---November 16, 2137, 04:57:15---

  The metal stairs groaned under Detective Leo Rostova’s weight, each step a percussive complaint that echoed through the cavernous space. Adam followed, the clang of his own boots a beat behind, a syncopated rhythm of pursuit and capture. The air up here was different from the humid soup of The Concourse. It was cool, filtered, and carried the sterile scent of metallic recycled air.

  High above, industrial lights hung like captive stars, but their light seemed to die on the vast, dark expanse of the ceiling, leaving deep pools of shadow in the corners of the mezzanine. It was a place built for function, not comfort, where secrets could feel at home.

  Rostova led him not to an office, but to a conference room walled in sound-dampening frosted glass. Through the haze, Adam could see a single figure, tall and still, silhouetted against the glow of a data slate. As they entered, the man didn't look up. He was a monument of shadow and patience, his focus absolute. The only sign of life was the slow, deliberate tap of his finger against the slate’s edge.

  Rostova cleared his throat, a sound that felt intrusive.

  The man’s gaze lifted from the slate, and Adam felt it like a touch. It was not an aggressive stare, but a weighing one. He was an older man–looked to be mid-sixties–with grey-dark hair, cut with precision, and bifocal lenses that magnified eyes that seemed to hold the room’s entire supply of light.

  “Detective Rostova,” the older man said, his voice a calm, low baritone. He gave a slight nod. “I see you had no trouble locating the asset.” His eyes flickered to Adam, and the word ‘asset’ landed with the cold finality of a tag on a specimen.

  “Right where the reports said he’d be,” Rostova grumbled, shifting his weight. “As usual.”

  He glanced down at his chronoband, a gesture so fluid it was rehearsed. “The timeline on the Townsend apartment is moving. I think you’ll be needed for the reconnaissance visit.” He looked back at Rostova.

  A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed Rostova’s granite face. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I bring back something to give Mo a small heart attack. I’ll get him on the right path.”

  Leo tipped the brim of his cap, a gesture that felt both anachronistic and perfectly suited to him, and turned on his heel. The glass door hissed shut behind him, and the silence that remained was heavier, more complete.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Now, it was just the two of them.

  “Mr. Walker,” the name rolling off his tongue as if he’d been practicing it. He stood coolly at a distance, not closing the gap as Adam entered. “Welcome back to Temporal Command.”

  Adam took in the sight of the older man and studied his features. He was roughly the same height as Adam, maybe an inch shorter. Time had etched its markings on his face, but his eyes had a familiar brown hue. Glassy and enlarged by the spectacles he wore. He appeared neither kind nor menacing. His slightly unkempt hair, completely white, undoubtedly once jet black to match some of the stray hairs extending from his bushy eyebrows.

  “I’m Doctor Maxwell. I oversee this lab.” He released Adam’s hand and gestured toward the conference table. “Please. Sit.”

  They both took seats at the briefing table, sitting next to each other in swivel chairs. Dr. Maxwell placed his data slate on the surface and propped one leg over his other, looking relaxed and inviting ease.

  “Dr. Maxwell,” Adam began, leaning his elbows on his knees, his voice tight with controlled urgency. “If I may ask. Why is Detective Rostova going over to my mother’s apartment?”

  “Ahh.” The old man smiled, a placid, unnerving expression. “Your mother has been through quite a lot this early morning.” The smile evaporated, replaced by a look of profound, almost paternal seriousness. “The good detective is ensuring that she is back on track. The track that leads, of course, to your father. And to you.”

  “Wait, what do you mean? What happened to her?” Adam asked, a knot of ice forming in his stomach.

  Dr. Maxwell held his hands up in a calming motion. “Nothing that she will not overcome.” The smile returned, but this time it felt sharp, like the edge of a knife. “It’s just that she was…there. At the bar with Mr. Vaughn.”

  Adam gasped, the sound stolen from his lungs. For a pregnant moment, his mouth hung open in fright. Then he shook his head, a violent, denialist motion. “She could have been in danger!”

  “Mr. Walker, we engineered this mission to achieve exactly the intended outcome it has produced.” His smile confessed a certain amount of pride in their planning. “Mr. Vaughn has been taken care of. The sniper did their job. They hit their mark. And it was right on time. Oh-three hundred hours. Forty seven minutes. And twenty-seven seconds.”

  Adam flinched. His eyebrows contorted. “Did you say twenty-seven seconds?” He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the slip of paper. He pulled it out, the crisp corner digging into his palm as he stared at the number.

  Dr. Maxwell watched him, his grin held in place. “Mr. Walker, you didn’t really think we were going to make you into a killer, did you?” His eyes narrowed, the magnification of the bifocals making them seem suddenly predatory. “Yes, I know that you were given the wrong timing. Five seconds too late, to be precise.”

  He leaned forward, the relaxed posture gone, replaced by an intensity that made the air feel thick.

  “We just had to know that you were prepared to do things that are hard.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle in the space between them. His smile vanished completely, leaving behind a cold, clinical finality. “And now we know.”