Chapter 16 - The Wizard’s Burden

  Ezra had barely stepped into the lab when his name echoed through the halls.

  "Mr. Key wants to see you. Now." The assistant’s voice was neutral, but the urgency behind it made Ezra pause. He had been expecting this. Or something like it. Still, the weight in her tone told him this wasn’t just a casual meeting.

  With a sigh, he pulled off his gloves, muttered something about bad omens, and made his way up to the highest floor of Key Industries.

  When he stepped into Mr. Key’s office, the first thing he noticed wasn’t Mr. Key himself. It was the massive monitor behind his desk, playing security footage—specifically, traffic footage. Ezra's gut clenched. He already knew what he was looking at.

  The SUV. The truck. The crash.

  And then— BWOMP.

  Reality folding backward. The vehicle rolling away from disaster, avoiding a fate it had already suffered once. The moment Ezra had changed history.

  Mr. Key turned in his chair, his expression unreadable. With a flick of a button, the entire office blacked out. Doors locked. Vents silenced. The smart glass windows dimmed to black.

  Ezra exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Well, that’s ominous."

  Mr. Key didn’t answer at first. He simply studied Ezra, as if waiting for him to confess before even being asked the question. Then, with a slow, deliberate tone, he spoke. "Do you truly realize what you’ve done?"

  Ezra pursed his lips, tilting his head side to side in mock consideration. "Well, technically," he said, "I saved a kid’s life and prevented two funerals. You’re welcome, by the way."

  Mr. Key sighed, rubbing his temples.

  Ezra grinned. "C’mon, let’s just call it a magic trick and move on. A magician never reveals his secrets."

  Mr. Key did not return the smile. Instead, he stood, walked over to a large bookshelf lining his office wall, and pulled out something Ezra hadn’t seen in years.

  A tome. Ezra’s stomach twisted.

  No. No, not this bullshit. Not again!

  The book was old, bound in thick leather, its title engraved in gold filigree: Bajookiland’s Sacred History.

  Ezra groaned. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

  Mr. Key slid the book across the desk. "Open it."

  "Nope."

  "Page 420."

  Ezra raised a brow. "Real mature."

  "Ezra."

  Mr. Key’s tone left no room for jokes.

  Fine. Whatever. Ezra grabbed the book and flipped to the designated page, prepared for some grade-A nonsense. His eyes skimmed over the text, already bracing himself for disappointment.

  The passage described a wizard. Some legendary old-world sorcerer who had traveled across the lands, spellbook in hand, on a grand quest. Ezra rolled his eyes. So far, so generic.

  Then came the princess. "Kierra?" Ezra scoffed. "Seriously? They had bimbos in ye olde Bajookiland?"

  Mr. Key didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

  "God," Ezra muttered, shaking his head. "You’re starting to sound just like her."

  That got a reaction. Mr. Key’s jaw tensed, his fingers tapping idly against the desk. But he remained silent.

  Fine. Ezra kept reading.

  The story detailed how the wizard had fought many battles, using countless spells from his enchanted tome. After many hardships, he finally reached the princess, trapped atop the highest mountain in all the land. He freed her, and together, they made their escape.

  Then—doom.

  As they descended the mountain, a great dragon appeared, raining hellfire upon them. Their path was blocked. Their death was certain.

  And so, with no other choice, the wizard cast one final spell. He and the princess vanished. Gone from time. Never to be seen again.

  Ezra frowned. He flipped the page. Then another. And another. But that was it. No resolution. No epilogue. "What kind of bedtime story bullshit is this?" he muttered. "Not even a happy ending?"

  Mr. Key leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "I told you to read it. I never said you’d like it."

  Ezra scoffed. "Right. And what exactly am I supposed to take away from this? That some wizard pulled a Houdini with a hot chick and dipped?"

  Mr. Key watched him carefully. "That depends."

  "On what?"

  Mr. Key exhaled. "On whether or not you believe the story is real."

  Ezra stared at him. Then, he snorted. "Oh, come on," he said, shoving the book away. "You don’t actually expect me to buy into this fairytale crap, do you?"

  Mr. Key didn’t answer. He just kept watching.

  Ezra’s smirk faltered. Something in Mr. Key’s gaze sent a shiver down his spine.

  Mr. Key sighed, standing from his desk. He took the book from Ezra’s hands with a deliberate gentleness, brushing his fingers over the worn leather before carefully sliding it back into its place on the towering bookshelf.

  Ezra leaned back in his chair, watching. "Alright, I read the bedtime story. Now what?"

  Mr. Key didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the book for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally turned back, his voice was quieter. More measured. "That book was written over a thousand years ago."

  Ezra raised a brow. "Yeah, and?"

  "You don’t take the White Coats seriously. I get it," Mr. Key continued, ignoring the sarcasm in Ezra’s tone. "But my family? We did. We do." He returned to his desk, settling into his chair with a heavy sigh. "I’ve spent years digging into our history, Ezra. I’ve had to claw through half-truths and whispers, trying to piece together what’s been lost to time. But one thing I do know—" He looked Ezra dead in the eye. "—there was a wizard. And Bajookiland owes him an eternal debt that nothing in the solar system will ever repay."

  Ezra stared at him. He was waiting for a punchline. Something to tell him this was all an elaborate joke. But Mr. Key’s expression didn’t change.

  Ezra let out a sharp exhale. "Okay. Hold on. Just—hold the fuck on." He rubbed his temples. "You’re telling me I just—what? Unlocked ancient, lost technology? Lost to time?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "The fuck kinda cosmic irony is that?"

  Mr. Key didn’t laugh.

  Ezra frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  Mr. Key leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. "You know what you’ve done, Ezra. And you know what you want to do next."

  Ezra’s jaw tightened.

  "What do you intend to do with this power?" Mr. Key asked.

  For a moment, Ezra didn’t answer. He ran a hand down his face, staring at the dark screen where the traffic footage had once played. He could still hear the sound of the crash in his mind. The screaming mother. The quiet, confused voice of the boy in the backseat after the ECHO had done its work.

  Finally, he spoke. "I just want to bring back Haru." His voice was quieter than he intended. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. "I’ve been trying—hell, I’ve been breaking my fucking mind trying—but the device won’t go beyond thirty minutes." He shook his head. "No matter what I do, I keep hitting a wall."

  Mr. Key watched him closely. Then, after a long silence, he spoke again. "Then help me find the wizard."

  Ezra blinked. "…What?"

  Mr. Key’s expression was calm. Steady. "I’m not asking as your employer. I’m not even asking as a friend." He exhaled, folding his hands together. "I’m asking you as family."

  Ezra swallowed.

  "Please," Mr. Key said. "Help me find him. Improve the device. Don’t give up on it. Keep pushing the boundaries of what’s possible. Make the impossible possible again."

  Ezra felt a headache coming on. A familiar, creeping sensation that coiled at the base of his skull.

  He had been expecting resistance. A lecture. Maybe even a warning—something along the lines of You’re playing with fire, kid. Don’t get burned. But this?

  This was worse.

  Clover would’ve used intimidation. The Silent Legion would’ve used threats. But Mr. Key?

  Mr. Key used something Ezra wasn’t prepared for.

  Guilt.

  And it wasn’t just Mr. Key. Ezra felt it. He felt the weight behind the words—not just from the man sitting in front of him, but from something bigger.

  Mr. Key didn’t ask like a desperate man. He asked like a representative. Like the entirety of humanity was standing behind him, politely and simply asking: please.

  Ezra clenched his jaw. Goddammit. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Then—after a long, heavy pause—he sighed. "Fine," he muttered. "I’ll do it."

  Ezra found himself back at his lab with a cold cup of coffee. He wasn’t sure when the coffee had gone cold.

  He sat in his lab, staring at the blueprints sprawled across his desk, fingers drumming rhythmically against the table. His thoughts weren’t on the designs. Not on the equations. Not on the silent hum of the ECHO device resting beside him.

  "Find the wizard."

  Mr. Key’s words wouldn’t stop rattling in his brain. Sure. No problem. He’d just fetch his spellbook, summon fucking Merlin, and get right on that.

  Ezra exhaled sharply through his nose.

  He had spent months shattering reality. Time loops. Echoes. Microscopic reversals of entropy. And now Mr. Key was telling him some ancient fairy tale was the missing piece? He had half a mind to shove that Bajookiland book straight up his boss’s ass.

  The pressure was worse than ever. Clover used intimidation. Mr. Key used faith. And faith? That was so much worse.

  Ezra rubbed his temples. He needed air. He needed space. He needed—

  "Man, you look like hell."

  Ezra’s spine stiffened. His fingers twitched. His breath hitched ever so slightly before he turned—

  And there he was. Mr. Shoelace.

  Kicked back in the empty chair across from him, feet propped up on the table, arms behind his head like he had been there the whole time.

  Ezra inhaled sharply. "Nope." He turned back to his work. "I’m not doing this right now."

  Shoelace grinned. "Yeah, you are."

  Ezra didn’t look up. "No, I’m really fucking not."

  Shoelace let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Y’know," he mused, picking up one of the blueprints and inspecting it, "I thought you’d be happier."

  Ezra finally turned his head, glaring. "Happier?"

  "Yeah," Shoelace said, grinning. "You did it. You broke time. You’ve got all the pieces. All the variables. All the—" he waved his hand vaguely, "—sciencey bullshit you need."

  Ezra’s eye twitched. "Sciencey bullshit?"

  Shoelace ignored him. "So why do you look like someone just asked you to hold up the entire goddamn universe?"

  Ezra scoffed, gesturing vaguely to the lab. "Oh, I don’t know," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe it’s because I was just politely asked to go on a fucking wizard hunt and, I don’t know, find goddamn Merlin?!"

  Shoelace let out a sharp laugh. "Ohhh, so you finally read the bedtime stories, huh?"

  Ezra leaned forward, fingers steepled together, voice deadpan. "Do not tell me you buy into this Bajookiland bullshit."

  Shoelace shrugged. "I mean, define bullshit."

  "It’s bullshit," Ezra snapped. "End of definition."

  Shoelace chuckled. "Alright, then. What’s your plan, genius?"

  Ezra didn’t answer.

  Shoelace smirked. "See, that’s your problem," he mused. "You’re stuck thinking like a scientist. Like a guy who can put numbers on a whiteboard and fix the whole goddamn universe with an equation."

  Ezra crossed his arms. "And?"

  "And that’s not gonna work," Shoelace said simply.

  Ezra clenched his jaw.

  "Here’s the thing," Shoelace continued, gesturing lazily. "Mr. Key wasn’t just telling you to find some ancient wizard. He was telling you to stop looking at this like it’s just a machine."

  Ezra narrowed his eyes. "You want me to believe in magic?"

  Shoelace leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His smirk faded slightly. "No," he said, voice quieter. "I want you to believe in what you’ve already seen."

  Ezra hesitated.

  Shoelace gestured to the ECHO on the table. "That isn’t just science," he said. "That’s time bending to your will. That’s the past existing in the present. That’s real. You made it real."

  Ezra swallowed hard.

  Shoelace leaned back again, stretching lazily. "So yeah," he said casually. "Maybe you should start thinking a little less like a scientist…" He glanced toward the blueprints. "And a little more like a wizard."

  Ezra didn’t know why those words hit him like a goddamn truck.

  But they did. Just as quickly he appeared, Mr. Shoelace vanished without a trace after Ezra rubbed his eyes.

  Ezra barely had time to process what was happening before the young journalist and her camera crew were ushered into his lab. He had been in the middle of tuning the ECHO’s frequency stabilizer, deeply lost in his work, when a knock on his door nearly made him drop his tools.

  The lab assistant poked her head in, looking far too amused for Ezra’s comfort. "You’ve got visitors."

  Ezra wiped the sweat from his brow. "I’m kind of busy—"

  "Yeah, well," she interrupted, glancing over her shoulder at the people behind her, "they’ve got cameras."

  Ezra’s stomach twisted. Cameras? Oh no. Oh no, no, no. He peeked past the doorframe and immediately regretted it.

  Standing in the hallway was a very energetic-looking journalist, her expression beaming like she had just struck gold. She was young—probably fresh out of college—her blonde hair tied in a high ponytail, a press badge clipped proudly to her blouse. The cameraman behind her was already adjusting his equipment, and a second crew member was carrying a boom mic.

  "Mr. Key!" the journalist chirped. "Can we have a moment of your time?"

  Ezra stared at them like a deer in headlights. "Uh." He scratched the back of his neck. "This is… about the, uh… the thing, isn’t it?"

  The reporter’s grin widened. "Oh, you bet it is! The whole Solarnet is talking about you!"

  Ezra internally cursed every single person who had shared that damn traffic footage. He could already feel his hands getting clammy. He could work in front of people, sure. He could give a safety lecture on-site, maybe. But a live interview? Oh, fuck no.

  Still, saying no would just make him look worse. He swallowed his nerves and straightened his posture. "Right. Sure. Yeah. A moment. Let’s… let’s do this."

  The reporter gestured for the cameraman to roll. "Alright, we’re here at Key Industries with the man of the hour—Ezra Key! You may recognize him from this incredible footage!"

  She motioned to the holographic display on her tablet, replaying the infamous Quarantinemas miracle. Ezra winced as he watched himself bolt toward the SUV, hit the ECHO, and promptly vomit onto the pavement after reversing the accident. The clip had been slowed down for dramatic effect.

  "Ugh, you had to include that part?" Ezra muttered.

  The reporter chuckled. "Come on, that was everyone’s favorite part! So tell us, Mr. Key, how does it feel knowing you’ve single-handedly redefined what’s possible?"

  Ezra blinked. "Uh… I mean… single-handedly is a bit much—"

  "You brought a kid back from certain death," she pressed. "No one had ever seen anything like that before. And yet, you did it, just like that!" She snapped her fingers for emphasis. "What was going through your mind at that moment?"

  Ezra scratched the back of his head. "Honestly?" He exhaled sharply. "I was just thinking, ‘Holy shit, I need to do something.’"

  The reporter laughed. "Well, you did something alright! And I think the whole world wants to know—how? What is that thing you used?" She pointed toward his coat, where the ECHO was snugly tucked inside his pocket.

  Ezra glanced down at it, rolling his lips together. "Uh… well, it’s called the ECHO—the ‘Electronic Calculation Harmonizing Oculus’—and it basically, uh…" He trailed off. How the hell was he supposed to explain time manipulation in a way that wouldn’t cause mass hysteria?

  "Yes?" The journalist leaned in, hanging onto his every word.

  Ezra rubbed his temples. "Okay, look. Imagine, uh… imagine reality is like a pond, right?"

  She nodded eagerly.

  "And you drop a stone into it. That stone makes ripples."

  Another nod.

  "Now, what if I told you I figured out how to… catch those ripples and send them backward? Not the whole pond. Just the ripples. Just one moment, repeating itself, like an echo."

  The journalist’s eyes widened. "You’re telling me you can… rewind time?"

  Ezra shifted uncomfortably. "More like fold time. I can take a slice of the past and bring it into the present. But it’s not infinite. The limit is thirty minutes."

  The cameraman gave a low whistle.

  The journalist, still beaming, turned to the camera. "You heard it here first, folks! Time manipulation isn’t just science fiction anymore—it’s science fact! And we’re about to see it firsthand."

  Ezra blinked. "Wait—what?"

  Before he could protest, the reporter grabbed his arm, all but dragging him toward the adjacent test chamber.

  "Show us how it works!" she practically sang.

  Ezra mentally screamed.

  Ezra took a deep breath as he prepped the experiment. He could feel every camera locked onto him. He wasn’t used to this level of attention. He preferred working in private, with no one breathing down his neck.

  But fine. If they wanted a show, they’d get one.

  He set up the same paint-splatter experiment he had used before. A blank canvas. A sealed paint can. And, of course, the ECHO.

  "Alright," Ezra said, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt. "I’m gonna throw this paint at the canvas."

  The reporter gave the camera an excited look. "We’re ready!"

  Ezra exhaled and hurled the paint. SPLAT! The bright colors splattered against the canvas in a chaotic explosion of motion.

  The journalist clapped her hands. "Beautiful!"

  Ezra smirked. "Now, watch closely."

  He held up the ECHO, thumb resting on the activation button. He pressed it.

  -BWOMP-

  The air shimmered. The paint splatter trembled. And then—in perfect synchronization, every drop lifted off the canvas and reversed direction. The paint soared backward, retracing its chaotic splatter patterns until—PLUNK! Every single droplet fell neatly back into the can as if it had never left.

  The journalist gasped. "No. Freaking. Way."

  The cameraman audibly muttered "What the hell?" under his breath.

  The room was silent. Then the reporter squealed. "That was AMAZING!" She turned to the camera. "Did you SEE that? That was REAL. That just HAPPENED!"

  Ezra let out a long breath. "Yep."

  The journalist turned back to him, eyes gleaming. "You have to tell me—what’s next for this? What’s your goal?"

  Ezra hesitated. His goal? His real goal? He had plenty. But the only one that mattered—the only one he couldn’t say on live broadcast—was Haru.

  So instead, he smirked and shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "Maybe I’ll figure out how to fold laundry with it next."

  The journalist laughed. The tension in the room finally eased.

  Ezra, however, knew the weight of what he had just revealed. And as the cameras rolled and the interview wrapped up, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling—

  That things would never be the same again.

  Ezra knew the moment that interview aired that he had screwed himself. The whole goddamn world saw it. He had hoped the clip would just die out as another internet curiosity, a footnote in some "Top 10 Unexplained Phenomena" documentary years down the line.

  Nope. Instead, the demand for ECHO skyrocketed.

  At first, it was business inquiries—wealthy clients looking to privately invest in this new miracle device. Then came the corporate giants, the government agencies, the military contractors, all clamoring for a piece of the pie. And if that wasn’t bad enough?

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The talk shows started calling.

  Ezra groaned every time his inbox updated with a new request. Come share your miraculous invention! Come talk about the science behind it! Come tell us what it feels like to be a living god!

  It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a god. He wasn’t even comfortable being in the spotlight. He just wanted to work in peace, away from cameras, away from reporters, away from the weight of a world that had suddenly decided he was a modern-day messiah.

  Which was why, when Mr. Key personally showed up at his lab, Ezra braced himself for another headache.

  The older man strolled in casually, hands tucked into his pockets, surveying the organized chaos of Ezra’s workspace. "Looks like you’ve been busy," he mused.

  Ezra, who had been hunched over a blueprint with a grimace, let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah. Trying to push past this damn limit."

  Mr. Key’s brows lifted. "Still stuck at thirty minutes?"

  Ezra sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. I’ve tried adjusting the containment fields, playing with the power ratios—hell, I even tried brute forcing it with raw energy. Doesn’t matter. The system locks in at half an hour, and any attempt to push further just destabilizes the whole thing."

  Mr. Key nodded thoughtfully. "A natural benchmark, then."

  Ezra exhaled sharply, pushing back from his desk. "It’s not natural. It’s mocking me. Like time itself is laughing at my ass."

  Mr. Key chuckled, moving to lean against the workstation. "And here I thought nothing could make you feel humble."

  Ezra shot him a look. "Mr. Key, I love ya, but I swear to God, if you’re here to tell me to go on another interview—"

  Mr. Key held up a hand. "Relax, boyo." He smiled. "I already figured publicity isn’t your thing."

  Ezra sighed in relief. "Thank you."

  "But."

  Ezra groaned. Of course there was a ‘but.’

  Mr. Key’s tone softened. "I know you’re doing this for Haru. And I know you don’t like the spotlight. Which is why I’m offering to take that weight off your shoulders. My company will handle mass production, the business negotiations, the logistics. You focus on the work."

  Ezra squinted. "There’s a catch, isn’t there?"

  Mr. Key smirked. "More of a request."

  Ezra crossed his arms, waiting.

  "There’s a talk show host in Japan," Mr. Key said. "A good friend of mine. Lovely woman. She’d like to have you on her show in the fall. Talk a little about the ECHO, nothing too invasive. Just—" he waved a hand vaguely, "—help people understand what it is you’re really doing."

  Ezra snorted. "Yeah. Fat chance."

  Mr. Key chuckled. "I thought you’d say that." He pushed off the desk, heading toward the door. "But you’ll think about it."

  "No, I won’t."

  "You will."

  Ezra scowled. "Why?"

  Mr. Key grinned. "Because I just pulled the friend card."

  Ezra groaned, dropping his head onto the desk. "Goddammit."

  Mr. Key clapped him on the back before walking off. "Fall, Ezra. Don’t forget."

  Ezra exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

  Great. Just great.

  Right now, he had an ECHO to perfect. But in a few months? He was going to have to smile on national television.

  Ezra was still cursing Mr. Key under his breath when he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. A talk show. Jesus. Like he hadn’t already been thrust into enough unwanted attention.

  His fingers drummed against the desk. He knew why Mr. Key wanted him to do it. It wasn’t just about public relations—it was damage control. The world had already seen the ECHO in action. It was only a matter of time before people started demanding answers. Before the wrong people started making their own assumptions.

  Ezra exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. The last thing he needed was the military breathing down his neck.

  But talking about it? Explaining it? That was the part that made him twitchy. He was a scientist, not a salesman. He could break down equations and containment fields all day long, but put him in front of a camera and ask him to ‘dumb it down for the masses,’ and suddenly he felt like he was about to embarrass himself in front of the whole world.

  He needed a break. Something to clear his mind.

  His gaze drifted toward the ECHO sitting quietly on his workstation.

  A small smirk tugged at his lips.

  Well. He had thirty minutes to kill.

  The studio lights were warm. Almost too warm. Ezra sat in a plush leather chair across from the talk show host, feeling a bead of sweat gather at his collar. The audience buzzed with anticipation—hundreds of eager eyes staring at him, waiting.

  He hated this.

  The hostess, a refined woman in her mid-forties, exuded warmth and confidence. She had the presence of someone who had been doing this for years, her salt-and-pepper hair elegantly curled, her deep burgundy dress tailored to perfection. She sat with practiced ease, a soft but knowing smile on her lips.

  "Ezra Key," she began, her Japanese accent lilting his name ever so slightly. "Welcome to Momoka at Midnight."

  Ezra shifted in his seat, offering a polite nod. "Thanks for having me."

  Momoka Kisaragi had been a household name in Japan for over two decades. She wasn’t just a talk show host—she was the talk show host. Revered for her ability to turn even the coldest, most reluctant guests into open books.

  Ezra already didn’t like his odds.

  She crossed one leg over the other, holding a sleek cue card in her manicured fingers. "I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to this interview ever since the world saw that footage." She motioned toward the large screen behind them, where a clip of the infamous car accident reversal played. The audience let out an audible gasp.

  Ezra forced a smirk, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. That’s me. The guy who puked after playing god."

  The audience laughed. Momoka chuckled. "Yes, well, I imagine the physics of that must do strange things to the human body. But what you did, Ezra—it wasn’t just science. It was… miraculous."

  Ezra let out a small breath. "Yeah, I don’t know about that. It’s just math and engineering. Nothing divine about it."

  Momoka tilted her head, studying him. "So, you don’t see yourself as special?"

  Ezra barked a laugh. "Lady, I’m just a guy who likes breaking things to see how they work."

  More laughter. The crowd loved him. Momoka leaned forward slightly. "And yet, you created something that defies everything we know about time. The ECHO isn’t just an invention, Mr. Key—it’s a revolution. And with revolutions come questions." She tapped her cue card on the arm of her chair. "I think what the world really wants to know is… why?"

  Ezra raised a brow. "Why?"

  "Yes." Momoka smiled. "What drives a man to defy time itself?"

  Ezra exhaled slowly. "Curiosity, I guess."

  Momoka nodded thoughtfully. "Curiosity is a powerful thing. But isn’t there more to it? Surely, a man doesn’t dedicate his life to reshaping reality for fun."

  Ezra scratched his jaw. The audience was dead silent, waiting. Watching.

  Momoka flipped to the next cue card. "Tell me," she continued. "You’ve saved lives. People are calling you a hero. Some are calling you something more. Do you ever think about the responsibility of that?"

  Ezra forced a smirk. "Not really my job to tell people what to think."

  "But surely you’ve considered it," she pressed. "If people rely on the ECHO to fix their mistakes, what happens when it fails? What happens when you can’t press that button?"

  Ezra stiffened.

  Momoka’s expression softened. "You lost someone, didn’t you?"

  Ezra’s breath hitched.

  The audience held their breath.

  Ezra shifted in his seat. "Look, I didn’t come here for a therapy session—"

  Momoka gently placed her cue cards down. "I know," she said softly. "But this isn’t just about the ECHO. This is about you. And I think—" she studied him carefully, "—I think the world deserves to know what’s driving the man behind the machine."

  Ezra clenched his jaw. "It’s just science," he muttered. "It’s not that deep."

  Momoka’s voice remained gentle. "Then why do you look like a man who hasn’t slept in years?"

  Ezra’s fingers curled into his pant leg. His throat was dry. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He could see it—the image burned into his mind. The day Haru vanished. The way everything in him screamed he’s still out there.

  "Ezra." Momoka’s voice pulled him back. She wasn’t prying. She wasn’t pushing. She was simply… asking.

  His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "I—" He exhaled sharply. And then—he cracked.

  "It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he muttered, voice thick. "He was just a kid. He—" Ezra’s breath shuddered. "Haru didn’t even get to be a kid. He was thrown into all this before he even had a chance to live."

  Momoka remained silent. She let him speak.

  Ezra clenched his fists. "He was brilliant. Smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. But he wasn’t just some child prodigy—he was my friend." His voice wavered. "And I let him down."

  The audience was still. Not a whisper. Not a breath.

  Ezra swallowed hard. His chest ached. "I don’t care about being famous. I don’t care about money, or recognition, or any of that bullshit." His eyes burned. "I just want him back."

  Momoka’s expression softened.

  Ezra sucked in a sharp breath. "I’ve been chasing this for years. Breaking my body. Breaking my mind. And you wanna know why?" His voice cracked. "Because I can’t not chase it. Because if there’s even a chance that he’s out there—" He clenched his jaw. "Then I have to find him."

  A single sniffle echoed from the audience. Someone was crying.

  Ezra rubbed his face, exhaling shakily.

  Momoka gave him a long, understanding look. "That," she said gently, "is why the world loves you."

  Ezra blinked. "What?"

  Momoka smiled softly. "You’re not a scientist playing god. You’re a man trying to undo a tragedy. Trying to save one person." She motioned to the audience. "That’s why people believe in you."

  Ezra looked up. The crowd was filled with glistening eyes, people sniffling, some even outright weeping. And just like that—his popularity wasn’t just big. It was unstoppable.

  Ezra barely made it past the stage curtains before his knees felt weak. His pulse was still racing, his head spinning, his hands clammy with sweat. He had held it together long enough to finish the interview, long enough to shake hands and flash one last polite smile before stepping offstage.

  But now, alone in a dimly lit corridor, the weight hit him all at once.

  He leaned against the cool metal of the dressing room door, exhaling shakily. His breath hitched. He pressed his palms against his eyes. Not now, not here, not— But his body betrayed him. The pressure that had been building for years—years of failure, years of trying to break through a wall that refused to crack, years of carrying the guilt of Haru—it all came rushing forward like a goddamn tidal wave.

  And for the first time in longer than he could remember… Ezra let himself cry.

  It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. It was silent, trembling grief, the kind that dug deep into the bones and refused to leave. He didn’t sob—just stood there, hands braced against the wall, shoulders shaking with the weight of everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant, gnawing failure.

  Thirty minutes. That’s all he had. All he could have. And it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

  He wiped his face roughly, sniffed, took deep, steadying breaths. When he finally straightened, his reflection in the mirror across the hall was a mess. Eyes red. Jaw tight. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found.

  The worst part? Momoka had seen it.

  She was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching him with a soft expression. She had been there long enough. Had seen him fall apart just enough to know better than to call attention to it.

  Ezra stiffened, clearing his throat. "You know, staring at people in the middle of their breakdowns is kinda creepy."

  Momoka smiled, but it was gentle, not teasing. "You’ve got a bad habit of hiding things, Ezra."

  He scoffed, running a hand down his face. "Yeah, well. Sue me."

  She took a step closer, still keeping that same warm energy she had on stage. The same quiet patience. "You remind me of someone I used to know," she said thoughtfully. "He was a brilliant man, too. Too brilliant for his own good, sometimes."

  Ezra arched a brow. "Did he also have cameras shoved in his face twenty-four seven?"

  Momoka chuckled. "No, but he had the same look in his eyes. Like he was carrying the weight of the world alone."

  Ezra exhaled sharply. "And what, you fixed him with a pep talk?"

  She tilted her head. "No. But I reminded him that failure doesn’t mean the end of the story."

  Ezra paused.

  Momoka smiled. "You haven’t failed, Ezra. Not yet."

  He scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah? Tell that to Haru."

  Momoka’s expression softened. She didn’t push. Just let the silence sit between them for a moment. "You think you’re failing him because you can’t go back far enough," she murmured. "But what if you’re just looking in the wrong direction?"

  Ezra frowned. "The hell’s that supposed to mean?"

  She shrugged. "You’re chasing the past so hard, you might be missing what’s right in front of you."

  Ezra stared at her for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. A question he wasn’t sure how to ask. A doubt he wasn’t ready to voice.

  Finally, Momoka patted his arm. "Just… don’t lose yourself in it, alright?" She smiled again, stepping back. "The world needs you. Not just the past."

  Ezra swallowed, nodding once. "Yeah. Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind."

  She gave him one last lingering glance before walking off, leaving him with her words echoing in his mind. Not just the past.

  Ezra let out a long breath. His next stop? Duty call.

  The hum of the core chamber was a steady backdrop as Ezra ran through his checklist, clipboard in one hand, stylus in the other. It was business as usual—or at least, as usual as things could be in this godforsaken deathtrap of a job.

  Clover stood off to the side, silent as ever, watching him with that unreadable expression of hers. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter. Just the same cold, clinical detachment she always carried.

  Ezra had gotten used to it.

  Mostly.

  He was mid-sentence in his report when— WOOoomp—everything cut to black.

  The low hum of the core stuttered into silence. Emergency lights flickered weakly, barely illuminating the chamber in a dull, blood-red glow.

  Ezra paused. Blinked. "Oh, for fuck’s sake," he groaned, rubbing his temples. "What is this, the third power outage in the last six months? Y’all buy your fuses off eBay or some shit?"

  Clover didn’t respond. Didn’t even move.

  Ezra frowned. "…Okay, normally, you at least tell me to shut up."

  Still, no response.

  Ezra exhaled sharply. "Alright, I’ll bite—does this have something to do with the whole ‘user experiences’ nonsense?"

  Silence. Clover’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture stiffened ever so slightly.

  Ezra had his answer. "Shit." He ran a hand through his hair. "So it’s not the Silent Legion screwing with me, huh?"

  More silence.

  Ezra sighed. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

  The door behind them remained sealed, the security locks engaged. He could hear faint movement from the other side—Silent Legion grunts already working to cut their way in. They were quick. Efficient. But they weren’t faster than him.

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a spare ECHO.

  Thirty minutes ago, the doors were open. Thirty minutes ago, he and Clover had walked in without a problem.

  Ezra clicked the button.

  -BWOMP-

  The chamber flickered. Time snapped back. The security doors slid open as if nothing had happened.

  And standing just beyond them were the Silent Legion—cutting torches in hand, drills at the ready, frozen mid-preparation. Ezra smirked, shoving the ECHO back into his pocket.

  "Beat ya to it."

  The Legion didn’t react. They never did.

  Clover exhaled through her nose, stepping past him without a word.

  Ezra rolled his shoulders, tucking his clipboard under his arm as he followed. "You know," he mused, "I’m starting to think you really don’t want to talk about this."

  Clover kept walking.

  Ezra smirked. "Fine. I’ll let you keep your spooky secrets."

  He didn’t need to hear it from her, anyway.

  He had already seen enough.

  Ezra’s interview with Momoka didn’t just make waves—it detonated. The world was officially obsessed. Scientists debated the implications of his work on live television. Religious figures weighed in on the morality of "playing with time." Governments? They wanted in.

  And Ezra?

  Ezra was fucking tired.

  The talk show had left him hollowed out. Momoka had peeled him open like a goddamn fruit, and now the world saw him—not just the scientist, not just the inventor, but the man. And what did the man have?

  A dream that was impossible.

  Thirty minutes. That was the wall. And no matter how many times he threw himself at it, no matter how many sleepless nights, calculations, prototypes—he could not break through.

  Ezra arrived back at Nonna’s house under heavy snowfall. The place was exactly the same—the smell of fresh bread, the warmth of the old fireplace, the way the house felt lived in. Safe. Constant. But even here, he couldn’t escape the weight pressing down on him.

  He wasn’t alone in feeling it.

  Seth’s cough had worsened. The warmth of the house helped, but it was clear—he was getting weaker. Ezra kept an eye on him. He hated the way his father brushed it off, the way he acted like nothing was wrong. Nonna noticed too. They shared a glance one evening over dinner. No words were spoken. But the understanding was there.

  Then there was Adam.

  Adam was six now. Talking, running, laughing. He was smart in his own way, though not in the way the world expected from the son of Ezra Key. He wasn’t a prodigy. Wasn’t building machines or solving equations. But he was relentless. If he fell, he got back up. If he didn’t understand something, he kept asking. Kept pushing. And when he wanted his dad’s attention?

  Oh, he demanded it.

  One night, after a particularly exhausting day of dodging international calls and pretending to not be the most famous scientist alive, Ezra sat outside in the backyard, lighting up one of Ciarra’s questionable cigarettes. The cold bit through his coat, but the silence? The silence was nice.

  Then came the familiar patter-patter-patter of tiny feet.

  "Daddy!" Adam barreled toward him, nearly faceplanting in the snow.

  Ezra barely had time to react before his son was climbing onto his lap, his chubby little hands pressing against Ezra’s face.

  "You’re all scruffy," Adam declared, poking his father’s five o’clock shadow.

  Ezra snorted. "Yeah, that happens when you forget to shave."

  Adam tilted his head, squinting. "Are you sad?"

  Ezra froze.

  Jesus. Kids. No tact, no filter. Just raw, unrelenting truth.

  He let out a slow breath. "A little."

  Adam frowned. "Did someone take your toy?"

  Ezra chuckled despite himself. "Something like that, bud."

  Adam scrunched his nose in thought. "Nonna says when I’m sad, I gotta keep going!" He puffed out his little chest. "Like when I fall down, I get back up! I don’t stay down!"

  Ezra stared at him, something tight catching in his chest.

  "You don’t stay down, huh?"

  Adam nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! You just gotta try really hard!"

  Ezra smiled, ruffling his son’s messy hair. "Yeah, kid. You do."

  They sat there in the cold, the little boy curled up against his father’s chest. And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—Ezra let himself feel something other than pressure.

  Winter wasn’t just for holidays and family, though. The world was knocking. The interview had turned Ezra from an innovator to a symbol. And symbols? They didn’t get to rest.

  Mr. Key had somewhat managed the business side of things, handling production and deflecting the more aggressive government inquiries. But there were limits.

  Ciarra had warned Ezra months ago: You’re getting too close. If you keep going down this road… you’d better be prepared for what’s on the other side.

  And now? Ezra was starting to see the edges of that truth.

  There were rumors. Whispers. Reports of strange occurrences following ECHO use. People claiming they felt something when time was reversed—like a piece of them had been lost. Others swore they heard voices from the other side of the moment, echoes that shouldn’t exist.

  At first, Ezra chalked it up to superstition. Side effects of people knowing too much. But then…

  Then he started hearing things too.

  At night. In the silence. A whisper. Just at the edge of hearing.

  "You’re almost there."

  Ezra didn’t know what was worse—the fact that it was happening, or the fact that a part of him wasn’t surprised.

  The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit living room. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, a late winter storm rolling through the mountains. Inside, the warmth of the house made the silence feel heavier. More real.

  Ezra sat across from Seth at the dinner table, nursing a glass of something strong. Neither of them had spoken for a while. They didn’t need to.

  Seth leaned back in his chair, fingers wrapped loosely around his own drink. His eyes, though tired, still held the same quiet wisdom Ezra had known his whole life. But there was something else there, too. Something heavier.

  "You’re thinking too hard again," Seth muttered, breaking the silence.

  Ezra huffed a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Bad habit."

  Seth smirked. "Ain’t that the truth." He studied his son for a moment, the way his shoulders carried too much weight, the way his fingers twitched against the table like they needed to be working. Solving. Fixing.

  Seth sighed. "Let me ask you something, kid."

  Ezra took a sip of his drink. "Shoot."

  Seth tilted his head. "You think you can hold onto everything forever?"

  Ezra frowned slightly. "What?"

  "You think you can keep everything from slipping through your fingers? Every person, every moment, every decision you wish you could change?" Seth’s voice was calm, but there was weight behind it. "’Cause that’s what it looks like you’re trying to do."

  Ezra exhaled sharply, staring down at his glass. "I don’t know how to let go."

  Seth nodded slowly. "Yeah," he muttered. "I figured."

  A long pause. The fire crackled. The wind howled.

  Then—Seth leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "There’s this saying," he murmured. "About planting trees."

  Ezra raised a brow.

  Seth smirked. "Good men plant trees knowing they’ll never sit in their shade. They plant ‘em anyway. Because it ain’t about them. It’s about the people who come after."

  Ezra swallowed.

  Seth’s smirk faded slightly. His voice softened. "I ain’t gonna be around forever, kid."

  Ezra’s chest tightened. "Dad—"

  "Let me finish," Seth said gently. "I know you. You’re fighting like hell to fix something that maybe—just maybe—ain’t meant to be fixed." He tapped the table. "You think if you just push hard enough, break the right rules, rewrite the right equations, you can hold onto everything. But Ezra… that ain’t how life works."

  Ezra clenched his jaw. "And what, I’m just supposed to accept that?"

  Seth exhaled through his nose. "I’m saying maybe you should stop thinking about what you can keep, and start thinking about what you’re leaving behind."

  Ezra’s breath caught.

  Seth tilted his head. "I know you’re gonna keep going. I know you ain’t gonna stop. And hell, maybe one day, you do find what you’re looking for. But if you don’t?" His voice was gentle, firm. "Make sure you leave something worth having for the ones who come next."

  The words hit like a gut punch.

  Ezra stared at his father, a dozen unspoken thoughts swirling in his head. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the right words.

  Seth let the silence sit. Then—he smiled. Soft. Tired.

  "I don’t need to sit under the shade, Ezra," he murmured. "I just need to know you’ll plant the damn tree."

  Ezra swallowed the lump in his throat. He nodded.

  Seth nodded back. Then, after a long pause—

  "Now, are we gonna keep drinkin’ in silence, or you gonna tell me what that fancy device of yours actually does?"

  Ezra barked a laugh. "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."

  Seth smirked. "Try me."

  And for the rest of the night, they just talked. No equations. No stress. Just a father and son, sharing the little time they had left.

  Ezra wasn’t the type to eavesdrop. Not normally, anyway.

  But as he walked past Ciarra’s room that night, something made him pause. The door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of warm light spilling into the dimly lit hallway. He wasn’t sure what had made him stop—maybe it was the way the light flickered ever so slightly. Or maybe… maybe it was the sound.

  A choked sob.

  Ezra frowned. Ciarra? Crying?

  That wasn’t right.

  He hesitated, glancing down the hallway. He could keep walking. Pretend he didn’t hear it. Let her have her privacy.

  But another quiet, shaky sob slipped through the crack in the door, followed by a soft sniffle—and Ezra’s gut twisted.

  Without thinking, he took a careful step forward. Just enough to peek inside.

  Ciarra was sitting at the edge of her bed, hunched over, clutching her phone like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her ears were drooped, tail curled tightly around her side. Her shoulders shook with every uneven breath.

  Ezra’s stomach sank.

  She was whispering—too softly for him to make out the full conversation. But then—

  "I… I’ll do my best…" Her voice cracked.

  Ezra swallowed hard.

  A long pause. A final, fragile "T-thank you…"

  Ezra wasn’t sure what was worse—the way her body trembled, or the way she clutched her phone tighter, like letting go would shatter her completely.

  And then—just before the call ended, barely above a whisper—

  "I love you."

  Ezra exhaled slowly, carefully stepping back. He shouldn’t be hearing this. This wasn’t his moment. It was hers.

  But dammit, he couldn’t just walk away.

  With a quiet knock, he pushed the door open a little further. "Ciarra?"

  She jolted, ears perking up, eyes wide and glassy from tears. Her phone slipped from her grasp, landing softly on the bed beside her.

  Ezra held up his hands. "Hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya."

  Ciarra sniffled, hurriedly wiping at her face, ears flattening in embarrassment. "Y-you didn’t." She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter, trying to compose herself. "What do you want?"

  Ezra leaned against the doorframe, studying her. Even in the dim light, he could see the redness around her eyes, the way she was trying too hard to pretend everything was fine.

  He sighed. "I was gonna ask you about some things," he admitted. "But right now…?" He stepped inside, taking a seat beside her on the bed. "You look like you need a hug."

  Ciarra let out a small, watery laugh, shaking her head. "I’m fine."

  Ezra raised a brow. "Really? ‘Cause your face says otherwise."

  She huffed, but didn’t argue.

  Ezra opened his arms. "C’mon, Auntie. You’re always the one giving hugs. Maybe it’s time someone returned the favor."

  Ciarra hesitated.

  And then—slowly, almost reluctantly—she leaned in.

  Ezra wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She buried her face into his shoulder, her body still trembling. He felt her tail curl slightly around his side, an instinctual sign of comfort.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then—softly—Ezra murmured, "You know… people keep telling me to change how I see things." He let out a breath. "I’ve spent years looking at problems one way. Like there’s only one solution. Like if I just push hard enough, I can fix anything."

  Ciarra didn’t say anything, but he felt her ears twitch slightly against his shoulder.

  Ezra tightened his grip just a little. "It’s hard. Changing the way you think. But maybe… maybe you should try too."

  Ciarra sniffled. "What do you mean?"

  Ezra pulled back slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes. "Whatever’s weighing you down… maybe you’re carrying it the wrong way." He tilted his head. "You ever think about what’d happen if you just… put it down?"

  Ciarra blinked at him.

  Then she laughed. A real laugh. A small, breathy, genuine laugh.

  Ezra smirked. "What?"

  She shook her head, wiping at her eyes again. "You really are so much like him sometimes."

  Ezra quirked a brow. "Him?"

  Ciarra hesitated—then just shook her head again. "Doesn’t matter."

  Ezra could tell it did matter. But for now? He let it go.

  Instead, he nudged her side lightly. "Feeling better?"

  Ciarra exhaled. "A little."

  Ezra grinned. "Good. ‘Cause I was really hoping you’d stop being sad so I could go back to annoying you about Haru."

  Ciarra snorted. "You are the worst."

  "Yup."

  But as Ezra stood up, stretching his arms over his head, he glanced back at her one last time.

  "Hey," he said, his voice softer now. "Whatever that call was about… whoever that was… they care about you."

  Ciarra’s ears twitched. Her fingers curled slightly against her sheets.

  Ezra smiled. "And so do I."

  Ciarra swallowed hard. Then—finally—she nodded. "I know."

  Ezra turned toward the door. "Good. Now get some sleep, you emotional train wreck."

  Ciarra threw a pillow at him.

  Ezra left laughing.