The Empty Doorway
Michael didn't look up when the door closed behind Claire. He told himself he didn't care, that she was just another witness who would eventually vanish like everyone else. But his hand trembled harder on the chalk. Symbols warped under pressure, strokes too heavy.
If she left and never returned, the equations would still demand answers. The watch would still tick.
Tick.
He flinched.
---
The Watch
The pocket watch sat by his elbow, gleaming in the lamplight. He picked it up, felt the old weight settle into his palm.
Every tick was a soldier falling, every second a pawn taken. He remembered Arthur's words when he first received it at eighteen: "Something to remind you, Michael. That nothing stops. So don't waste it."
Michael pressed the watch to his forehead, whispering, "I'm not wasting it. I'm winning."
---
The Clash
"You're killing yourself."
Lena's voice cracked through the silence. She stood with her arms crossed, hair tied back in a greasy knot, her face shadowed with exhaustion.
Michael kept scribbling. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine!" She marched closer. "You haven't eaten. You haven't slept. You're falling apart in front of us, and all you care about are numbers on a board!"
Michael spun, eyes blazing. "Numbers don't betray you. People do."
The words struck hard, heavy with the ghost of Vanessa and Jason.
---
Arthur's Arrival
The warehouse door groaned open. Arthur Caldwell stepped inside, his coat still damp from the night. His presence shifted the air instantly—calm, steady, a weight Michael hadn't realized he needed until it was there.
"Still at it?" Arthur's voice was tired but firm. He walked to the table, brushing chalk dust aside with the same patience he'd shown Michael since boyhood.
Michael dropped his eyes, ashamed for a flicker of a second.
Arthur studied the board, then the boy. "The board doesn't care if you're king or pawn," he said, quiet but deliberate. "It only cares if you play."
Michael's throat tightened.
---
The Break
He turned back to the board, but the symbols blurred. His hands shook, chalk snapping between his fingers. He staggered, knees buckling.
"Michael!" Lena lunged forward, catching him under the arm.
Arthur was there too, steadying him. His grip was firm, fatherly. "Easy, son. Don't push yourself past the edge."
Michael's breath came ragged, but he fought to sit back at the table. His voice rasped, defiant: "The only way to win is to play against time itself."
Arthur's gaze darkened. "No one wins against time, Michael. You only buy moments. Spend them wisely."
---
Elliot's Unease
From his corner, Elliot tried to hide the tremor in his voice with sarcasm. "We're not building salvation here—we're building a funeral if this keeps up. Someone's going to notice, Michael. When they do, it won't be kind."
Michael closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him down. "Let them come."
---
Sleep claimed him at the desk, the watch ticking beside him like a merciless metronome. In his dreams, pawns marched across a black field, falling one by one, but Arthur's voice cut through the silence:
"Play wisely, son. Or you'll spend your life being moved, not moving."
Michael jerked awake, heart hammering, unsure if the words had been spoken in the room—or only in his mind.