Regina settled into the chair in the observation room, the harsh hum of the circular light above casting deep shadows across the camera controls. She sat back and focused on the dark screen in front of her, displaying a live feed from the Black Room where Fletcher was being held.

It had been four weeks since their last interaction, though Fletcher showed no sign of being aware of the time. He was curled in the corner of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. His finger tapped, relentlessly, against the cold metal floor—a maddening, irregular rhythm he'd been keeping since his second day here.

What is that tapping for? Regina couldn't figure it out. The pattern was erratic, sometimes slow and deliberate, other times so fast that even the advanced camera system struggled to keep up.

There had been other strange occurrences, too. His movements were unpredictable—one moment sluggish and smooth, the next so quick the cameras captured only a blur. They'd tried questioning him about it in the few heavily-guarded interrogations they managed, but he offered no answers. Either he was hiding something, or he was truly unaware of what he was doing.

Regina leaned forward, watching him now more closely than ever. Her curiosity about where he'd come from had long since shifted to a burning obsession with what had happened to him. It was obvious to her that Fletcher hadn't always been like this. He seemed to be at war with himself, struggling to control something he barely understood.

The reward for unlocking the secret of his abilities would be unimaginable. Finisterra would surely elevate her to heights she hadn't dared to dream of. But for that, she needed more information—more evidence of what he could do.

Most of the surveillance tapes were like this—Fletcher sitting in the corner, tapping his finger, seemingly embracing the isolation. He didn't trust her, but neither did he seem disturbed by his confinement. He almost appeared content, irritated only when they brought him food or interrupted him for another futile interrogation.

A year had passed now since Fletcher's arrival, though you wouldn't know it by looking at him. He showed no sign of acknowledging the time.

Regina tapped her own fingers on the table, trying to match his rhythm. It was hopeless. Too erratic, too fast.

Her eyes flicked to the door as she waited, her plan already set in motion. They had selected a guard Fletcher hadn't seen before, someone fresh, someone to put him on edge. She needed a reaction—a demonstration of what he could do. And soon enough, she'd have it.

The door to the Black Room flung open. The guard strode in, his movements filled with a rehearsed confidence that felt too forced. The door sealed behind him with a heavy, final thud. Regina didn't expect him to survive, but that didn't matter. He was expendable—just another piece in the game.

For a moment, Fletcher remained still, curled in the corner. Then, in a flash that even the camera barely caught, he was standing. The guard raised his weapon and fired, just as instructed. But by the time the sound of the shot reached Regina's ears, Fletcher next to the guard, the weapon now in his own grasp.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Regina's pulse quickened. She hadn't even seen Fletcher move. His speed was beyond comprehension. Without a word, Fletcher began to walk—slowly, impossibly slowly—back to his corner. Each step dragged on, as if time itself had warped around him.

Regina pressed a button, her voice calm. "Retrieve the guard."

The door slid open, and two more guards rushed in to drag the stunned man out of the room. Fletcher hadn't even finished his slow walk back to the corner when they closed the door behind them.

Regina sat back, her mind racing. We'll have to get rid of that guard, she thought. What he's seen is too dangerous, and he's too low-level to be trusted.

Her gaze returned to Fletcher on the screen. Whatever he was, whatever he had become, she was closer to finding out.

~~~

Marcus sat in the corner of the endless black room, knees tucked tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them. His finger tapped lightly against the cold floor—tap, tap, tap—over and over again. The erratic rhythm was the only thing that kept him grounded, a small tether to reality in the midst of the chaos swirling around him. Time didn't flow the same way anymore. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. Days, weeks—months, even?

It didn't matter. Time twisted and folded in ways that made it impossible to track. It flowed too fast, then crawled too slow, like a pulse out of sync with the rest of existence. Except for him. To Marcus, every movement he made was consistent, regular. His steps, his taps, his breaths—they all felt like they always had. It was the world that had changed. The way it sped up and slowed down around him, shifting like a blur he couldn't quite understand.

His heart, though, was another story. It thudded in his chest with no rhythm at all, picking up and slowing down at random. He could feel the shifts, a reminder of the strange power that coursed through him, the same power that made everything else so unpredictable. His finger kept tapping, faster and faster now. But that was normal, wasn't it?

Tap. Tap. Tap. His eyes drifted across the featureless black walls. The room felt as endless as time itself. He was sure they were watching him, studying him through cameras hidden in the blackness. Regina, the woman who came to interrogate him now and then, always wanted answers. She was trying to figure out what he was, what had happened to him. But how could he tell her something he barely understood himself?

The door opened, and Marcus' senses sharpened. He remained in place, pretending not to notice, but something felt different. He glanced up. A guard, unfamiliar to him, stepped into the room. New face. New situation. His heart gave a sudden lurch, speeding up and skipping a beat as the air grew heavier around him.

Marcus could feel it happening again. The world around him started to warp, time flowing out of sync. The guard's steps seemed slow, exaggerated, as if he was moving through syrup. But Marcus? To him, everything was normal. He moved as he always did. It was the world that was broken.

The guard raised his weapon, the motion painstakingly slow in Marcus' perception, but to him, it was all deliberate, clear. Marcus stood up and walked toward the guard with precise, controlled steps. No blur, no frantic rush—just the smooth, deliberate motion of someone acting in real time.

With calculated precision, Marcus reached for the weapon in the guard's hand, wrapping his fingers around it and pulling it away. To the guard, the act must have seemed impossibly fast, a flicker in time. But for Marcus, it was a simple, intentional movement. His heart slowed, the steady thrum aligning with the flow of his actions.

Weapon now in hand, Marcus turned and began his walk back to the corner of the room. The room around him distorted once more, speeding up, the walls stretching impossibly fast. The guard was a blur, already being dragged out of the room, though Marcus moved at his usual pace. To him, nothing had changed.

Tap. Tap. Tap. His finger resumed its rhythm as he sank back down into his corner. The weapon lay forgotten at his feet, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. The world around him had returned to its strange rhythm, fast and slow, out of sync and distorted. But Marcus remained the same, caught in the eye of the storm.

He didn't care how long they watched him. Time had already slipped away from him, and it wasn't coming back.