus on Maya.
What to do? I'm not a fan of violence, but perhaps just scare him off? Or restrain him?
I decided on a crude solution: I removed his belt (time-stop perks, he won't feel it until after). Using it and some nearby zip-ties from a construction sign, I bound his arms behind him and tied the belt around his legs like shackles. I tipped him onto the ground in a recovery position (I didn't want him to choke if still very drunk).
I also took his ID from his wallet. This guy needed to face consequences beyond my vigilante reimbursements.
I left him there trussed and resumed time. Immediately the man crashed to the ground, bound. The woman, now at alley's end, turned and watched in astonishment as her assailant flopped like a caught fish, cursing and utterly confused how he got tied up. A couple bystanders came to see, and I called out, "Call the police! He attacked that woman."
Within minutes, authorities were on the way (I gave a quick statement, leaving out my involvement except "I saw him trip and somehow he got tangled"—they found it bizarre but the evidence of his aggression and previous trouble at that bar sufficed for them to take him in).
I then quickly returned focus to Maya. She was still out, but stirring a bit. People were distracted with the alley scene.
I gently pat her face. "Maya? Maya, wake up."
She moaned softly, eyelids fluttering. Then she opened them and saw me. Relief flooded her face, then sudden memory made her sit bolt upright. She looked around—things were normal now: night sounds, people on sidewalks, nothing frozen.
"What… Alex, what happened? That man—"
"He's taken care of. You're safe," I said softly.
She pressed her hands to her temples. "I… I saw… I mean, I thought I saw—" She broke off, uncertainty warring with what her eyes witnessed.
I had a choice: gaslight her, or confirm the truth. The time had come.
Taking a deep breath, I said quietly, "You saw correctly. What happened back there... I stopped time, Maya."
Her eyes searched mine, expecting a joke, but finding only earnest seriousness. A streetlight above cast her face in a glow; I could see fear and wonder all at once.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before," I continued. "I never told anyone. I didn't mean for you to find out like that. But yes... I have this ability. I can slow or stop time, and bring things—or people I'm touching—into my bubble of time with me."
She just stared, mouth slightly open. So I kept talking, filling the silence with a babble of explanation: how it started, a quick summary of my journey with it (omitting some of the darker details for now, focusing on discovery, testing, using it to help in emergencies like how we met by the car incident etc).
As I spoke, her expression shifted from shock to a kind of awe, and then to something like concern or empathy.
When I trailed off, awaiting her verdict, she finally spoke in a soft, trembling voice, "You've been carrying this secret all this time… alone?"
That wasn't the reaction I expected first (like "holy shit you have a superpower" or something). Leave it to Maya to cut straight to the human element.
"Y-yeah," I admitted. "It's been…heavy."
She reached out and took my hand firmly. "Thank you for trusting me now."
I felt a lump in my throat. "I trust you. Completely."
We sat there for a moment, the din of the city around us, but in our little bubble of conversation I felt stillness (without even stopping time).
She then asked the questions I anticipated: the how (I don't know, it just happened), the limits (I told her what I knew), was I hurt or changed (I explained the side effects, the ethical struggles).
Her analytical side kicked in too—she wanted to understand the mechanics, but wove in were her feelings: amazement at what I did to intervene in situations, worry about how it affects me, a bit of scolding that I nearly got myself hurt confronting that man (powers or not, he could have gotten a lucky swing).
I laughed, a weight lifting, "Well, I wasn't about to let him hurt you or that woman."
That made her eyes soften. "You really are a hero, you know." She said it not as flattery, but as a plain fact that I still had trouble embracing.
"I don't know. I'm trying to be a good person who happens to have a cheat code," I said ruefully.
That's when I told her the rest—my mistakes, the gray things. It all poured out: altering files to save Trevor, the peanut prank, the vendor and drunk wallet incident, everything. I needed her to know the full truth, not a sanitized version.
She listened quietly. Occasionally her brow furrowed (stealing money from the drunk made her give me a small "tsk"), but she didn't interrupt.
When I finished, I felt drained, vulnerable. "So… that's me," I concluded lamely. "Now you know it all."
Maya was silent for a while, processing. Then she squeezed my hand (she hadn't let go since taking it). "That is… a lot. Honestly, I might freak out later when this fully sinks in. But, Alex—" She turned to face me fully. "I'm on your side. This ability of yours, it's part of you. And from everything you've said, you're doing your best with it, even if you stumbled. No one can exactly give you a guidebook for this."
I felt tears prick my eyes at her immediate acceptance and support. I blinked them away.
She continued, a faint smile on her lips, "It's kind of ironic. I always felt you had something special under the surface. I just never imagined it was… freeze-framing time between PowerPoint presentations."
I laughed, actual tears escaping now in relief and amusement. She reached and thumbed one off my cheek, a gesture so tender it made my heart do a flip.
We spent the next hour talking more in-depth. She asked what it felt like to stop time; I did my best to describe the solitude, the visual oddities. She was fascinated and asked if I could show her sometime, now that she knew.
I was a bit hesitant, given her initial fainting. But she was insistent (and excited like a kid wanting to try a rollercoaster again after the first scared them).
So, we made a plan: a short, controlled time-stop together, while holding hands (she jokingly said "first base in the time bubble, nice").
I found a quiet corner by a park, and I told her to take deep breaths. Then I triggered it.
We stood under a streetlamp as the world went still. Maya remained alert this time (prepared for the sensation). Her eyes darted around at the frozen scene: a cyclist mid-pedal on the road, a hummingbird literally hanging in mid-air by a flower bush (that one made her gasp in delight).
She walked around, still gripping my hand tightly like she thought I might disappear. "This is incredible," she whispered (not that she needed to whisper; nothing else could hear).
She turned to me, face illuminated in the lamplight, and I could see pure exhilaration. "I feel like… like we're gods stepping through a painting."
I chuckled. "Small g gods maybe. It's mostly just being alone with a lot of… statues."
She nodded thoughtfully. "I can see how lonely it must have been for you. Promise you won't use it to hide away now. Not when you have me." She said it warmly, without presumptuousness, simply an offering of companionship.
I realized I didn't just gain a confidant tonight; we crossed into a deeper intimacy. Not romantic yet per se, but the potential was there shining in her eyes.
"I promise," I said solemnly. Then with a playful grin, "Unless maybe you and I want a private getaway—no lines at Disneyland or something."
She laughed brightly, soundless in the frozen world but lighting up my heart regardless.
I resumed time after a few more minutes (to avoid straining myself further). She looked a touch dizzy but steadied quickly. "Wow," was all she managed initially.
We parted late that night, after endless conversation and some comfortable silences too, digesting all this.
Before catching her taxi, Maya hugged me tightly. "Thank you for sharing your world with me," she murmured near my ear.
"You're a part of it now," I replied, hugging back with gratitude and affection. "I don't know how I managed before you."
She pulled back, gave me a quick peck on the cheek (sending my brain into a happy fizz), and got in the cab, waving as it drove off.
I stood there on the sidewalk, feeling like the world around me was more vivid than ever. No longer did it feel like I was apart; I had someone in it with me, fully.
That night I slept deeply and without nightmares for the first time in ages. The next day at work, the sight of Maya across the room made me break into a spontaneous smile, which Ryan caught and raised an eyebrow at (I just shrugged—let him think what he wants, he'd be right).
Maya and I haven't defined anything explicitly about us yet, but the trust and bond is undeniable. With her support, I feel prepared to face whatever comes next—be it further moral quandaries, new uses of my power, or just the regular ups and downs of life.
"Maya's World" is what I dubbed this chapter, but really it's our world now, shared. She gives me perspective: for instance, we talked about clear guidelines for when to intervene or not, and she provides a moral compass when mine wavers. Already, she convinced me to anonymously fund an assistance program for gambling addicts instead of stealthily fixing individuals one by one (using my own money, not time-swindled). A more systemic good.
In turn, I think I've given her a sense of wonder she cherished (she joked I better take her on a frozen Paris trip someday and I just might).
I realize now knowledge may be power, but shared knowledge—that's something greater. I don't carry the burden alone, and that makes me stronger and more careful, ironically.
We even established a sort of fail-safe: if I ever get stuck or if something goes awry in frozen time while she's with me, we have signals and plans (like she'll try to jostle me or we'll test pulling each other out, etc.). Her organized mind at work.
As I pen down thoughts in my trusty journal (with Maya sitting next to me reading quietly—she knows all about this journal now and respects it's my reflection space), I feel a profound sense of closure on this first arc of my journey.
What began as an isolated young man stumbling through a bizarre gift has transformed into two people forging a path together, grounded in realism yet open to extraordinary possibilities.
There will be more challenges, no doubt. But I no longer fear losing myself, because I have someone to keep me in check, and someone I'd never want to disappoint.
Looking back at the chapter titles I whimsically gave my experiences: The Slowest Second, Glitches, Freeze-Frame… all leading to Maya's World. It's poetic, I suppose, that a power over time led me to appreciate moments more, especially the moments spent with someone meaningful.
Time manipulation or not, time itself is precious, and sharing it with others is what gives it meaning. That might be the biggest lesson I've learned.
As for what comes next? Well, I have dreams. Maybe using my power in research with Maya's help (she teased applying for grants to secretly accelerate lab experiments). Maybe one day being more public if it could help people, but that's a far-off consideration.
For now, I'll take life one day (and occasionally one suspended second) at a time, grateful that I'm not alone in it anymore.
And when I doubt or question, I have Maya's steady gaze to mirror myself in, and that makes all the difference.