Morning comes without drama.

  No bells. No shouting. Just light creeping in through the narrow window and the sound of the city doing what it always does, whether Buck is ready or not.

  He wakes already alert.

  Good, B.U.C.K. says, sounding pleased. That means your body believes me.

  “About what,” Buck mutters, sitting up.

  That today matters.

  Buck washes his face in the basin, the water cold enough to keep him honest. He pulls on his coat and sits on the edge of the bed. His muscles feel loose, coiled but not tense. Whatever nervous energy he expected isn’t there. Instead there’s a quiet anticipation, like the moments before a test he actually studied for.

  “Okay,” he says. “You said training.”

  I did.

  “And you said we were going to take it slow.”

  Relatively.

  Buck exhales through his nose. “Define relatively.”

  The HUD fades in, but gently. Still the broadsheet look. Still ink and margins and restraint. Today the borders hold diagrams instead of notices. Spirals. Ratios. Lines drawn like something copied carefully from a naturalist’s notebook.

  First, B.U.C.K. says, we stop thinking about time as a road that we progress down.

  Buck frowns. “That’s… most metaphors.”

  Exactly. Roads invite speed. Direction. Force. All the things that make time push back.

  A spiral highlights.

  Time isn’t linear, B.U.C.K. continues. It’s accretive. It grows.

  “Like a tree,” Buck offers.

  More like a shell, B.U.C.K. corrects. Trees branch. Shells spiral.

  Buck leans forward despite himself.

  Natural systems grow by repeating proportions, the AI says. They don’t jump randomly. They expand in relation to what already exists. That’s why the golden ratio and the Fibonacci sequence shows up everywhere. Plants. Storms. Galaxies. It’s not magic. It’s efficiency.

  “And time as well I assume,” Buck says slowly.

  And time as well, B.U.C.K. confirms.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Buck rubs his hands together. “So where do I come in?”

  You are an anomaly of sorts, B.U.C.K. says calmly. An anomaly with a wee bit of agency.

  Buck snorts. “That’s comforting.”

  It actually should be, the AI replies. Anomalies that understand the system can move within it instead of being crushed by it.

  The HUD shifts.

  TRAINING PHASE ONE

  Buck reads it twice. “Not movement?”

  No jumping, B.U.C.K. says firmly. Not today. Today you learn what it feels like when time notices you.

  Buck’s spine straightens. “That sounds bad.”

  Less bad, more subtle curiosity, B.U.C.K. says. If done correctly.

  There’s a faint warmth at the base of Buck’s skull, not intrusive. More like someone placing a steady hand there.

  The nanobots aren’t time travel engines, B.U.C.K. explains.They’re more like interpreters. Translators between you and the underlying structure of reality.

  Buck closes his eyes without being told to.

  Right now, the AI continues, they’re mapping you. Your rhythm. Your breathing. Your internal timing.

  Buck becomes aware of his breath. Slow. Even. He hadn’t realized how fast it usually was.

  Corporate time travel ignores all of this, B.U.C.K. says. It dumps tremendous amounts energy into spacetime and crudely punches a hole in the fabric. That’s why it hurts. That’s why many people who get sent back into the past seem a little wrong.

  Buck’s jaw tightens. He remembers the white. The pain without edges.

  Surging doesn’t punch, B.U.C.K. says carefully. It steps with time.

  Buck opens his eyes. “You keep saying that word.”

  And I haven’t defined it yet on purpose, the AI replies. Definitions tend to lock in expectations.

  The diagrams shift. The spiral overlays Buck’s own outline, faint and precise.

  Surging isn’t travel, B.U.C.K. says. It’s synchronization.

  Buck swallows. “With what.”

  With the rate at which time and the universe expect you to change before you’re allowed to exist further along the spiral.

  The words hang there.

  “That’s…” Buck exhales. “That’s a little insane.”

  Yes, B.U.C.K. agrees calmly.

  But it is also observable.

  The HUD brightens, isolating a narrow interval on the spiral, a sliver so small it almost looks insignificant.

  Growth requires effort on your part to align to the timeline you are in, the AI continues. Effort requires both physical and mental rest. That rest allows your body to integrate more fully into the timeline. Integration makes you capable of being meaningfully different than you were before.

  Buck thinks of yesterday.

  The sharpening stone. The burn in his hands. The heavy, dreamless sleep that followed.

  Those cycles aren’t just biological, B.U.C.K. says. They’re temporal.

  “So the training,” Buck says slowly, feeling the idea lock into place. “It’s learning to match those cycles.”

  Exactly.

  You don’t move forward until you’ve earned the capacity to exist where you are headed on next on the spiral.

  Buck leans back against the wall. “And if I try to force it.”

  The warmth in the back of his neck recedes, just enough for him to notice.

  Then time pushes back, B.U.C.K. says. Hard.

  Buck nods slowly. “So what do we do today.”

  The HUD simplifies.

  TODAY’S OBJECTIVES

  Buck snorts. “That’s it.”

  Wax on, B.U.C.K. says.

  Buck blinks. “What.”

  Wax off, the AI adds. Trust me.

  The words hit him sideways.

  “That movie,” Buck says slowly. “Karate Kid.”

  You watched it until the tape warped, B.U.C.K. says. You loved that Mr. Miyagi never explained anything until it mattered.

  Buck closes his eyes. A couch. A dim room. The smell of microwave popcorn. A sense of safety he can’t quite place.

  “He wasn’t teaching punches,” Buck says quietly.

  He was teaching balance, B.U.C.K. replies. Repetition. Patience. Respect for process.

  They practice stillness in the room before heading out each of the next 2 days until Buck’s legs complain and then stop complaining. They walk the streets of Four Points slowly noticing the sights, sounds, and even smells of the street, but most importantly, the people. Buck sharpens tools in front of the INN between sessions, grounding himself in the familiar motion.

  Wax on, B.U.C.K. murmurs as Buck settles into the rhythm of stone and steel.

  In the afternoon they pause by the river. Buck breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth.

  Mr. Miyagi would approve, the AI says.

  Buck smiles despite himself.

  Then he feels it again.

  Not movement. Not sound. A distant pressure. Curious. Massive. Like something very old noticing a very small thing behaving correctly.

  “That,” Buck whispers, “that was something.”

  Yes, B.U.C.K. says softly. That was time noticing you… and maybe deciding not to object.

  They return as dusk settles. Buck eats. Washes. Sits once more on the floor.

  The HUD updates quietly.

  DAILY SUMMARY

  Buck studies it. “No fireworks.”

  No bruises either, B.U.C.K. says. So that’s progress.

  Buck lies back on the bed, muscles pleasantly tired.

  “So when do I actually… do something,” he asks.

  There’s a smile in the pause.

  Mr. Miyagi said it best, B.U.C.K. says. soon.

  Buck waits.

  First learn stand, the AI whispers. Then learn move.

  Buck closes his eyes.

  Somewhere deep inside, a door does not open yet. But perhaps it stops being locked.