The warehouse was still, but silence was never kind.
Michael sat on the concrete floor, back pressed against a rusted beam, the stale taste of metal in his mouth. The prototype was dead now, its faint smoke curling upward like a spent prayer. What lingered wasn't light or warmth, but the smell of overworked circuits, the residue of failure.
He tilted his head back, staring at the cracked skylight. The moon hung there, fractured by glass, as if the night itself refused to show him anything whole. His hands rested limply on his knees. They shook in the shadows.
Not steady. Not anymore.
Tick.
The pocket watch sat on a stool nearby, its rhythm louder than breath. Tick. Tick. Tick. Not just time passing—it was gears grinding in his head, teeth biting into one another, always moving forward, never pausing, never allowing rest.
Michael closed his eyes. The silence pressed harder. And underneath it, memory stirred.
---
Hospital Gears
Antiseptic stung his nose. Machines beeped in arrhythmic sympathy. He had floated in and out of that hospital room, tethered only by Arthur's voice.
"Time is all we get, son. Don't waste it."
He remembered waking, Arthur's hand locked around his, the old man's grip firmer than any machine in that room. Michael had thought then that maybe sheer will could hold a man in place against death.
But even Arthur's hand couldn't stop the gears. Six months, the doctors had said. Maybe less.
Tick.
Michael jolted awake from the memory, the ticking now deafening.
---
The Chalk Cathedral
He staggered to his feet, legs weak, crossing to the chalkboards. The walls were a cathedral of equations, white dust coating every surface, every smear.
He pressed a palm against the nearest board. It didn't feel like numbers anymore—it felt like machinery, each symbol another cog, each formula another spring. He could almost hear them turning in his skull, grinding forward, faster and faster, until sparks threatened to fly.
The more he wrote, the hungrier he became. But knowledge never filled him. It only widened the hollow. Each new solution was like bread crumbling in his mouth, leaving him emptier than before.
Helios. His sun. His rebellion.
But staring at the collapsed prototype, he realized the truth: he wasn't building the sun. He was feeding a hunger that never stopped.
---
The Sleeping Witnesses
At the far end of the warehouse, Lena had collapsed onto a cot, grease still streaking her cheek. One arm shielded her eyes. Beside her, Elliot had dozed off in a chair, his laptop casting a weak glow over his restless face.
They were here because of him. Because they believed—or at least feared what might happen if they didn't.
Michael felt guilt stir, sharp as glass. He should tell them to leave. To save themselves from a machine of gears already winding too fast. But then the pocket watch ticked again, and guilt gave way to resolve.
If the gears wouldn't stop, then neither would he.
---
The Watch
He picked it up, the silver cold against his palm. The tick echoed through his bones.
"Why won't you stop?" he whispered.
It didn't stop. It never would.
In its rhythm, he thought he heard Arthur's voice: "You don't master time, Michael. You outwork it."
Michael's throat tightened. He gripped the watch until it bit into his hand.
"Then I'll outwork it," he muttered. "I'll feed every second with knowledge until there's nothing left to take."
---
Chalk and Teeth
He sat again at the boards, chalk grinding against slate like teeth gnashing. Equations sprawled, loops within loops. Magnetic containment fields, cooling systems jerry-rigged from spare parts, fantasies of efficiency drawn over scavenged scraps.
Every number was a cog snapping into place, turning the great unseen machine inside his mind. Faster. Louder. Hungrier.
He stopped once, staring at the chalk in his hand, fingers blistered from the grip. His reflection stared back from the darkened window—gaunt, eyes hollow, jaw clenched like a man chewing stones.
This wasn't study anymore. It was feeding.
---
Dawn
By the time dawn crawled across the warehouse floor, Lena stirred on her cot. Elliot shifted, mumbling something in his sleep. But Michael didn't notice.
He was still at the boards, hand raw, mind racing. The prototype sat broken, but on the walls Helios glowed brighter, each equation another promise, another bite taken from the universe.
The watch ticked behind him, merciless.
Michael whispered to it, not in defiance but in prayer. "Keep ticking. Just… give me enough."
The gears turned on, indifferent. Tick. Tick. Tick.
And Michael bent his head again, feeding the hunger that would not let him stop.