One and a half years. That was the time Marcus estimated based on how often they had fed him. He wasn't sure if his estimate was accurate—time had become difficult to grasp. He felt like he'd spent more time in this room than he had been alive, and yet, at the same time, it felt like he had just been thrown in here.

Marcus had used the endless hours in the Black Room to try and come to terms with his new abilities. He focused inward, trying to understand this new sense of self, trying to find meaning in this broken world. Over time, he started to realise how different his experience of time was from others. After the incident with the guard, he reached a new awareness—if he could control this power, he could use it to his advantage.

Since that day, Marcus dedicated himself to mastering time. The only method of testing it, however, was the delivery of food. It was the one constant that hinted at the passage of time. He delved deep into his mind, trying to recreate the instinct that had helped him disarm the guard.

At first, he tried to grab control of it, reaching out physically as if he could catch time and manipulate it like an object. His hand grasped at the air, but nothing changed. The food didn't arrive any quicker.

Next, he turned to his tapping. It was the one thing that helped him stay grounded. He used the tapping to keep himself in the present, to feel something steady when everything else felt chaotic. When Regina came for one of her interrogations, the tapping helped him stay still. It kept him anchored. So he thought that maybe tapping differently would alter time. He tried tapping rapidly. Nothing. Tapping slowly. Still nothing.

Soon, he realised that everything he had tried was a manifestation of the real world—physical actions that had no effect on the flow of time itself. The tapping was only an anchor, a tool to keep him present, but it wasn't the answer.

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Finally, Marcus tried something different. He lay flat on the floor, completely still. No tapping. He even took off the mask that emulated sounds visually. In the darkness, in the silence, he imagined an analog clock in his mind, its hands ticking away, steady and clear. He focused on that clock, speeding it up little by little, trying to keep the image sharp in his head. The distraction less void of the Black Room and the soundlessness from his hearing loss aiding to keep him focused.

As the clock spun faster, Marcus felt the world around him shift. Time warped, stretched, and suddenly, food arrived. And then more. And more. Five days' worth of food had piled up before he felt hands on him for a brief moment, checking for signs of life. Of course. They must have thought I was dead.

Marcus remained still, thinking. I haven't eaten or moved. I've been lying here for days, maybe weeks. Imagine what this must look like to them.

A small smile crept onto his face. I'm not controlling time. I'm moving through it—just like walking down a hallway.

The realisation hit him fully, and he paused, letting it sink in. He wasn't bending time to his will. He was slipping through it, navigating it like a path. He wasn't anchored to the same flow that the others were. This is it—the key to my escape. The key to everything.

Suddenly, his hunger, his exhaustion—they didn't matter anymore. He had figured it out. Marcus felt hope reignite in his chest. Thank you, Regina. You have no idea how much the confines of this room have helped me.

He lay there, allowing himself to rest for a moment, to absorb the enormity of his discovery. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he believed that he could escape. He could still live the life he had dreamed of, away from the clutches of Finisterra, away from their shadow. He would live instead in the shadow of the universe.