The Awakening
The sun had clawed its way above the city by the time Lena stirred from her cot. She sat up slowly, stretching sore arms, rubbing grease into her eyes. The warehouse air smelled of chalk dust, solder, and exhaustion.
Her gaze drifted to Michael. He hadn't moved. Still at the boards, chalk grinding against slate with manic precision. The equations had grown during the night, sprawling across surfaces like vines choking a house.
"Jesus, Rivers," Lena muttered, voice rough. "Do you even sleep?"
Michael didn't answer. He was already halfway through another line of calculations, lips moving silently. The chalk squealed, the sound sharp as teeth on glass.
Tick.
The pocket watch on the stool kept its steady rhythm. Lena hated that sound. It had become the heartbeat of the warehouse, faster than her own.
---
Elliot's Friction
Elliot groaned awake in his chair, hair sticking up at odd angles. He blinked at the chalkboards, then at Michael. "Please tell me you didn't pull another all-nighter."
Michael's hand froze for a moment before continuing. "Time doesn't wait."
Elliot rubbed his face. "Neither does death from exhaustion." He shut the laptop balanced precariously on his knees and stood, stretching. "One of these days, you're going to collapse mid-equation and I'll have to explain to Lena that our fearless leader starved himself to death solving for X."
"Don't joke," Lena snapped, her tone sharper than intended. Elliot raised his hands in mock surrender. But she didn't look away from Michael. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, every line of him wound like a spring too far turned.
---
Pushing the Prototype
By mid-morning, Michael had corralled them back to the prototype. He gestured at the cables, the scorched coils. "If we stabilize the containment here, the rest falls into place."
Lena frowned, crouching beside the frame. "You mean if it doesn't melt into slag again."
Michael knelt opposite her, eyes fever-bright. "Then we make sure it doesn't."
Elliot crossed his arms. "You say that like it's just a matter of willpower. Newsflash: physics doesn't give a damn about your determination."
Michael shot him a look, sharp enough to cut. "Then we change the terms."
Elliot opened his mouth, then shut it. Because the terrifying thing wasn't Michael's arrogance—it was the fact that sometimes, impossibly, he managed to do exactly that.
---
Arthur's Arrival
The warehouse doors groaned open. Arthur Caldwell stepped inside, his cane tapping against the floor. His presence filled the room not with noise, but with weight.
He studied the three of them—Michael crouched like a predator over the machine, Lena with her hands already stained, Elliot radiating sarcasm as armor. Then his gaze fixed on the chalkboards. His brows drew together.
"Michael." His voice was even, but it carried steel. "How long have you been at this?"
Michael didn't look up. "Long enough."
Arthur walked closer, the cane echoing. "And how much longer before you break?"
Michael's hand stilled over the wires. He didn't answer.
---
The Warning
Arthur sighed, lowering himself into a chair. "I've seen this before. Equations devouring men whole. I've watched minds sharper than yours burn out because they mistook hunger for progress."
Michael finally looked at him, eyes blazing. "And what did they accomplish by stopping? Nothing. Dust and regret."
Arthur leaned forward, cane across his knees. "Dust and regret is still life lived, son. Better than chasing gears until they strip themselves bare."
The words hung heavy. Even Lena paused, her hands frozen mid-adjustment. Elliot looked away, suddenly very interested in his shoes.
But Michael only gripped the edge of the machine tighter, as if he could wring obedience from steel. "I don't have the luxury of stopping."
Tick.
The watch answered for him, relentless.
---
By nightfall, the prototype hummed again, weak but alive. Sparks danced nervously along its coils. Lena wiped sweat from her brow, Elliot muttered under his breath, and Arthur watched with the stillness of a man bracing for collapse.
Michael's hands trembled as he steadied the controls. Every number in his head screamed at him—gears grinding, hunger gnawing—but he forced the machine to hold.
For a moment, impossibly, it did.
Michael smiled, thin and exhausted.
Arthur didn't.