The journey through the planet's upper atmosphere had been anything but smooth, though Marcus barely noticed in his shock. The shuttle rattled violently, every tremor rippling through his battered body. Yet, in the eerie stillness within his mind, he was deaf to it all. Only when the shuttle slammed into the ground did the realisation settle in: his hearing was gone.

What happened in that wormhole? he wondered, his thoughts spiralling through fragments of memory. The wormhole had been closing, but he had made it through... right? His mind clawed at the pieces, trying to string them together, but they slipped away like sand through his fingers. He knew something fundamental had changed, though the nature of it eluded him—both terrifying and exhilarating.

The shuttle, though battered, had held up just long enough to cushion the worst of the impact. Marcus clambered out, his movements shaky but determined. Cold air bit at his skin, and as he stood on the ledge of the cliff where the shuttle had crashed, he squinted at the grim skyline of the city in the distance. Night cloaked the planet in shadows, but the city glowed faintly through the dense, greenish smog that veiled the sky.

He took in the desolate landscape. The ground beneath him was oily, cracked, and lifeless. Not a single tree, no sign of water, nothing natural.. just barren wasteland leading straight to the sprawling, industrialised metropolis. A grotesque reminder of a planet stripped of everything but its mechanical core. There was nowhere to hide here, no place to seek refuge. His stomach growled, a sharp pang of hunger twisting within him.

Marcus sighed, knowing he had no choice but to venture into the city. His body ached, but worse was the silence. A vacuum where sound should have been. It unnerved him, the quiet pressing in on him, as though the world had folded in on itself, locking him out. Raised in the constant, busy hum of the mineroid facility, Marcus had never known quiet. Now, it was his only companion.

He glanced one last time at the shuttle wreck before beginning his descent down the cliff, his legs trembling as they met the uneven terrain. As he moved, the world seemed to shift around him in strange and unsettling ways. Every step felt heavier, as though time itself thickened, dragging at his movements. The rocky path below him stretched and compressed, and he couldn't tell whether he was walking slower or faster than before. He clenched his fists, trying to focus, trying to ground himself in something real.

He paused, looking out over the city again. The smog drifted lazily, but it, too, seemed to defy the natural order—still one moment, then swirling violently the next, before returning to calm. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Above him, a large, bird-like creature flapped its wings, but its movements were bizarre, almost unnatural. At first, the bird glided slowly and smoothly across the sky, but then, its pace jerked erratically, as if time had splintered mid-flight, speeding up, then slowing down. Marcus blinked again, his breath quickening. What's happening to me?

His heart thudded against his ribcage, pounding fiercely in his chest, and even that sensation was wrong. One moment his heart felt as if it were racing, threatening to explode, the next it slowed, each beat dragging like thick molasses. His vision blurred, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt, the night shifting around him, disjointed and chaotic. It was as though time was slipping through his fingers, no longer something he could hold onto, speeding up and slowing down in a relentless dance he couldn't comprehend.

He stumbled, catching himself on a jagged rock. He wanted to scream, but nothing came. His throat was tight, his pulse irregular, but all that filled his ears was silence—the maddening, suffocating silence.

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of the ground beneath him, trying to ignore the disorienting warping of time. His limbs felt sluggish, but he forced them to move, step by step, down the treacherous slope. The city still loomed ahead, a dim beacon through the haze. I need to keep moving.

Finally, his boots met the flat, grimy expanse of land that stretched between the cliff and the city. The surface was slick and tar-like, squelching underfoot. The stillness of the landscape was oppressive, the lifelessness absolute. Nothing but emptiness lay between him and the distant glow of the city. No trees, no animals, not even wind. He felt a creeping sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

Focus, he told himself. You need to reach the city. He stepped forward, but before he could take another, something caught his eye. A silhouette on the horizon, growing larger. His pulse quickened again. A vehicle. It was coming straight for him.

The shape barreled towards him, its movements distorted like everything else—first slow, then blindingly fast, then slow again. His heart raced in time with its jagged approach. As it neared, Marcus could make out the sharp lines of a heavy transport vehicle, its ominous shape giving off an air of authority.

It skidded to a halt in front of him. He felt the vibrations through the ground, but still, there was no sound. The silence was suffocating. Three dark figures emerged from the vehicle, faceless in the gloom. He could see their mouths moving, barking orders, but their voices were lost in the void.

Marcus was too weak to resist as they grabbed him, throwing him roughly to the ground. His vision swam, exhaustion weighing on him like a lead blanket. They bound his wrists with stingwire, the sharp threads cutting into his skin as he instinctively pulled away. He winced but knew better than to struggle. If he fought, the wire would tighten, slicing deep into his flesh.

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The figures hoisted him up and dragged him toward the vehicle, tossing him inside like cargo. One of them climbed in with him, looming over his slumped form. Marcus could barely make out their expression through the haze of his fatigue. Another figure passed something to them—something sharp and metallic. Marcus felt a cold needle press into his arm.

He wanted to scream, to lash out, but the silence swallowed him whole as his vision faded into darkness.

~~~~

Marcus awoke in a slow daze, his mind sluggishly catching up with his body. The room around him was made entirely of dark, reflective black metal. He had heard of these interrogation rooms before—designed specifically to disorient. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly, with no defining edges, creating the impression of infinite space. The intention was clear: to make the prisoner feel small, insignificant, and helpless.

He sat at a table in what he assumed was the centre of the room. The table, an unnatural white, pierced the blackness—a cruel anchor in a sea of nothing. Marcus felt his sense of time warp further. He could no longer tell how long he had been here. Seconds, minutes, days—there was no difference.

His thoughts drifted, trying to grasp at the fragments of memory that still felt solid. His home... gone. Despite his resentment toward the mineroid facility, it had been the only place he'd known. Where his mother had raised him until the day of her so-called "accident." He winced at the memory. She had been extraordinary, not just as a mother but as a teacher. She'd instilled in him a sense of curiosity, a resistance to the ever-oppressive Finisterra. It was she who had opened his mind, teaching him about the universe, about ancient arts long forgotten. There was no profit in art, so it had died under Finisterra control, snuffed out like so many other things.

His heart rate spiked, pulling him back into the present. The wormhole... something had happened there. He tried to focus on that moment, when reality had torn apart. Had it been because I entered just as it closed? The impossibility of the event was maddening. He touched his neck, counting his pulse. The beats came irregularly, first slow, then rapid, then agonisingly slow again. The sensation of time folding around him returned, twisting his sense of rhythm.

He turned to the only certainty he had—his own actions. He started tapping the table with his finger. One... two... three... The taps echoed hollowly in the vast room. Thirty-four... fifty-six... seventy. His pulse normalised. Marcus took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to stabilise the strange fluctuations that seemed to toy with his perception of time. For a moment, he felt grounded.

Then, hunger struck him again. His stomach churned painfully, reminding him he hadn't eaten in—how long? Hours? Days? He couldn't tell.

Suddenly, blinding light flooded the room. Marcus winced, his vision swimming as he adjusted. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, carrying something metallic and curved. As they approached, the object gleamed under the harsh light. The figure's movements were slow, deliberate, controlled. Whoever this was, they exuded calm authority, someone used to being in control.

They reached Marcus and raised the object to his face without hesitation. The methodical precision of their actions told Marcus there was no malice here—just a cold efficiency. He didn't resist. If they wanted to hurt him, they would've done so already.

The object—a mask—was placed over his eyes, sealing him back into darkness. For a moment, nothing. Then, the mask's interior display lit up, revealing a detailed heads-up display of his surroundings. Words flashed at the bottom of the screen. He read them:

"You're an interesting one, aren't you? And remarkably patient. Two days and you've barely moved"

Two days? Marcus latched onto that fragment of information. For the first time in what felt like forever, he had confirmation of time passing.

Marcus noticed that the figure now leaned against the table, arms crossed. Their posture was relaxed, but it conveyed a sense of superiority. It wasn't a threatening stance—more like someone who knew they were in control of the situation, unhurried and fully confident.

"We saw your spacecraft crash outside the city. It was an unannounced entrance, so naturally, we made the arrest. But when we brought you in, we found something strange. You don't exist. No records, no identification, nothing."

Marcus remained silent, studying the figure's body language, searching for any clue as to their intentions. The figure shifted slightly, straightening up and uncrossing their arms, as if expecting a response.

"My name's Regina," the text on the mask displayed as the figure gestured to herself. She moved with an efficient precision, each motion deliberate and without wasted energy. "I'm an enforcer here in Bosnacki. That's the city you've landed in, by the way." She took a step closer, eyes fixed on Marcus, waiting for some reaction.

Marcus kept his silence, observing how her hands rested lightly on her hips, just above a holstered weapon. The casual placement of her hand near the gun wasn't an overt threat, but it was a clear statement of control. Regina was not here to negotiate.

She tapped the table once, her expression hardening slightly. Her patience was running thin.

"Come on now," the words appeared. "We ran a medical check when we brought you in. We know you're deaf, but you can still talk just fine. So why don't you tell me your name?"

Marcus hesitated. "Fletcher." The name slipped out before he could second-guess it. He wasn't sure why he hesitated to give his real name—there was no trace of him anyway. For all intents and purposes, "Marcus" didn't exist anymore. He found it odd however— to speak without hearing himself. The only confirmation that he had spoken was the text in the top text of the mask's display.

"Fletcher," Regina said, her expression softening for a moment. She raised an eyebrow, intrigued but still calculating. "And how did you end up here?"

His silence returned, deliberate now. He noticed how Regina's fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the table, betraying a hint of impatience despite her otherwise composed demeanour. Or maybe it was a mockery of his own drumming fingers.

With a small, yet visible sigh, Regina's posture shifted. She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms again, deciding to give up—for now. "Right then. We gave you a chance. I'll leave you here for another two days. Let's see if you're more talkative by then."

Regina turned and began to walk toward the door, her steps measured and deliberate. Marcus considered making a move—running for the door—but her hand rested casually on the handle of her projectile weapon. He doubted he could wrestle it from her in his weakened state, and there was no telling how many more were stationed outside the room.

The door clicked shut behind her, plunging him once again into an uncertain reality—alone with the shifting tides of time.