The city never truly slept, but Michael hadn't noticed its rhythms in weeks. His world had shrunk to four walls, scattered notebooks, and the ticking of a silver watch that seemed louder with each passing night. He lay on his narrow bed fully dressed, his eyes wide in the darkness, staring at the ceiling where the light from a flickering streetlamp cut restless patterns.
Sleep never came easily anymore. When it did, it was shallow, restless — filled with dreams of Arthur's voice echoing through empty halls, of the watch ticking inside his skull, of rain hitting stone as though marking time for him. He woke each morning feeling older, though only days had passed.
Tonight he gave up on the idea of rest entirely. He pushed himself upright and reached for the nearest notebook. Its pages were already crowded with lines and symbols, his handwriting feverish and tilted. He flipped through, searching for a blank space, but found none. He grabbed another, one of dozens scattered across his desk.
The pen in his hand moved before he had fully formed the thought. Diagrams poured out — arcs of energy, grids branching like rivers, numbers that connected and spiraled into something larger. He whispered as he wrote, fragments of ideas tumbling like prayer.
Not just energy. Not just a reactor. A system.
Arthur's voice surfaced in memory, calm, patient: "Knowledge is fire, Michael. Carry it carefully, or it will consume you."
Michael pressed harder, the nib digging into the paper. What if the world needed consuming? What if the old ways had to burn?
The clock ticked louder, as though answering him. Tick. Tick. Tick.
---
By morning, the desk was buried in fresh pages. His eyes ached, bloodshot, but the hunger inside him burned brighter. He shoved the papers into a battered satchel, the strap frayed from years of use. As he did, there came a knock at the door.
Michael froze. Visitors were rare, almost unheard of. He opened the door cautiously to find a man in a gray suit standing in the hallway. The man's shoes gleamed despite the rain, his face unreadable.
"Mr. Rivers," the man said. "Miss Bellamy requests your presence this afternoon. The estate."
Michael's breath caught. "Claire?"
The man didn't answer. He simply extended a card with the Bellamy crest stamped in silver.
Michael closed the door slowly, the card heavy in his hand. The ticking watch in his pocket seemed to grow louder, as though marking another step toward something inevitable.
---
The Bellamy estate looked different in daylight. The rain had passed, leaving the hedges glistening with droplets, the stone steps slick beneath the weak sun. Michael's taxi rolled to a stop, and again a guard opened the door before he could reach for the handle.
He was led through the same echoing corridors, past portraits of grim ancestors. But this time, it was not Richard waiting behind the desk.
Claire stood near the tall windows, light pouring across her shoulders. She had shed her military jacket for a simpler blouse, but even in softer clothing she carried the same discipline in every line of her posture. She turned as the attendant closed the door.
"Michael." Her voice was even, but there was something softer in her eyes than there had been the night before.
He inclined his head awkwardly. "Claire."
They stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of years hanging between them. Michael saw her as she had been—a girl laughing in the park, a daisy pressed into his hand. She saw him only as he was now: thin, haunted, clutching a satchel as if it held the last of his life.
Finally, she gestured toward the desk. "Sit. My father will join us soon. Until then, I want to hear from you directly."
Michael lowered himself into the chair, the satchel on his lap. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled out the notebooks. He spread them across the desk, page after page covered in lines and numbers, sketches of machines that didn't exist yet.
"This is what I've been working on," he said. His voice was low but steady. "Not theory. Not dreams. A system that could change everything. I call it Helios."
Claire leaned forward, scanning the pages. Her brow furrowed as she tried to follow the dense equations. "Explain it to me. Not in symbols. In words."
Michael swallowed. He placed a hand on one sketch — a circle of lines that looked almost like a sun.
"The world runs on chains," he said. "Oil, coal, nuclear plants built on politics and fear. Every light we switch on is paid for with blood somewhere. I want to break that. Imagine capturing the sun in a glass, fire that doesn't consume, energy that never runs out. Power that isn't a weapon, but a foundation."
Claire's eyes lifted from the page to him. "And you think you can do this?"
Michael met her gaze. "I know I can."
Her expression remained careful, but something flickered in her eyes—whether intrigue or doubt, he couldn't tell.
---
The door opened. Richard Bellamy entered, his presence filling the room like storm clouds. He glanced at the notebooks spread across his desk, then at Claire, then at Michael.
"Ah. Proof," Richard said softly. He moved behind the desk, his fingers brushing across the pages. "Or the beginnings of it."
Michael sat straighter. "It's more than beginnings. It's a blueprint."
Richard studied the diagrams, then lifted his eyes. "Do you know how many men have claimed they could bottle the sun? Scientists with entire universities behind them. Corporations with billions. And you—" his gaze swept over Michael's thin frame, his threadbare suit— "you think you can succeed where they failed?"
Michael's voice was sharp. "Because I don't see fragments. I see the whole. And because I don't have the luxury of time."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Claire's brow furrowed, but she said nothing. Richard's eyes narrowed.
"You speak like a man already burning his last candle," Richard said.
Michael's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. He said nothing.
Richard let the silence stretch, then turned to Claire. "Well? You asked to hear him. Do you believe?"
Claire hesitated. Her gaze returned to Michael, to the hunger in his eyes, the fever that seemed to drive him. She thought of the girl she had once been, laughing in the park, and the boy who had watched her with such unguarded wonder.
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But I believe he believes."
Richard's lip curled. "Faith is a poor currency. But sometimes, it is enough to open a door."
He closed the notebooks with deliberate care, stacking them neatly. "Very well. You will have resources—limited, conditional. Claire will oversee operations. Fail, and this ends immediately. Succeed…" His eyes glinted. "And you will find enemies more powerful than you can imagine."
Michael's pulse thundered. He nodded once. "Then I'll give them something worth fearing."
---
When he left the estate that afternoon, the storm clouds had broken. Sunlight streamed through the trees, striking the wet stones until they glowed. Michael walked down the steps slowly, the watch ticking in his pocket.
For the first time since the crash, the sound wasn't a countdown dragging him toward death. It was rhythm. A heartbeat.
Behind him, Claire watched from the window, her expression unreadable.