Within minutes, the aid leads Waylon to a solid wood door. Walnut or oak or something — he doesn't know the difference. Brass fixings adorn its grainy surface, each reflecting a warped version of their surroundings. Knocking first, she inches the door open and peaks her head inside.

Heartbeats slow; seconds pass like minutes. Waylon hovers behind her and tries to listen. Some words exchange, but dulled by the wooden slab between him and her and whoever is inside. Albert, most definitely. The thought of them flushes Waylon's face. He reaches forward, set to rip the aid aside, barge past, and—

She slips her head out and eases the door shut. He recoils, letting his hand fall limp to his side. No. She doesn't deserve that.

She bows to him. "You can go on in when you're ready, Mister Ishii."

With that, she leaves and he's alone again. Everything feels heavy: his shoulders, his head, his eyelids. Not from grief, to his surprise. Just exhaustion. It's as if those solitary hours siphoned away all the despair he had to give. Now, all that's left is constant flux between unfeeling nothing and all-feeling anger.

He grits his teeth, twists the brass handle, and tugs. Time to settle this.

The room is similar to where Waylon first met Albert: bookshelves lining the walls, weighed down by countless leather-bound volumes; soft, amber incandescence; a smell of burning hickory. Everything much the same besides Albert themself. Sat behind a dark, wooden desk, bent over and picking at their fingers. Lost in thought.

Waylon slams the door shut.

Albert jolts straight. They cast a wild glance toward the doorway, ginger hair flickering about. Their face softens upon seeing him. "Ah, my apologies. I didn't expect you so quick. Or so loud. Thought I'd have a couple more moments to myself."

There it is again: that other version of Albert, so quickly cast aside in favor of more important business. A tactic; manipulation. Waylon should get angry. His stomach should writhe, his heart should pound, and adrenaline should course through his veins. None of that happens, though. He screams inside his head for his body to react.

Albert had me sent to prison; they took time I could have spent helping her; they corrupted our final moments together. They're an unfeeling, uncaring monster.

A sigh escapes his chest and with it, all those angry thoughts — exhaustion too much to force them. He lumbers toward an armchair. "Why are you acting distraught?"

Albert's gaze becomes distant. "Unfortunately, it's no act. My emotions are quite real. I'd love nothing more than to slip into them, let them run their course over a few hours. But, we've got business to attend to, don't we? Or is a fatal beating still on the table?"

A blatant lie. Fine by Waylon: he can play a part too.

Looming over the desk and Albert in turn, he presses his revolver against the desktop and leans close. "I haven't ruled it out." The words come out calm; terrifyingly cold.

Yet, Albert merely nods. "Noted. Should it come to that, I suggest barrel-first — surprisingly common for someone to strike with a pistol's butt. I find—"

"Oh, shut up." Waylon lets his hand fall from the revolver and drops into one of the two waiting armchairs. "I'll ask questions. You'll answer them."

Albert swallows their interrupted words. "Fair."

"Honestly."

"Wouldn't dream the opposite."

"And to the point."

"I'll be sure to abstain from any unnecessary flair." Albert leans over the arm of their chair and fiddles inside a cabinet. Tinkling glass rings throughout the room. They straighten back up, holding a bottle. Whiskey. Redbreast, going by the label. They start to reach for another cabinet, but their hand curls midway and they wince. "Ah, apologies. Do you mind?"

Waylon stares at the bottle, some memory stirring. Unease; disgust; anger. That doesn't matter right now: he needs answers. "How'd you get her out of the hospital without my say so?" He says.

Taking the question as permission, Albert fetches a rock glass and begins to pour. "The director owed me a favor."

"A favor big enough to violate oaths? Laws?"

Albert drops two chilled stones into the glass, which clatter about the bottom. "You're putting a lot of faith in a system you don't understand. Directors aren't doctors. They're administrators and they make no oaths beyond profit. As for laws, that's merely a surcharge."

Waylon grits his teeth. "You've got money to bribe a director, but you couldn't get a healer?"

"Hospital directors are quite a few rungs lower on the ladder, lad. Hundreds, I'd say. In any case, I told you earlier, Waylon—"

"Mister Ishii."

Glass an inch from cresting their lip, Albert raises an eyebrow. "My apologies, Mister Ishii." They take their sip and let loose a sigh. "What I told you earlier is the truth: no healer able to cure Gina wants for the pittance I could offer. They'd need something more to make it worth their while."

"What about the healer I arranged?"

"Again, I must appeal to earlier words. He's a hack; a scammer; whatever unsavory name you'd like to call him." Lowering their glass to a coaster, they finger through a pile of manila envelopes stacked atop their desk.

Waylon thought them unimportant. More staging, like the loosely gathered papers littering the desktop. Like the unread books lining the shelves.

Albert tugs a folder free, slides it over, and plucks up their glass. "I pulled another string for that."

He yanks the folder into his lap. It's hefty; a hundred pages or so. On the first, an emblem adorns the top left, circled by words: "New York State Police". Waylon shifts his gaze an inch down the page. A picture of a man stares back — a familiar man. Twenty-something, hollow-cheeked, cigarette between his lips and black hair peaking from beneath a beanie.

How do I know this guy?

There's an inkling swirling deep within his mind. He fishes through memories, chases that fleeting sense of recognition. His eyes go wide. The healer.

How?

This picture is nothing like the refined man that he met. No suit, no tie, no well-groomed mustache or slicked back hair to match. Just some shabby looking guy. Waylon sets his jaw. Another goddamned facade.

In the picture, the man looks over his own shoulder, bug-eyed, like he's afraid he's being followed. Underneath, tabulated information sprawls the page. Name — which Waylon never knew; date of birth; current address. Even a social security number.

Waylon flips to the next page, letting the name linger in his thoughts. Benjamin Olson.

This one is an incident report — filed with the Cordia Police Department nearly a year ago. Two cells draw his attention.

NATURE OF COMPLAINT: Healthcare scam. Money wired, but no services rendered. COMPLAINT AGAINST: I don't know his name. Only met him once. Wore a pressed black suit and had black, slicked back hair. Gave me a number to call when I had the money. Number doesn't connect anymore, but it's—

Next page, another incident report. Filed in Windbridge this time.

NATURE OF COMPLAINT: Sister was sick. Doctors wouldn't do nothing. Posted on the computer and this guy said he could help. Gave him all my savings, then he up and disappeared. COMPLAINT AGAINST: That guy. Went by @ICanHelpThrowaway77 or 87 or something. Never got his not-computer name. Can't remember the website either. Sorry. But we met up. Talked. I paid him. Then he skipped on me.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Page after page of reports, all the same story. Someone needs help for themself or someone they care about, then this man pops up. He offers whatever they need; they trust him; give him everything they've got. Only for him to take the money and run.

Waylon's jaw hurts. With all the pressure and teeth grinding, his enamel feels fixed to shatter. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" He says.

Albert — mid-sip — swallows in a rush and clears their throat. "Ahem. I didn't tell you because I didn't think it would help."

"Why?"

"A tendency to tunnel in? To lash out when something doesn't go according to plan?"

Amber light glints off each of the revolver's curves; it'd be so easy to pick it up and start swinging. Metal against flesh. How long would it take for that mouth to stop moving?

Before the urge takes hold, Waylon flips through more documents. Pictures of meetings too familiar to Waylon's own. Each followed by an increasingly unkempt man wasting everything he'd conned on gambling and alcohol.

Bile bubbles up Waylon's throat. He slams the folder shut and flings it at Albert. "I've seen enough."

With a grunt and a sloshing whiskey glass, Albert catches the folder against their chest. "Oof. I take it you saw his actual power?"

"No."

They drop the folder to the floor, where it smacks against hardwood. "Ah, well, if he watched a pot of water, it wouldn't boil no matter how hot. Odd how powers can sometimes mirror old sayings, isn't it? Bound to happen with eleven billion of us."

Waylon's heart twists. Boiling water? That's it? All those people lied to; tricked; stolen from.

Stolen...

Waylon glares down his nose at Albert: they stole from him too. What little time he had left with Gina, lost because this person had him thrown in prison. He plucks up the revolver and feels its heft; he imagines swinging it — metal breaking bone and flesh. Better yet, what if he turned that barrel on himself?

What would it feel like? Would I wake up in a different world? A better one?

Alas, no bullets.

"Did you actually do everything within your power to save her?" He says, voice distant.

Albert nods. "Everything. More than everything."

"Explain."

"I'd love to—"

"Then do it."

Albert throws up their hands. "Listen. Allow me a preface, at least? The answer to your question is not one that can be forgotten."

Waylon lets the silence hang. Every second, the air thickens with tension and uncertainty, blanketing them like a haze under the room's amber light.

Would that new world be even worse than this one?

His eyes slip from the revolver, up to Albert. "Fine. Give me the preface."

"What an excellent dramatic pause." Albert rubs their unsleeved forearm. "Look at that: I've got goosebumps, Mister Ishii."

Waylon stares, gaze empty. "Get to the point."

"Sorry, you're right. Our agreement. No flair. Here's your preface: if I'm to share how I helped Gina, this is your last chance to walk free and live a normal life — somewhat normal, I suppose. Wanted as you are, you'll always find a degree of difficulty in that. Even so. To hear this is to plunge headfirst into a different world entirely. One unburdened by bureaucracy, but with rules just as complex. There is no due process; no cells; no mercy. One slip and you'll encounter horrors far worse than anything you've seen in your films."

Films? How odd that he was once terrified by fake blood and special effects. With Phil — now Gina — gone, this world is already different. Wrong, empty, meaningless.

He already feels as if he's straddling two realities: this one and whatever lies beyond the curtain. He scoffs. "Threating me?"

Albert tips their whiskey. "Transparently so. Don't take it personal. It's my associates: they're as driven as I and have expectations to how things should be run."

"Just tell me." Waylon says, no hesitation.

Albert lowers glass to coaster and nudges it ever so to sit perfectly centered. "As you wish. Apologies in advance if this comes off rehearsed. A lot of thought's gone into this moment." Leaning over, they rest their elbows atop the desk and steeple their fingers. "I trade in life. Days, weeks, months. Decades in the extreme. Though, to emphasize, it is a trade. Favors. Buy me a drink? I owe you. We head home and I cover the cab? We're even. Favor for favor, or money, or what have you. Those are options everyone has to settle a debt. I have another: time. A drink isn't worth much. A day, maybe— Are you following?"

A question for the shock playing across Waylon's face. His mouth sits ajar; furrows burrow through his brow; and his mind churns. He swallows. "What's worth a year?"

"How about a real life example? A steel mill owner wanted to encourage customers to switch from a rival's services to his, so—"

The dots connect. "That first job I did for you."

Albert nods. "Exactly. A little disruption to the supply chain can do wonders in a society so obsessed with efficiency. Orders fall behind schedule, and naturally, clients leave. That was worth a couple years."

Something doesn't add up; Waylon chews at it. "But the job paid. Didn't you take a cut before passing it along?"

"Yes, a small one. I offered the rest of my share as a discount. Thus, a debt in my favor."

"And they were willing to give you two years on top?"

"Oh, I'm sure they wouldn't have been. But that's the thing: those involved in my scheme need not agree to its terms and conditions, nor be aware those terms even exist. Dastardly, isn't it?"

Yes. Insidious; the possibilities, terrifying.

"Telling me how your power works isn't smart; you're making yourself vulnerable." Waylon says.

"I promised to answer your questions. You accepted my terms, after all."

His heart plunges into his stomach. "Wait, what was sharing all that worth?"

"Fortunately for you, this is less a favor and more a detriment. No time is due because of what I've told you thus far." Albert raises one ginger eyebrow. "Thought you were willing to go out? Why worry over what you could owe me?"

Waylon exhales slow, trying to force his heart to calm — to beat steady. It doesn't work. "You don't get to ask questions." He barks, fear turning into anger. "Gina did you a favor and you gave her time? That right?"

"Exactly."

"Then why is she dead?"

"Consumption. Nasty thing eats time like a black hole. The more you throw in, the stronger it gets. An unfortunate interaction."

Waylon yanks himself to his feet and slams hands down on Albert's desk, revolver digging into palm above and wood below. "But you got a couple years for a measly discount! You could have given her enough time for us to find another way to help her!"

"You are underestimating just how—"

"I don't care. You should have given her every drop you had."

"Yes, I should have. I deserve nothing more than to shrivel and decay. Unfortunately, it wouldn't have mattered. That's why I'm here and she's not."

Waylon jabs a finger Albert's way. "You don't get to decide that!"

They eye Waylon's finger, cross their legs, and relax into their armchair's cushions. "Three-hundred years."

His finger falls, flaccid; his brow furrows. "What?"

"Three-hundred years. That's what I gave her."

Varying states of confusion play over Waylon's face, like an earthquake and its aftershocks. "No. That's not true. That's impossible. She was here a couple of months at most."

"My expectation was much the same when we started the exchange. This being my second run in with Consumption, I thought myself prepared. How easy it is to underestimate greed. That's what it is, after all: a greedy disease."

Waylon brandishes his revolver like a club. "You wouldn't have given her that much. You didn't. Lie again and—"

Albert rises from their chair, voice rising in tandem. "I have no patience for willful ignorance!" They glower upon Waylon — a mere speck before them. "I earned each of those years. Every one, I siphoned from another's soul — some by acts I'd sooner forget than dredge from the muck. But that's exactly what I did. For her; for you. Cast my mind against lingering demons. I relived it all — I spent it all — to allow you both that final moment. Do you know what that's worth? Those three-hundred years? No more back and forth or idle words; I shall show you."

Waylon blinks and the office disappears. Everything does. His breathing sputters, air gone; his head swims; his body sinks. He casts about wild eyes, trying to orient himself, but there's only darkness. A memory plays: him as a child, swimming — struggling to surface after diving just a little too deep. Drowning.

Which way is up? Down? Do his eyes move when he tells them to? Are they there? He's not even sure he has a body anymore.

Then, something strange happens. Albert speaks. Not with their mouth, but their mind, directly into his. "Do you understand yet?"

No, he doesn't. Why is it so hard to spur a thought? Fear flickers where his heart should be, until even that emits its final spark. Stagnation. He ceases to exist. A blip on a timeline of what was, but will no longer be.

He blinks.

Gasping, air fills his lungs and smells touch his nose. Wood, paper, leather. He clutches at his heart. Beneath the sweater's fabric, it beats, pulsing fear through his veins. He's convinced now: there's nothing in that world beyond. Nothing.

Around him, everything is as it once was. Albert, the office, him.

At some point, he'd fallen, now sprawled upon his armchair and lolling toward the floor. He struggles up into the seat and pats every part of himself, making sure nothing has disappeared. "Did I— did I die?"

Albert massages their temples, one hand bridging the gap like Geordi La Forge's visor. "Not quite. Silence for a moment, please? Pulling someone back after going so far wrecks havoc on the head."

Waylon's thoughts run rampant in the quiet. Burying his head in his hands, he curses quietly. "Fuck. Fuck!" If I— if I had known— I could have— Tears drip to the floor around his shoes. "Did I have any chance?" He whispers.

Albert fishes within a drawer and pulls out a bottle. Pain killers. They shake a couple free and — with a mouthful of whiskey — gulp them down. "Ah. Taste never gets old. Anyway, I'm not sure exactly what you're asking, so I'll guess at a few. Saving Gina? No, no chance. Yourself? Several. If you meant killing me? I honestly have no idea."

Waylon isn't even sure which he meant. He tilts his head just high enough to catch Albert's eyes, his own raw and red. "How long do I have?"

"Far less than three-hundred years, naturally speaking. Fifty or so. That's not what you're asking though, is it? You'll live as long as you're useful. I warned you, Mister Ishii. You should have left when I gave you the chance."

He's empty; spent; broken. Above all, terrified — teetering a blink away from nothingness. He lets his head fall into trembling hands. "What will I have to do?"

"Nothing you wouldn't already want to do. I am not the villain here. I'm a symptom — a vulture gorging on your remains. The ones actually to blame sit far above either of us, moving pieces on their board and counting victories built atop suffering. The Owners, the trillionaires: their corporations, their hospitals, and their government.

"I've worked a hundred years to have some affect on their game, yet, I'm still a toddler. I grasp at pieces only to be batten away by some pawn with more manpower or influence or money. Not forever. We've got something they don't: time. Take yours for now. Grieve. And, when you're done, call Joel. We're going to steal our first piece, Mister Ishii. No matter how long it takes."