After a long, silent walk through the smog-choked, over-industrialized city, Marcus reached the landing field. The city felt like a cold machine, built to crush the spirit of those who lived in it. Every tower seemed designed to loom over the people below, making them feel small and insignificant. Marcus knew this wasn't accidental. Finisterra had perfected the art of making people feel powerless, whether in a prison like the Black Room or in the suffocating industrial wastelands below.

The landing field stretched out before him—a vast, metallic disk in the heart of the city. It was the only open space in the entire area, with the rest of the city crammed with structures that loomed high above. From here, the frozen ships dotted the field, some mid-takeoff, others still grounded, with workers moving like slugs beneath them. Marcus kept the world around him slowed, scanning for a way out.

Even as Marcus searched for an escape, he couldn't help but reflect on the hopelessness these people wore on their faces. A few supervisors—less miserable than the rest—stood still mid-shout, their arms raised in command, giving orders to the workers around them. But Marcus knew the truth. They were just as trapped as everyone else.

The Supreme Director, the face of Finisterra, had an almost mythical status. The top of the food chain, making decisions that determined the fate of billions. But even the Supreme Director, Marcus thought, wasn't free. Chained to the relentless drive for power and wealth, the director was just another cog in the larger, profit-obsessed machine.

Marcus tore his gaze away from the scene and refocused on the ships. He needed something small, something old, and something that wouldn't be missed. His eyes locked onto a mid-sized transport ship near the far side of the field. Its hull was dented, the paint peeling in patches—barely functional, but perfect for his needs.

He made his way up the ramp and into the cargo bay, glancing at the worker standing near the base of the ramp, mid-lift with a crate in his hands. Marcus ignored him. The time would catch up soon enough. He moved through the ship, checking the kitchen, stocked with supplies, and the crew quarters—cramped and messy, but usable.

Finally, Marcus found the cockpit, a two-seater with a wide window, a relic from older ship models. The manual controls and steering apparatus confirmed the ship's age. It felt familiar under his hands. His mother had taught him well. This ship would fly.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Before relaxing, his thoughts drifted to the worker. He needed to make sure they were off the ramp before takeoff. Returning to the cargo bay, he saw the worker had moved, and the ramp was now clear. The bay door was sliding shut behind them. Marcus felt a wave of relief as he headed back to the cockpit.

He adjusted the mask on his face—the one he kept from the Black Room to convert speech to text. He had grown used to moving through the world without sound, though the eerie silence still unsettled him. The mask had become part of him now, and he wouldn't leave it behind.

Seated in the pilot's seat, Marcus knew the hardest part was coming: letting go of his control over time. He tapped his leg, grounding himself as the clock in his mind faded. The world snapped back into motion. The frozen workers resumed their tasks, the ships around him whirred back to life.

He turned on the engines, feeling the ship shudder under him. There was no hum, no noise—just the silent vibrations he felt through the seat. It was always strange, this absence of sound, but he brushed the thought aside. Focus. He initiated takeoff. The ship lifted, breaking free of the ground and rising into the sky.

The city below shrank, the polluted air thinning as the ship reached the upper atmosphere. For a brief moment, Marcus experienced weightlessness, the familiar sensation of floating before the ship's artificial gravity kicked in with a noticeable delay. The system was clearly old, struggling to adjust. But it didn't matter. This ship would take him where he needed to go.

Marcus turned his attention to the WHIP drive controls. His hesitation returned as memories of the wormhole flashed in his mind—the time-ripping experience that had changed everything. He didn't want to go through that again, but he had no choice. He had to escape.

He brought up the ship's map and selected a location far from any Finisterra-controlled systems. Somewhere isolated, where he could think. After inputting the destination, he activated the WHIP drive, the wormhole forming ahead.

The countdown appeared: 60 seconds until closure.

Marcus watched the timer closely. The ship surged forward, entering the swirling vortex of the wormhole. As he moved through it, he saw the timer tick down: 47 seconds. He had made it in safely, with enough time before the wormhole closed. But the unsettling memory of what had happened the last time lingered in the back of his mind.

The ship moved through the wormhole smoothly, the chaotic swirl of space around him muted. As he approached his destination, his thoughts briefly drifted to Regina. By now, she would have realised he had escaped. Only now would she be reacting, alerting Finisterra to the disappearance from the Black Room.

Marcus felt a small pang of satisfaction. He had left without resistance, and he could almost imagine the confusion among the workers below. They would probably assume the ship's auto-launch sequence had activated when the bay door closed. It was unlikely they would chase him—at least, not immediately.

As the stars outside reappeared, Marcus let out a breath. Alone in the vastness of space, free at least.