Reg's aged knees buckled in the black water, but fury kept him upright. Fifteen stolen years sat heavy on his shoulders, yet his blood still roared with the echo of two heartbeats. Isabella's shadow tore free from the vein's brass teeth, bleeding real crimson down her arm. The fused gear pulsed in Ambrose Hawthorne's fist like a living thing.
"Father," Reg spat the word like poison. "You murdered Eleanor. You murdered Mother. And now you want to wear us both like watches."
Ambrose smiled the smile Reg had inherited. "I built you better than I was built, son. The Clock-God needed two perfect anchors. You delivered."
Isabella moved first. Knife flashing, shadow restored and twice as fast, she slashed at the nearest erupting vein. Black blood sprayed. She spun inside the Bishop's guard and drove the blade toward the gear.
Reg followed, slower but heavier with rage. He slammed his shoulder into his father's chest. They crashed against the sewer wall. Veins burst around them like fireworks, screaming centuries. Ambrose laughed even as Reg's fist connected with his jaw.
"Still the angry boy," Ambrose taunted, blocking the next blow. "You think love will save her? The fusion was never yours to keep. It was my design."
Isabella's knife struck the gear. Sparks exploded. For one impossible second all three heartbeats—Reg, Isabella, Ambrose synced through the brass. The sewer lit with reversed light. Time looped in a tiny bubble: the same vein striking the same spot three times at once.
Reg felt it then the fracture. A hairline crack inside his chest, as though their fused heartstrings were being sawed apart by invisible clockwork teeth. Isabella gasped at the same moment, clutching her side. The gear flared white-hot in Ambrose's hand and split down the middle.
Not broken. Divided.
One half flew back into Reg's palm, burning like molten gold. The other half sank into Isabella's chest, vanishing beneath her skin. Their heartbeats tore apart with a sound like shattering glass. The shared seconds they had spent together died screaming.
The veins around them went wild. Half pulsed with Reg's stolen gold. Half pulsed with Isabella's crimson. The Clock-God no longer saw one anchor. It saw two separate leaks, twice as dangerous.
Ambrose's eyes widened the first crack in his perfect mask. "No. That wasn't supposed to—"
Little Thread dropped from the ceiling like a falling second. Her broken watch was whole again, ticking louder than the bells above. She caught the last loose thread the Bishop's own heartstring and yanked.
Ambrose staggered. For the first time he looked old. "You little collector… you were never on my side."
The child smiled with too many teeth. "I collect from everyone. Even fathers who think they own time."
Isabella's new half-gear burned beneath her ribs. She could feel every vein in London now, every stolen second the Church had ever taken. Reg felt the same storm inside his own chest. Their alliance was still alive, but no longer fused. Separate anchors. Separate deaths if they failed.
Reg met his father's eyes across the churning water. "Run, old man. Because the next time we meet, one of us is paying with everything."
Ambrose backed into the dark, half the veins following him like loyal dogs. "The Cathedral is waiting, son. Bring her. Or the century dies by morning."
He vanished. The remaining veins recoiled, sealing the walls with fresh brass scars.
Silence fell except for the distant reversed bells.
Isabella pressed a hand to her chest where the gear had vanished. "It's inside me now. I can feel the whole city ageing. Reg… we're both the leak."
Little Thread held up her watch. Inside, two new threads glowed: one gold, one crimson, knotted together but no longer fused.
She whispered, "The Bishop just lost control. But the Clock-God gained two hearts. And it's already choosing which one to eat first."
The sewer water began to rise, thick with fresh blood and centuries.
Reg looked at Isabella separate, burning, still beside him and felt the first real fear since the theft began.
They were no longer one. They were two perfect targets.