Time’s Grasp (1)

Chapter 1: The Slowest Second

I woke to the sound of my smart alarm gently coaxing me from sleep, its volume rising gradually as the bedroom lights simulated a dawn. I had set the alarm tone to a soft chime, but this morning it felt more like a drill in my ear. Groaning, I rubbed my face and silenced the alarm with a swipe at the air; the motion sensor in the band around my wrist picked up the gesture and shut off the noise. Another Monday morning. Why did weekends always zip by, while weekdays dragged on? I sat on the edge of my bed for a moment, the floor cool against my bare feet, and tried to gather my thoughts. My one-bedroom apartment was still dim despite the automated lights—outside the window the sky was a pale gray, the sun hidden behind smog or clouds or both. In the mirror across from me, I could see the ghost of my reflection: messy dark hair, bleary eyes, an expression that mixed resignation and mild dread at the thought of the workday ahead.

I shuffled to the bathroom, and the mirror there greeted me with a digitally rendered overlay of the morning news as I brushed my teeth. A crisp female voice—my AI assistant's default—read the headlines in a polite murmur. Something about a breakthrough in quantum computing, another political scandal, the weather. I watched the text crawl by on the mirror's surface between my own reflection's tired eyes and foam-filled mouth. Normally I liked this trickle of tech and world news, but today I hardly absorbed it. My mind was already wandering, anticipating the gauntlet of tasks waiting at the office. A small part of me perversely wished time would slow down, or even stop, just so I could catch an extra hour of sleep or delay the inevitable Monday onslaught. Careful what you wish for, Alex, I thought wryly as I spat out toothpaste. You just might get it.

I dressed in the semi-dark, relying on the wardrobe app on my phone to suggest an outfit. The program was supposedly intelligent, matching clothes to weather and my calendar events, but I often found its suggestions bland. Still, I wasn't in the mood to second-guess it today. I pulled on the recommended pair of charcoal slacks and a light blue shirt with a graphene weave—marketed as both breathable and nearly indestructible. Did I really need nearly indestructible work clothes to sit at a desk job? The thought almost made me smile. Such is life in a tech-driven society: even our shirts had better specs than old computers.

By the time I finished dressing and making a quick breakfast shake (the blender whirred loudly, a reminder that I'd been meaning to upgrade to a quieter model), it was 7:45. If I left now, I'd make it to the office by 8:30 with a bit of luck on the transit schedule. I grabbed my bag, shrugged on a light jacket that could charge my devices on the go via built-in solar strips, and headed out.

Stepping into the corridor, I nearly collided with my neighbor, an elderly woman walking her small robotic dog. The little chrome canine yipped in simulated surprise. "Morning, Mrs. Tanaka," I mumbled, sidestepping the duo.

She smiled politely. "Good morning, Alex. Late start today?"

"Just the usual," I replied, forcing a friendly grin. Inside, I was already feeling the familiar tension of being a cog in the city's relentless machine. Mrs. Tanaka's dog wagged its metal tail, and I wondered if it actually enjoyed its morning walks or simply responded to programming. The question of genuine feeling versus simulation drifted through my mind as I headed to the elevators. A pointless musing, perhaps, but on some level I felt a kinship with that dog—both of us going through the motions, following routines set by someone else.

Outside, the city greeted me with a blast of damp autumn air. The streets were alive with the whoosh of autonomous cars and the chatter of pedestrians half-talking to each other, half to their voice assistants. Digital billboards on the sides of buildings flashed targeted ads as I passed, my phone no doubt pinging my presence to whatever ad server decided which personalized commercial to display. I kept my gaze down and briskly walked toward the metro station. A notification chimed in my ear from my smart glasses (which I wore primarily for their HUD, though I often forgot the feature was on). The display in the corner of my vision showed Ryan: Morning! Running late, meet at 8? accompanied by a goofy selfie of Ryan sipping a coffee.

Ryan Chen was a friend and co-worker who worked in the same department at Sigma Innovations, the tech firm that employed us. He had a habit of oversleeping and then making up time by grabbing breakfast on the go. I tapped the side of my glasses to activate the mic. "Reply: On my way. Don't drink all the coffee before I get there," I dictated. The glasses beeped, sending off my voice-to-text message.

The metro station hummed with energy as I descended the steps. Commuters streamed in, the turnstiles registering each digital transit pass with a soft beep. I slid through with the crowd. An arriving train whooshed to a stop, its doors hissing open. I stepped in and found a spot to stand, grabbing a handle. Overhead, an LED strip scrolled the upcoming stations. A soft chime and a synthesized voice announced, "Next stop: District 5 Hub."

I closed my eyes for a moment as the train jerked into motion. The gentle rocking usually calmed me, but today my nerves felt taut. My thoughts drifted uninvited to the stack of project reports waiting on my desk and the morning meeting with Grace, our team manager. Grace was efficient and direct, not unkind but certainly not one to tolerate slacking. I'd been up late last night finishing a draft of one report, and I wasn't completely confident in the results. Had I double-checked all the data? A pang of anxiety hit me as I tried to recall if I had updated one crucial chart. If I hadn't, Trevor would surely point it out in the meeting—he loved scoring points at my expense.

Trevor Singh sat in the cubicle across from mine and had a way of turning any minor mistake I made into a grand spectacle. I suspected he aimed for a promotion and saw me as competition, or maybe he just enjoyed the sport of one-upping colleagues. Either way, I often felt like I was navigating a field of hidden traps around him. The thought of his smug face if he caught an error in my report tightened the knot in my stomach. Focus, Alex. I told myself I'd review the chart as soon as I got in.

The train ride felt both instant and interminable—time was funny that way. Lost in my worries, I was startled when the polite AI voice announced my stop. I hurried off the train into the central hub, where a series of escalators led up to street level. The station's walls were covered in dynamic art displays, one of the city's attempts at beautification. This month it was looping animations of autumn leaves falling, oddly soothing in their predictable repetition.

As I emerged onto the street, I saw Ryan standing by the coffee kiosk outside our building, two steaming cups in hand. He had on his usual slight grin, the kind that made you think he was either very pleased with himself or perpetually amused by a private joke. Perhaps a bit of both. His hair was still mussed—no time for the auto-styler this morning, apparently—and his shirt was only half tucked.

"Alex!" he called, spotting me and lifting one of the cups. "Saved your life, man—got the last pumpkin spice."

I raised an eyebrow as I approached. "Pumpkin spice? That's bold for someone who mocked me for ordering a caramel latte last week."

He chuckled, handing me the cup. "I'm a complicated individual full of contradictions. Besides, it's the season. Figured I'd start the week strong with a taste of dessert for breakfast."

I accepted the coffee gratefully. The cup's warmth fought off the chill of the morning air as we fell into step toward Sigma's main entrance. The building loomed ahead, all steel and smart glass, reflecting the cloudy sky. "Thanks," I said. "I need this. Barely slept."

"Tell me about it. I was up half the night trying to debug that module for the time-series analysis project," Ryan replied, blowing on his coffee. "Kept thinking I fixed it, and then the simulation would throw another tantrum. I swear, the AI was mocking me." He affected a hurt expression that made me snort.

I sipped my drink and felt a pleasant burn on my tongue. "At least we're not alone. Misery loves company at the Monday morning party."

We reached a crosswalk, the light showing red for pedestrians. A line of cars hummed past, silent electric engines gliding along. I noticed one of them was a manual driver—a vintage sports car, clearly retrofitted to comply with modern regs but still driven by a human. It revved a bit at the intersection, and I caught a glimpse of the driver: a man in sunglasses with an impatient frown. It wasn't often you saw someone actually driving these days; most people were content to let the AI handle it.

Ryan took a long sip of his pumpkin spice concoction and made a face. "Okay, note to self: never trust seasonal corporate coffee. This tastes like someone melted a candle in it."

I laughed under my breath. "Instant karma for showing up late. Should've gone with the classic brew."

He shook his head, then eyed me with a curious half-smile. "You seem more zoned out than usual. You alright? Still thinking about that meeting with Grace?"

I hesitated, not wanting to delve into my worries in the middle of the sidewalk. "Just need more caffeine, I guess. And yeah, a little nervous about Grace's meeting."

Ryan nodded sympathetically. "It'll be fine. Worst case, she assigns Trevor to help you, and then you two can sing Kumbaya over Excel sheets."

I groaned. "Now there's a nightmare scenario."

The light changed, and the crossing signal blinked on. We started across, joining a stream of other office-bound souls. I found myself scanning faces automatically: a habit of idle curiosity. People in suits or casual techie hoodies, some with eyes glazed as they read AR feeds only they could see, others rushing, focused. The city's heartbeat, everyone moving with purpose.

We were halfway across the intersection when I heard it—a screech of tires against pavement, horribly loud even against the general city noise. My head whipped toward the sound. A car was coming toward the crosswalk fast, too fast. The vintage sports car—its AI must not have been engaged, or it failed. In an instant, a red blur jumped the curb lane and barreled into the intersection, heading straight for a pair of pedestrians a few steps ahead of us.

Someone shouted. A woman in a business suit gasped and stumbled backward, dropping her tablet. The man next to her froze, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. The car wasn't slowing.

Time dilated. It was as if the world hit molasses. The blaring honk of a horn stretched into a low drone. My heartbeat, which had jolted into a frenzy, now thudded in slow motion. I saw the scene frame by frame: the car's glossy red hood inches from the man's knees, the driver's face contorted in shock as he realized what was happening—his sunglasses slipping down his nose. A coffee cup slipping from the woman's hand, the liquid inside forming an arc in the air. Ryan beside me, eyes going wide and mouth starting to form a curse.

In that strange bubble of distorted time, clarity hit me. Do something. My muscles, which should have been sluggish in this syrupy second, suddenly moved with sharp purpose. I lunged forward, grasping the man by the arm. To me, he felt as light as a child as I yanked him backwards, away from the path of the oncoming car. With my other hand I grabbed the front of the woman's coat and tugged her off-balance, hoping to pull her clear as well.

I was moving faster—much faster—than everything else. I was aware of this on some level that defied logic. My mind raced even as the world crawled. I felt a strange focus, as though every detail of the scene was available to me: the exact tread pattern of the car's tires, the individual hairs on the man's terrified face, the sparkle of a raindrop frozen in midair above the asphalt. How is this possible? flashed across my mind, a fleeting thought behind the immediate urgency.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the bubble burst. Time snapped back to normal speed.

Chaos. The car whooshed past, so close I felt a rush of air and warmth from its engine. It missed the pedestrians by mere inches. The driver had swerved at the last moment, tires screeching as he tried to regain control. He managed to avoid colliding with the oncoming traffic on the other side of the intersection, the red sports car fishtailing before finally stuttering to a halt halfway down the block.

I found myself standing a few feet from where I had been, heart hammering. I was gripping the man's arm with one hand and clutching a fistful of the woman's coat with the other. I had pulled them both to safety with me. They stumbled, nearly falling, as reality caught up to us all.

For a second, none of us spoke. My ears were ringing. The man I'd pulled away stared at me, stunned, while the woman regained her footing and looked between me and the car, her eyes huge. Around us, the other pedestrians were either frozen in shock or rushing forward. A bystander shouted, "Is everyone okay?" Someone else was yelling angrily at the driver down the street.

I released my grip on the two strangers, realizing only then that I'd practically lifted the man off the ground. My hands were trembling. "Y-you okay?" I managed to ask, though my voice was oddly quiet, drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears.

The man swallowed, then nodded vigorously. "I… yeah. Thanks to you, I think I am." He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "How did you—?"

"That was insane!" the woman blurted, cutting him off. She pressed a hand to her chest. "I thought we were—" She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she reached down with shaking hands to pick up her tablet, which miraculously hadn't shattered on the ground.

Only then did I fully process what had happened. I had reacted faster than seemed humanly possible. Had I really seen what I thought I saw? The world slowing down around me, myself moving through it like a knife through jelly? Adrenaline can do strange things, I knew—time dilation in moments of crisis is a known phenomenon. But this felt beyond that; this felt different. More literal.

Ryan's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Alex… holy…" He stepped around me, eyes wide in amazement and concern. "Are you okay? That car nearly made you street pizza!"

"I'm fine," I lied reflexively, not fully sure how I felt. Fine? I was shaken to the core, but physically unhurt. I looked at Ryan, trying to gauge what he saw. Did he notice anything odd about how I moved? He just stared at me like I was some kind of hero.

The two people I had yanked to safety began thanking me profusely, their words tumbling out in breathless stammers. The man, recovering from shock, pumped my hand vigorously. The woman kept repeating "Thank you, thank you, I can't believe it," while glancing back at the car and then at me as if trying to put together pieces of a puzzle.

"It's okay, just… reflexes, I guess," I said, attempting a reassuring smile I did not feel. My mind was still replaying the moment in crystal clarity: the car's approach, how slow everything got, how quickly I moved. I felt an urge to check whether time was flowing normally now—my eyes flicked to a nearby electronic billboard to see if the frames were refreshing at a normal rate. They were; an ad was playing smoothly. The city noise was back to its usual cacophony. People were moving at ordinary speeds. Whatever had happened, it seemed to have stopped as soon as it started.

The driver of the red car had stepped out, visibly shaken. He was arguing with someone—perhaps a traffic enforcement drone, as one had just floated down with its lights flashing. The crowd's attention shifted toward that commotion, giving me an opportunity to slip away a bit from the center of attention. Ryan followed at my shoulder, still peppering me with exclamations.

"Dude, you pulled them back like it was nothing! I blinked and suddenly you were a few feet forward dragging two grown adults with you. That's… I mean, I know you work out sometimes, but wow." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly impressed and bewildered.

I shrugged, trying to play it off even as my stomach churned with confusion. "It was probably all adrenaline. You know how it is—when the moment hits, you just react. Fight or flight mode can turn anyone into Superman for a second." I let out a shaky laugh.

Ryan grinned and clapped me on the back. "Well, add 'saving co-workers and random strangers' to your resume. Grace is going to flip when she hears this. You basically prevented an HR nightmare and, you know, death."

I cringed inwardly. Grace. Work. The last thing I wanted was more attention in front of my boss—especially attention I couldn't fully explain. "Maybe… maybe we keep this low-key?" I suggested, starting to walk again toward our building, which was now just across the street. My legs felt a little unsteady, but I managed.

"What? No! Alex, that was amazing," Ryan insisted, keeping pace. His face was flushed with excitement. "We have to tell people. I mean, everyone around saw it anyway. There were like at least a dozen witnesses. You might even be on someone's dash-cam video doing your superhero thing!"

The thought made my mouth go dry. Video. If any cameras caught what happened, what would they show? From my perspective, I moved at normal speed while the world slowed. But on camera? It might just look like I moved very fast, a blur maybe. That could still be plausible as a coincidence—or it could look impossible. I wasn't sure. I realized my hands were still trembling slightly, and I clenched them to hide it.

We reached the front of Sigma Innovations. The lobby doors slid open as our employee badges pinged the security system. I was grateful to be off the street and away from the scene of the near-accident, but I knew the questions were only beginning.

Inside, the lobby's sleek interior of glass and polished concrete felt cool and aloof, oblivious to the drama outside. A couple of other employees were milling about near the elevators, talking in hushed tones. One of them, a receptionist named Clara, looked up as we hurried in. She must have seen something through the glass front of the building, because she rushed over. "Oh my god, were you guys out there? I heard the screech—what happened?"

Ryan wasted no time. "Clara, you won't believe it. Alex here just saved two people from getting hit by a car!" His voice carried, and I winced, glancing around to see who else was listening.

Clara's eyes went wide. "What? Really? Alex!" She looked at me with a mixture of admiration and shock. "Are you okay? Are they okay?"

I felt my face heat up. "I—yeah, everyone's fine. The car stopped just in time," I said, skimming over the details. "It wasn't a big deal." That last part was absurdly untrue, and my voice wavered a little on it.

"Not a big deal? He yanked them out of the way like an action hero," Ryan crowed, ignoring my attempts to downplay it. "You should have seen it."

Clara placed a hand over her heart. "That's incredible. I'm glad you're alright. Those drivers who override the autos…I swear, they should have their licenses revoked." She peered out the glass doors at the street commotion, where the traffic enforcement drone's lights still blinked blue and red. A crowd had gathered around the poor driver, who looked like he was getting a scolding from a digital avatar projected by the drone. The city's automated ticketing in action.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Physically, I was fine. Better than fine—I felt a strange, humming energy in my veins, though I couldn't tell if that was leftover adrenaline or something else. Mentally, I was reeling. I knew I needed to keep my cool, at least until I could be alone and think. If I freaked out now, Ryan and Clara would definitely notice.

"Well, I'm just glad no one's hurt," I said softly. That was true. Whatever anomaly had occurred, the important thing was those two pedestrians were safe. The rest—the how—could wait.

Clara nodded. "You and me both. You know, my cousin got hit by a rogue delivery drone last year—broke her arm. People forget technology can fail unpredictably." She gave a little shudder, then smiled at me. "I'm going to grab the security footage later—maybe we'll see you in action. You deserve some kind of award or something, Alex."

My heart skipped. "Security footage?" I echoed.

"Yeah, the exterior cams might have caught it. They cover the crosswalk pretty well. I mean, if a story goes around that one of our employees saved lives before even clocking in, that's like PR gold, right?" Clara's eyes sparkled, clearly thinking about how heroics could translate into a company feel-good story.

I forced a chuckle. "Let's not jump to that conclusion. For all we know, it'll just show a blur and chaos. But… hey, I appreciate it. Honestly, I'd rather not become a viral video or anything." I tried to keep my tone light.

Ryan patted my shoulder. "Too late, buddy. You're a legend now." He was teasing, but with genuine pride.

I felt a mix of pride and panic swirl in my stomach. My mind was already concocting worst-case scenarios: What if the footage clearly showed something inexplicable? Like me moving in a way that defied physics? Alternatively, what if it just looked normal and I was overthinking? Did I actually slow time down, or did my brain just go into overdrive? People talk about things seeming slow in emergencies—maybe that's all it was.

But how I moved… it felt beyond normal reflex. I remembered the weightlessness of the man when I pulled him. In reality, he was probably at least 180 pounds. Adrenaline can give a strength boost, sure, but I doubted I could normally yank someone off their feet so effortlessly. And the clarity of everything—each detail so crisp—more than just a fear-induced focus.

The elevator dinged open and we stepped in. Clara waved as she headed back to her desk, promising to catch up later. As the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of the street one last time. It looked ordinary now—people moving along, traffic resuming as the drone cleared the scene. Ordinary, as if nothing extraordinary had just taken place. But something extraordinary had happened. To me.

Ryan was busy tapping away on his phone—probably messaging others about the incident. The elevator began its ascent, smooth and silent, whisking us up to the 14th floor where our department worked. I watched the floor numbers tick upward on the display, each change feeling unreal, as if I were watching a movie of my life rather than living it.

In the polished steel of the elevator doors, I caught my reflection and hardly recognized myself for a second. I looked like I always did—tallish, brown skin a touch paler than usual (no surprise there), shirt slightly wrinkled under my jacket. But my eyes… they seemed distant, like I was a million miles away. Or maybe a few seconds away, stuck back in that intersection replaying events on an endless loop.

I blinked hard and straightened up. I needed to get a grip. I had a job to do, and a meeting in less than an hour. Freaking out would solve nothing. I could analyze what happened later, in private. Maybe I'd write it down, or check if any bystander posts popped up online. Data might help me understand, and understanding felt crucial to reassure myself that I wasn't going crazy.

The elevator doors slid open to our floor, and I walked out with Ryan, who was still animated. He was recounting the event now through a voice message, presumably to another coworker or friend. I heard him say "matrix move" and "like time itself slowed down" which made my pulse quicken. He was just using dramatic language, surely. He didn't actually think time slowed; he was describing how it looked to him, that's all.

At our open-plan office area, a few heads turned as we entered. News travels fast. A couple of colleagues gave me thumbs-ups or curious looks. I smiled weakly and ducked into my cubicle. The familiar clutter greeted me: holo-display monitors suspended above the desk, a scattered array of sticky notes (yes, even in this advanced age, I still used paper for quick thoughts), a family photo of my parents and me at a distant beach vacation years ago, and a little bobblehead of Einstein sticking his tongue out—ironic given the circumstances.

I sank into my chair. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but I didn't log in right away. Instead, I took a few steadying breaths. In the background, I heard Ryan presumably finishing his story, and a couple of "Wow!" exclamations from our teammates. I prayed no one would come barrage me with questions just yet.

With a trembling hand, I lifted the coffee cup to take another sip, hoping it would ground me. It had cooled to a tepid temperature. Time hadn't stopped for the coffee, clearly—no miraculous preservation of heat. I almost laughed at that thought. Here I was, half suspecting I just bent the laws of physics, and my evidence was a lukewarm latte.

"Alex?" A voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see Grace hovering at the entrance of my cubicle. She was a petite woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a perpetual air of competence. This morning she also looked concerned. "I just heard something about an incident downstairs. Are you alright? I was told you… saved someone from a car?"

My cheeks warmed. "It sounds more dramatic than it was," I said, trying to sound casual. "A car skidded out of its lane at the crosswalk. I pulled a couple of people back, that's all. We're all fine."

Grace's eyes widened slightly. "That's all? Alex, that's admirable. Are you sure you're okay? That must have been very stressful."

I managed a tight smile. "Honestly, I'm still processing it, but yeah. I'm okay. Just trying to settle my nerves now."

She nodded, her expression softening with a hint of empathy. "Take your time. If you need a few minutes, the meeting can wait a bit. Real life-and-death situations take precedence over our quarterly metrics, trust me." There was a trace of humor in her tone, which actually helped me relax.

"Thank you. I think I'll be alright by then. I have the reports ready," I assured her, though I almost had forgotten about the report in all the excitement.

Grace gave me a small pat on the top of my cubicle wall. "Good. And, for what it's worth, I'm impressed. It's not every day someone actually leaps into danger for others. We'll talk more later, but just know the team is proud to have you." With that, she headed off, likely to corral Trevor and the others for the meeting.

Proud. The word lingered in the air as I leaned back in my chair. I should have felt good, even proud of myself. Instead, all I felt was bewildered. A part of me was indeed glad I had helped, that no one got hurt. That part of me tried to accept the commendations with grace (no pun intended). But another part of me—the analytical, cautious part—was fixated on the how of it all. How did I do that? What exactly did I do?

I flexed my hands, recalling the tingling sensation during that extended second. They felt normal now, if a bit shaky from the residual adrenaline. Nothing visibly different. I wasn't bitten by a radioactive spider or struck by lightning in a lab, as far as I knew. I was just a guy who woke up, commuted, and suddenly… wasn't just a guy anymore?

No, I needed to slow down. I almost laughed at myself—slow down, indeed. I rubbed my temples, thankful for the semi-privacy of my cubicle. Around me, I could hear the normal morning chatter resuming. Keyboards clacking, someone discussing code over a holo-call, the coffee machine gurgling in the break corner. Life moving on.

I powered on my workstation, and the monitors glowed to life with the Sigma Innovations logo before bringing up my desktop. My screensaver was a timelapse of city traffic at night, red and white light trails streaming in fast-forward. Normally I found it calming. Now it just reminded me of how I'd apparently done the opposite—turned real life into slow motion.

Before diving into any work, I quickly opened a web browser, my fingers acting on impulse. In the search bar I typed: "time perception slow motion adrenaline" and hit enter. Dozens of results popped up: scientific studies on how the brain processes time in emergencies, anecdotal accounts of near-death experiences where people felt time slow, explanations about the amygdala boosting memory formation which makes events seem slower in hindsight. I clicked one article and skimmed. It basically said that during a life-threatening event, people don't actually perceive time slower; it's more that memories are recorded in such detail that it feels slow when recalling. But I didn't just recall it in slow motion—I lived it in slow motion as it happened, didn't I?

I tapped my foot anxiously under the desk. If this was a normal psychological effect, then fine. But if not… then what? Do I have some kind of power? The notion was so surreal I felt almost silly thinking it, like I was a kid fantasizing after reading too many comic books. People don't get powers. Not in the real world. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that what occurred was more than just a mind trick.

My browser tab blinked as it loaded another piece: "Faster-than-human reactions possible?" I clicked it. It discussed top athlete reflexes, people who train to react in split seconds. The fastest sprinters reacting to a start gun in under a tenth of a second, martial artists who catch arrows (mostly trickery and practice, it noted). But even the best of the best operate within normal physics. They don't pause the world, they just move within it quickly.

I closed the browser, realizing I'd accomplish nothing useful like this. I had to shelve it for now and concentrate. Work could actually be a welcome distraction if I let it.

I logged into the company system and pulled up my report, eyes scanning the data charts. They all seemed in order. Good. That was one less thing to worry about. I tried to focus on the upcoming meeting's agenda: discussing the quarterly analytics and the integration of some new algorithm our team had developed. Dry stuff, normally enough to ground me firmly in the mundane reality of corporate life.

It worked, for a short while. By the time people started gathering in the conference room, I had managed to corral my thoughts and felt more in control. The meeting itself was mercifully uneventful. Grace led the discussion; Trevor chimed in only to highlight his contributions and, as I predicted, took a minor dig at a tiny inconsistency in one of my charts (which, thankfully, I had an answer for, wiping the smirk off his face). Ryan was his usual self, cracking a subtle joke or two that made even Grace bite back a smile.

Through it all, I maintained a veneer of normalcy. But beneath that veneer, questions churned. As we sat there reviewing data and assigning action items, part of me remained detached, replaying that moment at the crosswalk over and over. Looking for clues in memory's freeze-frame. Testing my own sanity.

By lunch, the initial buzz around my morning heroics had settled. People were onto the next bit of gossip or deadline. A couple coworkers from other teams came by to clap me on the shoulder and congratulate me in passing, but to my relief it didn't turn into a huge deal company-wide. At least not yet; if Clara really did pull the security footage, who knows. I hoped she'd get busy and forget.

I ate lunch at my desk, not feeling up to the cafeteria crowds. Ryan went out to grab a sandwich and kindly brought me one too, giving a casual two-finger salute over the cubicle wall as he dropped it off. "Turkey with extra pickles, just how you hate it," he teased.

"Thanks," I said, and actually meant it. His normalcy was comforting.

Alone with my sandwich, I finally allowed myself to truly ponder the morning's miracle. If it wasn't just in my head… Then I had done something inexplicable. I had, in effect, manipulated time—at least relative to myself. Slowed it? Stopped it? The rest of the world slowed down, or I sped up. Either interpretation was mind-bending.

And if that was true, then the next question naturally was: Can I do it again?

The thought sent a thrill through me, equal parts excitement and fear. I wasn't sure I wanted to experience that again—it had been terrifying in the moment. But the curiosity was intense. If I could control it… what could that mean?

I remembered my half-asleep wish in the morning about time slowing down to get more rest. Life had a twisted sense of humor granting that in the form of a near-death crisis. Not the ideal way to discover a superpower, if that's what this was.

Superpower. I hadn't dared use the word until now, even in my mind. It sounded childish, absurd. Yet here I was seriously contemplating it. No one else had powers; this was real life, not a comic. But maybe sometimes reality had room for the extraordinary.

I chewed slowly on a bite of turkey sandwich, the tang of pickle making me wince. Could there be other explanations? Perhaps a device or technology caused it? There were experimental military gadgets rumored to mess with perception, but nothing publicly known could do what I experienced. And I certainly didn't own anything like that, unless someone slipped a prototype in my jacket without me knowing (highly unlikely).

No, the source seemed to be… me. Something within me had activated.

My instincts told me not to tell anyone yet. Not even Ryan, as much as I trusted him as a friend. I needed more evidence, or at least to understand it better myself. Otherwise I'd sound insane. Or at best, like I was exaggerating a heroic feat to mythic proportions.

So, I decided on one thing by the time I crumpled the sandwich wrapper: I would try to replicate it, in a safe, controlled way. Maybe not today, and certainly not in the middle of a busy street. But soon. I had to know if I could purposely trigger that slow-motion state.

A soft ping from my computer snapped me out of my thoughts—a calendar reminder for an afternoon brainstorming session. Back to work-mode, Alex. I shut away the questions with effort. They'd keep. I had all the time in the world, I thought sardonically, suppressing a grin at the private joke.

As I headed to the meeting room, I felt a subtle shift inside—a budding resolve. Today had turned an ordinary life into something less ordinary. Whether it was a one-time fluke or the start of a very strange journey, I knew I couldn't just ignore it. One slow second had changed everything. And as unnerving as it was, I needed to embrace whatever came next. My life, much like time itself this morning, had taken an unexpected turn—and there was no going back to the way things were before, not really.

Walking down the hallway, I caught my reflection in the glass wall—a young man in an office ID badge, looking for all the world like just another employee on his way to a meeting. Yet I felt different now, a secret humming in my bones. I straightened my shoulders and continued on, blending into the regular rhythm of the day even as I carried the weight—and wonder—of that slowest second with me.

Chapter 2: Glitches in the Record

The day dragged on in its normalcy, which was both a relief and a frustration. After the adrenaline-fueled morning, the afternoon's routine felt almost surreal in its ordinariness. By 5:30 pm, I shut down my workstation and left the office with my mind still wrestling the big question: what had really happened to me?

I took the metro home alone—Ryan had left earlier for a dentist appointment, giving me a quick wave and a "See you tomorrow, Time Master!" joke that made me roll my eyes. Word had certainly spread within our team, but thankfully by mid-afternoon people had stopped peppering me with questions. It had boiled down to a few running jokes and kudos, which I could handle.

The metro car was mostly empty at this hour, just a few exhausted workers and a couple of teenagers immersed in AR games on their glasses. I settled into a seat by the window. Outside, the city lights were blinking on as dusk fell, neon reflections smearing across the damp streets. My own faint reflection hovered superimposed on the dark glass. I looked tired, which made sense. Under the fatigue though, there was an undercurrent of restless energy in my eyes.

As the train rattled along, I turned my wrist over and looked at my smartwatch. It dutifully displayed the time and my vital stats: heart rate slightly above normal, stress levels elevated (no kidding). I had an idea and scrolled to the activity log, curious if it had recorded anything unusual during the incident this morning. The watch had a continuous heart monitor and motion sensor. If I truly moved faster than humanly possible, maybe there'd be a spike or some anomaly.

I thumbed through to the timeline for around 8:00 am. There—my heart rate had spiked to 170 bpm at 8:03, roughly when the near-accident occurred. That was expected with the adrenaline surge. But what intrigued me was the step counter and motion graph. The watch uses an accelerometer to count steps and track movement speed. For the time interval of 8:03 to 8:04, it logged something odd: a sudden burst of acceleration, then a gap in data.

Specifically, it showed that I took about 15 steps in that one-minute span, which aligned with jumping forward and pulling people. But the accelerometer graph had a flat line for a few seconds—almost as if the sensors froze or failed. Then a jolt of movement far exceeding my normal walking pace. The recorded peak acceleration was extremely high, briefly off the typical charts for a running human. The number blinked on the display: an instant acceleration to about 20 miles per hour. That was impossible—unless I had been in a vehicle. Even a sprinting Olympic athlete tops out around 12 mph sustained, maybe a short burst slightly more.

I stared at the data, a chill creeping up my spine. This was evidence—something tangible that suggested reality went a bit haywire around me. A "glitch in the record," so to speak, of what should be physically possible.

Could the watch have malfunctioned? Possibly. If time really slowed from my perspective, maybe the watch's electronics were affected. Or maybe the watch simply couldn't capture what happened in that slowed time and just registered it as a blank, then a big spike when normal time resumed.

The train's lights flickered as we went through a tunnel. I realized I was gripping the edge of the seat with one hand, my knuckles white. I forced myself to relax.

Alright. The watch data was interesting, but it wasn't conclusive. It could be a sensor error due to the sudden jolt or an algorithm hiccup. Still, combined with my memory of events, it leaned toward confirming that something out of the ordinary occurred.

When I got home, I barely noticed the evening routine of my building—the security bot greeting me in the lobby, the clunk of the elevator which always took a second longer to arrive than it should (tonight that delay felt especially ironic). Inside my apartment, I tossed my bag on the couch and exhaled deeply in the silence. The only sound was the soft whir of the air filtration unit by the window.

After kicking off my shoes, I stood in the middle of the living area, unsure what to do next. Normally, I'd change, maybe go to the gym or heat up a ready-made meal and binge a few episodes of some show. But I was too keyed up for any of that. I needed to scrutinize what I had, like a detective piecing together clues.

I set my smartwatch on its charger and plugged it into my laptop to pull a full data export. If the raw data was intact, maybe I could see the exact timestamps. I found myself wishing I had a high-speed camera on me at the time, something to show slow-motion footage of my motion relative to the world. But that was wishful thinking—like most people, I relied on my phone camera for video, and it was not recording anything at the time.

Speaking of which... I grabbed my phone and checked the local news and social feeds. If someone had recorded the incident, it might be circulating. However, after a few minutes of searching hashtags like #nearMiss #hero #trafficAccident and scanning local news sites, I found nothing specific. There were mentions of a traffic disruption at an intersection around the right time, but no viral video of a heroic rescue. That made me breathe a little easier. Perhaps no one had recorded it up close, or if they did, it hadn't caught on. Yet.

I did see a message from Ryan on our private chat: a meme of The Flash with my face crudely pasted on it, followed by, "You sure you're not hiding a cape in your desk? Drinks on me next week, speedy."

I smirked and shook my head, typing back a response: "No cape, it was all adrenaline and dumb luck. But I'll take that drink."

His reply came almost immediately with a thumbs up emoji. I was grateful he was treating it lightly and not prying deeper. Ryan was a great guy, but subtle investigation wasn't his style. If he suspected something truly weird, he'd probably have confronted me jokingly about being an alien or cyborg by now. The fact that he hadn't meant that from an outsider perspective, my feat was impressive but not impossible. Which was a good thing—last thing I needed was my best friend looking at me like I was a freak. I got enough of that from Trevor on a normal day just for beating his metrics.

I took a quick shower, hoping the hot water would relax me. Under the spray, I found myself replaying the day in my head yet again. The more I thought about it, the more questions bubbled up. One in particular started nagging at me: why now? I've been in adrenaline-inducing situations before—well, minor ones. A few years back I skidded on black ice while driving, and time felt like it slowed then, but I didn't outrun the car or anything, I just experienced a bit of tunnel vision. In college I broke up a fight once, heart pounding, but again no super-speed, just a quick reaction. Today was different.

What had changed? I couldn't point to anything unique about this morning except maybe being more tired than usual and ironically thinking about how time should slow down. That and nearly seeing two people get killed. Was it simply a matter of a life-and-death situation unlocking some latent ability? If so, did it mean I could only trigger it under extreme stress? That would be inconvenient for controlled experiments.

After drying off and throwing on comfortable clothes, I sat at my desk with my laptop. The smartwatch data was ready to inspect. I poured over the numbers, looking at the timestamps. Something peculiar: during the exact two-second window when I must have been in that "slowed" state, the watch logged no timestamp. It's as if time froze from the device's perspective. The entries went from 08:03:15 directly to 08:03:17 with nothing in between. Two seconds simply unaccounted for, followed by the spike in movement.

My heart thumped as I considered the implication. If my watch's clock didn't tick for two seconds, that suggested time really might have stopped, at least relative to me and my immediate vicinity. Or that my personal bubble of time had decoupled from the watch's. But since the watch is a device on my wrist, presumably it was pulled into whatever effect I created, hence it too experienced a time pause.

If that's true, then to the outside world I essentially disappeared for two seconds, then reappeared having moved several feet, all in an instant. That's probably how any camera or outside observer would see it: me blinking from one spot to another almost instantaneously. But witnesses did see me move, I think. It wasn't like I teleported invisibly; Ryan saw me lunge and pull. So perhaps it wasn't a complete stop of time, more like an extreme slow where only I could move freely.

I realized with a start that if it were a total freeze except me, light and sound would behave oddly too. Did I notice any change in sound or lighting? Yes—the honk turned into a drone and everything looked kinda motion-blurred and dim. Not dark, but maybe if time nearly halted, fewer photons would hit my eyes per second, making the world literally dimmer. The thought made my skin prickle. Sound was weird too, low-pitched—like a drastically slowed audio track.

It fit: I hadn't stepped out of time entirely; I had slowed it down massively for everything except me. Or perhaps sped myself up relative to the world. Hard to tell the difference from the inside. Either way, relative to others, I was a blur.

This was bigger than just a reaction speed. It was like having my own personal time remote control, even if I'd only sat on the pause button accidentally.

I pushed back from the desk and ran both hands through my hair. I had to test this, carefully. But how? I couldn't just wait for another accident to happen. Maybe I could recreate the conditions in a safer way. Some adrenaline, some focus... or maybe it was unintentional and I'd need to find the mental state that triggered it.

I stood up and paced my living room. On the shelf by the TV, I noticed my old reflex tester toy—a novelty gadget Ryan gave me a year ago as a gag. It was basically a stick that flashed lights and you had to catch it or hit a button as fast as possible when it dropped. He got it for me after I lost a bet on who had faster reflexes in a video game. I pulled it from the shelf and turned it over in my hand. It was silly, but maybe a starting point. There was also the simple approach: toss a ball in the air and try to consciously slow time to watch it.

I fetched a tennis ball from my closet (vestiges of an attempt to start playing again—an attempt that had yet to materialize beyond owning the ball and racket). Standing in the middle of the room, I bounced the ball a few times, listening to the thump echo off the walls. I felt slightly ridiculous. How exactly does one will themselves to slow time?

I closed my eyes, trying to recall how I felt this morning at the critical moment. There was fear, definitely. A spike of determination, the desperate need to act, to save lives. There was no deliberate thought like "slow down now," it just happened in response to my panic and urgency.

Maybe I should try to simulate urgency. Not life-or-death urgency, but something to get the adrenaline going. I imagined the ball was… I don't know, a grenade? That thought felt forced. Instead, I thought about the data on my watch, about the fact that something impossible might be possible. My heart started to race a bit just from the excitement and nerves.

I tossed the tennis ball up towards the ceiling and tried to grab onto that elusive sensation. The ball went up… and came down at normal speed, landing in my hand with an unremarkable slap. No slow motion, no flicker in reality. I tried again, this time throwing it higher, harder. It thudded against the ceiling (probably annoying my upstairs neighbor, oops) and bounced back down, narrowly missing a lamp. I caught it clumsily. Still no time warp.

"Come on," I muttered to myself. This was silly; I was standing alone in my apartment throwing a ball and expecting to magically enter bullet time. It felt like trying to remember a dream—every time I grasped at the memory of that sensation, it slipped away.

Maybe conscious effort wasn't the key. Perhaps I needed the right stimulus. Fear was a big factor earlier. Could I scare myself somehow? I wasn't about to jump off a balcony or anything extreme. But maybe a lesser scare…

I looked around. The apartment was small: just the living room, kitchen nook, the bedroom and bath. Not many ways to create artificial danger here. I did have a set of free weights in the corner. Perhaps if I intentionally dropped one and tried to stop it from hitting the floor? That's more about strength though, not life threat.

Then another angle occurred to me: perhaps it wasn't just fear, but also a protective instinct. I didn't fear for my own life as much as for those two people. What if that altruistic urge was key? It sounded almost mystical—like unlocking powers through selflessness. Hah. Still, the pattern was, I wasn't thinking about myself in that moment, only about saving them.

That was hard to recreate alone. Unless… I imagined someone else in danger? Like a mental exercise? Visualize a scenario strongly enough? It seemed far-fetched. But visualization is a known technique in training. Athletes visualize their moves, etc. Could I visualize time slowing?

I sat down cross-legged on the floor, ball by my side, and closed my eyes. Taking a few deep breaths, I constructed the morning's scene again in my mind, as vividly as I could: the crosswalk, the sound of tires, the car, the pedestrians. I felt my heart picking up pace as I remembered the panic. Instead of it just playing out, I imagined freezing that frame—the car suspended, the people mid-motion. I pictured myself moving through that frozen scene calmly, deliberately.

My eyelids fluttered as I immersed in the fantasy. Was it my imagination, or could I hear that low, bassy hum of slowed time? My body remained still, but I could almost sense a familiar tingling in my fingertips, like an echo. I opened my eyes.

The room was quiet. Nothing seemed changed. The clock on my microwave blinked the next minute in steady progression. If anything, I just felt a bit foolish and very alone.

I sighed and got up. Perhaps expecting immediate success was naive. If this ability was real, it might take more than a few hours of amateur experimentation to harness. Of course it will, I told myself. What did I think? That I'd just snap my fingers and time would bend? This wasn't a movie montage, it was real life.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten much beyond the sandwich. Fine, enough pseudo-science for now. I'll try again later or another day.

I heated a pre-packaged pasta meal, the kitchen filled with the aroma of tomato and basil as it whirred in the smart oven. While eating, I put on some music and tried to act normal—chopping this morning's events into a box in my mind to be analyzed later. But the box kept springing open.

Finally, as I was doing the dishes, I got a ping on my phone. A new message, this time from an unknown number, which was unusual. Wiping my hands, I checked it.

The message was a short video clip with no text. My heart skipped as I saw the first frame: it was the intersection from this morning, filmed from maybe a high angle—likely a building's security camera or a traffic cam. Someone must have sent it to me… but who?

I tapped play. The video was grainy black-and-white, typical CCTV quality, but clear enough. It showed the crosswalk at the moment the car came through. Tiny figures—I could make out which one was me by the way it moved. The video was at normal speed: the car careened in, and my little blob of a figure lunged unnaturally fast, pulling two other blobs out of the way. The entire save happened in the blink of an eye on footage. In fact, if I hadn't known what to look for, I might have missed it on first watch. It looked like a glitch—a stuttering frame where one moment three people are in the path and the next they're yanked aside as the car blurs past.

I watched it three times, my mouth dry. This was it: external proof from a camera's perspective that I had moved differently. The whole event on tape lasted maybe half a second. It took me far longer than that to do it in my perception.

At the fourth viewing, I paused on the frame where I first appear in the new position with the pedestrians. It was a bit ghostly, since the camera's slow framerate meant there was a faint afterimage of where I had been and where I got to. A trail of Alex. It really did look like a glitch in reality.

I realized the message likely came from Clara. She had access to the building's security feed. The angle seemed about right for one of the building cams. She must have remembered and pulled it, then thought to send me a copy. Maybe as a keepsake or something.

A follow-up text arrived from the same number: "Don't worry, I only shared this with you (and Grace, for records). Amazing stuff. See you tomorrow!" – and indeed it was signed off with "- Clara".

For a second I was grateful she hadn't blasted it on social media, but then I tensed: she gave it to Grace as well. For records? Possibly covering liability or just informing higher-ups that "hey, our employee is a hero." Grace might even show it to HR or corporate communications for a feel-good story.

I typed a quick reply to Clara thanking her and asking if she could keep the footage internal for now, claiming modesty. She replied with a smile emoji and "Of course, but be proud! You're a hero today."

Hero. If only she knew. Watching the video again, I didn't feel like a hero—I felt like a stranger watching someone else. The disconnect between my subjective experience and what the world saw was profound.

But it also ignited something in me: determination. There it was, clear as day (or as clear as CCTV night-vision can be). If I could do that once, I could do it again. And if I could learn to do it at will, well… my mind raced with possibilities and also cautions. Knowledge as power, internal mastery—those themes from countless books and yes, sci-fi stories—were now directly relevant to me. I had knowledge that no one else had, the knowledge that bending time was not just possible but personally achievable. Now I needed to turn that into real understanding and mastery.

Yet I also knew I had to be careful. Ethical ambiguity crept into my thoughts. If I could freeze time, what couldn't I do? The temptation to think of easy gains or snooping on, say, Trevor's private rants was real. But I shied away from those thoughts, focusing instead on fundamental questions like: what were the limits? What were the side effects? Could I hurt myself or others by doing it?

The word "variables" popped into my head, as if I were designing an experiment. Yes, that was what this demanded: a systematic approach. If chapter one of this bizarre new life was stumbling upon the power, chapter two—this chapter—I was living now was gathering evidence and beginning to test hypotheses. I had a few already:

It seemed tied to adrenaline or intense situations. Time relative to me slowed drastically, maybe nearly stopped, while I could still move. There might be a physical toll (I recalled how drained I felt after, though that could have been pure stress). The effect could encompass at least my immediate vicinity including objects I touch (like the pedestrians, my watch). Duration seemed short, maybe limited by my concentration or stress peak.

I realized I was literally scrawling these points on a notepad without noticing. I looked down at the page of messy pen scratches and huffed a small laugh. It was official: I was treating this like a science project. That comforted me oddly; focusing on the analytical side kept the existential freak-out at bay.

As I was about to close the video, I noticed something else. In the final frames, after the car passed, my figure and the two others moved at normal speed. But there was one odd detail: the coffee the woman dropped. I saw the cup hit the ground and roll, but the liquid—some of it was suspended in the air longer than seemed normal, like droplets hanging mid-air a fraction too long before splattering. It was subtle at regular speed, but frame-by-frame I could see a droplet seemingly frozen for one frame while other movement continued. Another glitch, likely the camera's low frame rate missing a detail. But part of me wondered if it was a side effect of my bubble of slowed time extending outward briefly.

It gave me an idea for a test: water. Water drops in normal gravity fall pretty fast. If I could slow time slightly in a controlled way, I might see water appear to hover or fall slowly from my perspective. It could be a safe visual indicator.

I quickly filled a glass with water and grabbed an eyedropper from an old science kit I had stashed (don't ask why a grown man still has a science kit—let's call it a quirky hobby). On my kitchen counter, I set up a simple experiment. I propped my phone up to record at high FPS (fortunately, modern phone cameras have a slo-mo mode that could capture 120fps or more). That might catch something even if my perception changes.

I took a deep breath, feeling a bit like a mad scientist in a movie, albeit with a very mundane apparatus. With the eyedropper, I sucked up a bit of water. Now, the plan: I'd try to slow things as I released a drop and see if I could influence my perception of it.

I held the dropper above the glass, squeezed a droplet out, and concentrated. Fall slowly, I willed it, heart thumping. The tiny bead of water fell… plink, into the glass, at normal speed. Hmm.

I tried again, this time attempting to recreate the feeling of urgency—like I needed to observe that drop with utmost clarity. I even tried a weird trick: I startled myself by knocking a spoon off the counter with my other hand at the same moment I released a drop, hoping the mini adrenaline jolt might kick something in. The spoon clattered on the floor, the drop fell and rippled the water below. I saw it in detail, but that might just be me paying attention.

No obvious luck. Checking the phone footage, each drop fell in a blink as expected.

I decided perhaps a different approach: What if I'm going about it too gently? Like trying to lift a car by just wishing, instead of using muscle. Perhaps it needed a strong push, a definite action rather than passive waiting for it to happen. The problem was, I didn't know how to push. Was it a mental push? Emotional?

The memory of that morning's split second came back strong. I recalled the sensation in my head—a kind of tunnel focus, an intense will to change what was about to happen. Is that the key? Willpower?

I set up again, this time with a steely determination. No more half-hearted trials. I let a drop form at the tip of the dropper, held it there. In my mind, I counted down and decided at "zero" I'd command time to slow, like slamming a foot on a brake.

Three… two… one… now!

I released the drop and at the same time visualized an expanding bubble around me where everything decelerated. For an instant, I thought I saw the droplet descend as if through syrup. My heart leapt. But then it fell normally the rest of the way with a plop.

Did I see that or imagine it? The phone footage might tell me. I played it back, scrubbing slowly. It was hard to tell—maybe the initial moment of the drop leaving looked a tad slower than gravity would dictate? Or that could be a limitation of the frame capture. I wasn't sure.

As I mulled this over, I felt a headache beginning to form at my temples. A sign of mental fatigue from all the intense concentration, perhaps. I rubbed my forehead. This evening had yielded some data but no dramatic second success. Not that I truly expected to have it mastered in hours.

I looked down at my notepad and added another item: "May require certain mental state or trigger—still unknown. Possibly willpower + adrenaline combination."

It was getting late. My eyes drifted to the window, where the city lights twinkled. How many people out there, I wondered, had ever felt time slow in the mundane way the brain sometimes does under stress? Probably everyone at least once. But how many had actually stepped outside the normal flow like I did? Possibly none, or if they did, they weren't sharing. I felt both special and isolated with that thought.

Before bed, I decided on one more thing: I should document the incident fully while it was fresh. Perhaps like a diary entry or a report. It might help me notice patterns, and serve as a record in case my memory later tries to rationalize it away as an exaggeration. Facts would keep me grounded.

So I opened a secure notes app (encrypted, because frankly the idea of someone stumbling on "I stopped time today" in my files made me cringe) and started typing out a detailed account of the morning, the data findings, and even my failed experiments tonight. It felt a bit like I was writing a science fiction story about myself. I injected doses of healthy skepticism in my notes—other explanations for each observation—so I wouldn't jump to paranormal conclusions without scrutiny.

By the time I finished, I had a few pages of notes and the headache was stronger. Enough. I needed sleep. Who knew, maybe in dreams I'd accidentally pause time and get a good ten hours rest in a blink.

I chuckled at the thought while climbing into bed. My mind was still buzzing as I lay in the dark, replaying droplets of water and phantom slow seconds. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that car frozen with its grille inches away. It should have hit them. If not for… whatever I did.

That realization sank in heavily. If I indeed had this power, then it carried a weight. Two people were alive because of it today. What if I hadn't acted? Would anyone else have saved them? Unlikely; it was too close. They'd be in a hospital or morgue by now and I'd be traumatized by witnessing it. Instead, here I was, ruminating about how I bent time to my will, if only briefly.

I felt a shiver of gratitude or relief, hard to define. Perhaps it was simply pride? Not the boastful kind, but a quiet pride that at least for once, I did something that unequivocally mattered.

And beyond pride, something else bloomed: purpose. Self-reliance, internal mastery—the words floated up from memory, maybe from a motivational article I read once. Knowledge was power, indeed. If I truly learned how to control this, what could I do? Protect myself, certainly. Help others possibly, if done carefully. Outpace Trevor's snide remarks by literally working faster than humanly possible—okay, that one made me snicker. The possibilities ranged from the noble to the trivial to the outright unethical. I knew I'd have to tread carefully to stay on the right side of that line.

These thoughts swirled as I drifted toward sleep. Just before I slipped under, a stray notion struck me: If time is my tool now, I must be careful not to become its fool. It sounded profound in my half-dreaming state.

With that final musing, I let myself rest. The glitches in the record of my life had begun, and I was determined that come tomorrow, I'd start deciphering them with clearer eyes. After all, morning would come soon enough—unless I decided to make the night last a little longer. But that was for another time.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and I had the sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't be just any other Tuesday for Alex Harper. The threads of possibility were already pulling me forward, into the unknown, where each minute held secrets I was only beginning to grasp.

Chapter 3: Freeze-Frame

Tuesday morning greeted me with an unsettling sense of anticipation. My dreams had been fragmented and intense—I vaguely recalled scenes of walking through a city frozen in mid-step, silent and empty. I woke with my heart pounding softly against my ribs, not from fear exactly but from a strange excitement. It took a moment to remember why: yesterday's revelations rushed back in, dispelling any notion that it had all been some overblown fantasy. The data on my watch, the security video, the vivid memory of how time bowed to my will (or at least my panic) were proof enough.

I got ready for work on autopilot, my mind elsewhere. Shower, shave, dress, protein bar for breakfast. The morning news murmured from my smart mirror, but I hardly heard it. Instead, I kept replaying potential scenarios for testing my ability. A part of me was itching to try something bold—some definitive experiment outside the confines of my apartment. But I knew I had to be cautious. If I pushed too far too fast, I could screw up in public or, worse, harm myself.

As I left my apartment, I double-checked that I'd loaded the security video onto a private cloud (for safekeeping) and deleted it from my phone—just in case someone at work got nosy. It wouldn't do to have that clip floating around uncontrolled. Clara and Grace having it was enough of a risk. Perhaps I could talk to Grace and emphasize I wasn't keen on being paraded as a hero. She seemed reasonable and likely would respect that, aside from any mandatory incident reports.

The brisk morning air felt good on my face as I stepped outside. I realized I was heading out a bit earlier than usual—my restlessness had hurried my routine. That was fine; it meant the train would be less crowded and I might get a head start on the day. Or a chance to slip in a quick experiment if an opportunity arose.

At the metro station, I swiped in and waited on the platform, hands in jacket pockets. A few other early commuters loitered, sipping coffees or scrolling through feeds on contact lenses that glinted with tiny displays. The train arrived with a soft whoosh, and I boarded into a blessedly empty car—just me and an older gentleman reading a holo-newspaper that projected a faint light into his face.

I took a seat several rows away and exhaled. This could be a chance. If I wanted to attempt a controlled time-slow in a public space, doing it in an empty train car was relatively low risk. The cameras in here were likely active though. Then again, I could always claim I was doing stretches or something if someone reviewed footage of me acting weird.

I decided to try something small. I pulled out my phone and opened the stopwatch app. If I did manage to slow things even a little relative to myself, maybe I'd see a discrepancy between my count and the clock.

I started the stopwatch and let it run as I watched the seconds tick. I attempted to concentrate, willing those seconds to stretch out. The train rocked gently, lights flickering as we went through a tunnel. The digits on my phone's screen changed steadily: 10.5, 10.6, 10.7 seconds… I tried to focus on the space between the ticks, imagining I could pry it open wider. 10.8…10.9…11.0. It was like trying to grab water with my fingers—futile, the time flowed on.

I glanced up; the other passenger was absorbed in his paper, thankfully not paying me any mind.

Maybe I needed more than just quiet willpower. I decided to stand up and engage physically. The athletic approach, perhaps. I stood in the aisle, bracing as the train swayed. If I moved quickly, maybe I could trick my body into triggering that state.

I took a breath and then did a quick sprint down the length of the car, as one might do wind sprints, stopping before the next compartment's door. Then I walked back. The old man looked up from his holo-paper with a puzzled frown as I passed him, and I just gave a sheepish "gotta wake up somehow" shrug. He chuckled and returned to his reading. Good, not offended or alarmed.

I tried again, this time really exploding into the run, imagining perhaps I could outrun time itself. The fluorescent lights above blurred slightly with motion. My footfalls echoed. I stopped again, heart rate up, but time felt normal. No flicker, no slow-mo sensation. Just me being a weirdo doing sprints on a train.

A bit frustrated, I slumped into a seat. Maybe this environment wasn't conducive, or maybe I was rushing it. After all, yesterday's controlled tries hadn't borne fruit immediately either.

As the train neared my stop, I conceded that the morning commute wouldn't be my breakthrough. Fine. I could wait and maybe attempt later in a more controlled setting—perhaps after work, somewhere private like an empty parking lot or even a quiet park if I could find one.

Approaching the office, I felt a slight return of anxiety. How would today go? Would I be bombarded with more hero worship (doubtful, but the thought made me squirm)? Worse, would Trevor twist it somehow? I could picture him making a snide remark like, "Saving people is great, but try saving that many billable hours on your next project, then I'll be impressed." Honestly, that was something he might actually say.

When I reached our floor, things were thankfully ordinary. People greeted me with the usual nod or "morning." No one was applauding or anything crazy. I settled at my desk, glad to sink into routine for a little bit. Routine was a cover under which I could discreetly plan my next move regarding my ability.

Mid-morning, as I was deep in an analysis task, I noticed Trevor craning his neck over our cubicle divider. "Hey, Alex," he said, voice neutral. "Grace wanted to see you in her office whenever you have a minute."

My stomach did a little flip. "Did she say what it's about?" I asked, keeping my tone equally neutral.

Trevor smirked just a tad. "Nope. But I assume it's about your heroic stunt. Maybe you're getting a medal." There it was—the underlying jab. I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic out of jealousy or if he genuinely was impressed and just expressing it awkwardly. With Trevor, I rarely gave the benefit of the doubt.

"Right. Thanks," I replied curtly, standing up and smoothing my shirt. As I walked past his desk, he added, "Better hurry, wouldn't want to keep her waiting. Time is money." The emphasis on 'time' felt deliberate. Did he suspect something? Or was it just a generic phrase? I glanced at him, but his face was already buried in code on his screen, like he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary.

Grace's door was ajar, and I knocked lightly.

She looked up from her tablet. "Alex, come in." She gave a small smile and gestured to the chair across from her desk. I sat, feeling a slight tension in my shoulders.

"So," she began, putting down the tablet. "First off, how are you feeling today?"

I straightened a bit. "I'm alright. A bit tired maybe, but fine. Why, is something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, not at all. I just wanted to check in after yesterday's… incident. Sometimes these things can hit you after the fact. Adrenaline crash, emotional processing, that sort of thing."

I paused. She was treating it like a potential trauma. I hadn't expected that level of concern, but it made sense. "I appreciate it. Honestly, I did a lot of thinking about it last night. I was a bit shaken initially, but I think I'm okay. Mostly I'm glad no one was hurt."

Grace folded her hands, nodding. "Good. That's good to hear." She cleared her throat. "There is another thing. I spoke with corporate comms this morning—Clara had sent them the security footage, as well as her incident report. They, ah, they want to do a short internal newsletter piece on it. You know, highlighting quick-thinking safety or something along those lines."

I felt a flush creeping up my neck. "Oh. Do we have to? I mean… I didn't exactly do it for recognition. It was just… doing the right thing in the moment."

Grace gave me a sympathetic look. "I understand. It's entirely up to you whether you want any attention. I can tell them you prefer to skip the spotlight. It's not a mandatory thing; they just thought it was a positive story. A nice break from usual corporate news."

I deliberated. Having a write-up about it would keep people talking, which I didn't want. Also, any retelling might embellish or invite questions. On the other hand, refusing might seem oddly shy or uncooperative. But it was my right.

"I'd prefer to keep it low-key," I said carefully. "It's still a bit personal, you know? I'm not trying to be a hero, I just want to move on with work and life as usual."

She seemed to respect that. "Of course. I'll let them know to hold off. We can phrase it as you humbly declined fuss, which itself is… ironically a nice thing we could mention if needed." She chuckled softly. "But really, we'll drop it."

I exhaled in relief. "Thank you."

Grace then leaned back and studied me for a second. "Between you and me, Alex—what you did was remarkable. Clara's report and the video… well, I've never seen someone react that fast. It's almost unbelievable. If I hadn't seen the footage, I might have struggled to picture it."

My heart thudded. Here it comes—some probing question. I tried to stay composed. "Yeah, if I hadn't experienced it, I'd have trouble believing it too," I offered, which was the absolute truth, just not in the way she thought.

She pursed her lips. "Have you ever done any training? Like martial arts, parkour, anything that hones reflexes?"

It took effort not to let out a laugh. Parkour? Me? "Uh, not really. I mean, I played some sports casually in college, but nothing serious. And I hit the gym occasionally, mostly weights or treadmill. No combat or stunt training or anything."

Grace nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Well, then maybe it was just one of those one-in-a-million responses. People do extraordinary things under pressure." She paused, then added kindly, "Anyway, I won't keep you. Take it easy today, alright? If you need to step out or take a breather at any time, just say so."

"I will. And thanks, Grace." I stood up to leave.

As I reached the door, she spoke again, more softly. "And Alex—good job. Truly."

I gave a fleeting smile and ducked out. There it was: admiration with a tinge of incredulity. If a time ever came to reveal the truth to someone in authority, maybe she'd be open-minded given she'd witnessed the evidence. But that time was not now, not by a long shot. Still, it was nice to have someone acknowledge it sincerely, even if she didn't know the half of it.

Returning to my desk, I walked with a renewed energy. The conversation had reminded me that yes, to the outside world I'd done something "one-in-a-million." They chalk it up to human potential under stress. In a sense, they're right—it's human potential, just perhaps a step beyond known limits.

I spent the next few hours actually focusing on work, trying to catch up on tasks I neglected amidst yesterday's chaos. The normalcy was grounding, but every so often, my gaze would drift toward the digital clock on my screen, and I'd imagine pausing it, the numbers stuck in amber while I moved freely. How much easier would it be to finish projects if I had unlimited frozen time? The temptation was real. I could probably complete a full day's work in an hour of frozen time and then slack off. But I chided myself—this power wasn't meant to be a cheat for laziness. That felt wrong, like using a space shuttle to drive to the grocery store.

Around lunchtime, Ryan popped his head in. "Lunch, dude? There's a new fusion taco truck down the block. I need air."

"Sure," I agreed. I could use a break and some friendly chatter to take my mind off heavy thoughts.

As we headed out, the office abuzz behind us, Ryan couldn't resist nudging me. "So, you meet with Grace. She give you a promotion for valor in the face of commuter mayhem?"

I chuckled. "No promotion. She just wanted to check I'm alright and to warn me corporate wanted a piece on it. I declined."

Ryan feigned disappointment. "Aw, you mean I can't brag in the company newsletter that the guy in the next cubicle is secretly The Flash? How will I dine out on your fame now?"

"Sorry to ruin your chance at being best buds with a celebrity," I said dryly. Then I added, "Seriously though, I just want to put it behind. It was intense enough living it; I don't need to relive it every time someone brings it up."

He gave me a more sober nod as we waited for the elevator. "I get it. Traumatic stuff, even if it ends well, can be… weird."

We stepped into the elevator. Ryan glanced at me. "I've been meaning to ask—how's your head with it all? Like… that moment when you yanked them. What was it like? Did you even have time to think?"

My pulse quickened. Of all people, I actually wouldn't mind discussing it with Ryan, but I had to tread carefully. "Not really," I said. "It's hard to describe. One moment I saw the car coming and realized those people were about to be hit. Then…it's like instincts took over. I don't remember any conscious thought beyond 'move now'. Everything felt really… sharp. Like my senses went into overdrive."

That was truth, actually. Just not the whole truth of how far that overdrive went.

He whistled softly. "Brain doing its thing. Fight-or-flight turbo mode. It's crazy what the body can do." He seemed to accept that, thankfully not detecting the omission.

We wandered out into the street. The taco truck was across a couple of blocks, requiring us to cross a smaller intersection. I noticed as we approached the crosswalk that I instinctively tensed. No speeding cars this time—just a regular flow of traffic stopping properly at the light. Still, it reminded me.

Ryan caught my change in posture. "Hey, lightning doesn't strike twice, man. Relax." He meant it kindly, though ironically lightning might strike whenever I wanted it to now, if I were the lightning.

"Yeah," I murmured and eased up.

Over tacos (which were indeed delicious—kimchi and carnitas, who knew?), we mostly talked about non-work stuff. Ryan filled me in on his weekend plans and some game he was excited about. I chimed in when I could, but part of me remained distracted, scanning the surroundings.

It hit me that I was developing a new awareness. I found myself habitually noting moving objects, calculating if any were on a collision course, almost anticipating a need to act. A honking horn down the street made me glance up mid-bite, and I tracked a cyclist veering around a car door. Minor, normal near-miss. The cyclist cursed and moved on. I hadn't consciously decided to be on alert, but after tasting that power, maybe a part of me was eager (or anxious) for any excuse to invoke it again.

Back at work, the afternoon rolled by with meetings and coding. I was reviewing a colleague's code at my desk when, as inevitably happens, nature called after those tacos and a can of soda. I headed to the restroom.

Standing there washing my hands after, I was alone, staring at my reflection under the cold white lights. Without thinking, I did something odd: I waved my hand quickly back and forth and watched the mirror. The movement was a blur. Then I focused intensely and tried again, attempting to see each intermediate position of my hand, almost as if I could visually slow it. A silly exercise—of course it still blurred. But it made me recall how in the frozen moment yesterday, fast things became slow enough to see clearly.

I gazed at a drop of water hanging off the faucet, then flicked it. It spattered into smaller droplets that arced toward the sink. For a microsecond I wanted to freeze them in the air. Nothing happened and they hit the basin.

I huffed, frustrated at the stubborn normality of time. Come on, do something, I urged internally, as if the power was an entity that needed coaxing. Maybe I was going about it wrong; maybe it responds not to commands but necessity.

What if, I mused, I created an artificial necessity? A controlled danger. Not to me or others, but something that tricks my brain.

An idea sparked. One I wasn't proud of, but it seemed potentially effective: If my reflex to protect others triggered it, perhaps simulate that scenario. For example, cause something to spill or fall near someone and see if my power kicks in to intervene. Ethically, it was iffy—I'd be manufacturing a problem just to solve it. But I could try something minor and harmless.

I shelved the thought for now, but it lingered enticingly. If all else failed, I might resort to it carefully.

As the day wound down, I decided to leave a bit late to avoid colleagues on the way out. I wasn't in the mood for any more chatter, and I also thought I might try one more experiment on the way home. Perhaps walking instead of taking the metro, at least partway, to test in open space.

However, as fate would have it, an opportunity presented itself sooner than expected.

Around 6 pm the office was near empty. I was powering down my station when I heard a muffled curse from the hallway near the supply closet. Peering out, I saw Trevor there, alone, trying to adjust something on a high shelf. He was on his toes, a box of paper held awkwardly as he attempted to slide it into place.

For a brief wicked second, I imagined startling him—just an "hey need help?" so he'd drop it. Not to hurt him, just… well, the thought came from annoyance perhaps. But then, as I watched, his footing indeed slipped. I don't know if he missed a step or if something underfoot moved, but I saw him lurch.

The heavy box tipped from his hands and tumbled off the shelf. Trevor stumbled back, off balance, arms flailing. It was one of those slapstick moments that in any other circumstance I might've found darkly satisfying to watch him eat humble pie. But two things happened in quick succession within me: a flash of concern (that box could injure him or at least cause a mess) and a reflex—almost muscle memory by now—kicked in.

There was that now-familiar flexion of reality. Freeze-frame.

The box, mid-fall, hung in the air as if suspended by wires. Sheets of paper slid out in a cascading flutter but then halted, like a paused explosion of confetti. Trevor himself was tilted backward, eyes widening extremely slowly, mouth forming a slow "o" of surprise or alarm.

It had happened. Time had... not fully stopped (I could still feel a hum, a slight movement in the air as if everything was submerged in gelatin), but it was crawling at an infinitesimal fraction of normal speed.

I stood there, a few paces away, heart hammering yet feeling an oddly cool clarity. My senses lit up. The overhead lights took on a faint flicker—interesting, perhaps because their AC frequency became perceptible at this speed. The silence was profound; even the distant city noise had dropped to an ultra-low murmur.

I stepped forward, testing my movement. It was like walking through dense air but perfectly manageable. I approached the frozen tableau of Trevor and the box. In real time, maybe a split second was passing, but for me it felt like a leisurely stroll.

I noted, almost academically, that this time the effect had come more easily. I'd reacted without consciously willing it as a superpower activation, more like a natural reflex. And it happened in a relatively safe scenario—no life at stake, just preventing a minor accident. Perhaps my brain had decided this qualified enough.

Trevor's foot was half on a small step stool which was wobbling. I gently steadied him first, without thinking. Then I realized I could take my time. Carefully, I repositioned the box of paper, pushing it back onto the shelf properly and securing it. A few loose reams that had slipped out I gathered and stacked neatly on the shelf as well.

As I did all this, I couldn't help but smirk. Trevor's going to be so confused. But I didn't want to spook him terribly or make him suspect something uncanny (though how could he not, given what was about to happen?).

I decided to let him have a somewhat plausible outcome. So instead of completely fixing everything, I left one ream of paper to fall, but made sure it would land away from him and not on his head. I positioned it mid-air in front of his body, so when time resumed it would drop maybe onto the floor harmlessly or against his legs, nothing dramatic.

I debated if I should alter his pose or anything to give him better footing. But touching a person felt risky; I didn't know if direct contact during this had any weird effects. It hadn't on the people yesterday, I suppose. I'd physically moved them. Still, this was Trevor—if he felt a mysterious force manhandling him, he'd freak.

So I settled for simply making sure he wouldn't be hurt. The step stool was stable now under him, and I braced one hand lightly against his shoulder for the moment I'd let time flow, to steady him.

Before unfreezing, I took one more long look around, the novelty of the situation washing over me. This was different from the emergency; I was at leisure, calm, and fully aware in a frozen frame of everyday life. Papers suspended in mid-air, a drip of water from a cooler in the corner caught like a crystal bead, the second hand of the hallway clock stuck pointing between marks.

I felt a giddy laugh well up—this was incredible. I was doing it, deliberately (if reflexively initiated, I was now sustaining it with ease). A sense of mastery, nascent but real, filled me with confidence. All the doubts of earlier vanished in this exhilarating moment. I took a mental snapshot of the scene, as if I could imprint it in memory: the moment I truly realized I had command over time's flow.

Now, carefully, I decided to let things resume. The trick was, how to do that? Previously it snapped back automatically when I had done what I needed. Did I just relax? The adrenaline or urgency had faded now, so maybe it would naturally cease soon. I noticed a faint strain creeping into my awareness, like a low headache, which might be the limit approaching.

I stepped back to where I originally stood to not appear like I'd moved instantaneously (though I guess I had). Then I willed whatever "muscle" I'd flexed to release. It was akin to letting go of a deep breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Sound rushed back gradually—Trevor's yelp completing, the rustle and clatter of paper falling. He windmilled his arms but found his balance, thanks in part to my subtle intervention. The ream I left to fall smacked onto the floor by his feet.

He blinked, clearly disoriented. The box was now safely on the shelf above, and he stared at it in confusion, then at the scattered pack at his feet. It took him a second to process. From his perspective, one moment it must have been slipping out of his grip, and the next—poof, it was mostly back in place, with only a bit fallen.

I stepped forward, as if just reacting normally now. "Whoa, careful Trevor!" I said. "You okay? That was close."

He looked at me, eyes a bit wide. "I—yeah. I thought I dropped the whole box, but…" He scratched his head. "Must've caught it somehow? Did you see what happened?"

Ah, the million-dollar question. I gave him a friendly grin. "Sort of. I saw you slip. It looked like you almost lost it but then managed to shove it back on the shelf last second, and only that pack fell out." I pointed at the one on the floor.

Trevor frowned, trying to recall. "Huh. I don't even… it all happened so fast."

If only you knew. I bent and picked up the fallen ream. "These copy paper boxes are heavy. Next time, maybe ask for a hand, yeah?"

He flushed slightly, embarrassed perhaps at needing help or at the near accident. But he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks. I honestly thought it was going to hit me. I kinda closed my eyes for a sec, bracing for it."

That explained how he didn't see the box magically fly back up—he literally closed his eyes at the crucial moment. Perfect.

"Well, all's well," I said, placing the ream on the shelf. I decided to toss in a little olive branch. "Happens to the best of us, Trevor."

He cleared his throat. "Right." Then, almost grudgingly, "Good reflexes on your part too, maybe. If you hadn't been here, I wonder if I would've ended up on my ass covered in paper."

I just shrugged. "Teamwork." I tapped the shelf. "We'll call this one a win."

Trevor gave a half-smile—rare for him to show anything but smugness or irritation around me. "Yeah. Thanks… Alex."

Hearing him use my first name without some sarcastic twist was novel. I realized that perhaps inadvertently, saving him or at least appearing to witness his moment of vulnerability and not mock him for it, might just earn a shred of goodwill. Not that I was aiming for that, but it was a nice side effect.

We parted ways, and I headed out of the office. Inside, I felt like I was glowing. I did it again. And this time with intentional fine control. Moreover, the side effects seemed manageable—just a slight headache now, and some fatigue creeping in around the edges. But I'd also used it for longer relative time than before, possibly. Hard to measure subjective time, but I guessed I spent a good 20 or 30 seconds in that freeze, while only a blink passed outside.

As I walked onto the street, the evening crowd flowing around me, I wanted to laugh out loud. It took restraint not to grin ear to ear like an idiot. I settled for a contained smile and ducked into a quieter side street on my way to the metro.

In that relative privacy, I took out my phone and recorded a quick voice memo, speaking quietly and quickly, wanting to get it down: "Test on 2nd day: successfully triggered time-slow during minor incident consciously. Duration ~ maybe half a sec outside, experienced ~30 sec. Involved another person, possibly easier trigger when helping someone. Felt in control. No immediate adverse effect beyond slight headache. Able to move objects and reposition things during freeze. Hypothesis confirmed—can consciously intervene in real time events. Need to explore trigger conditions more."

I stopped it, smiled, and saved it. This was the beginning of truly refining my ability.

On the ride home, I practically floated. The city outside the window looked different to me now—almost full of potential. I caught myself observing a woman juggling her phone and coffee and thought idly, I could help if she drops that, before it hits the ground. The normal pace of life around me seemed… not slow exactly, but manageable. Like knowing I had this secret made everyday chaos less intimidating. I was carrying a cheat code in my pocket that no one else knew about.

Back home, I celebrated by cooking a proper dinner for once, something I rarely had energy for on a Tuesday. As I chopped vegetables, I even practiced flicking my knife faster and seeing if I could observe each movement. Probably looked silly, but who cares, I was alone.

That night, I dove back into my notes with zeal. Chapter 3 of this journey was clearly about me consciously using and testing the power—my first proper experiments outside of emergencies. I detailed the Trevor incident, how it triggered, how I controlled it, how I ended it.

One question I noted: "Does ability activate only under stress/involuntary but can be prolonged/controlled once active?" That seemed plausible. In Trevor's case, I reacted out of concern but then was able to manipulate things thoughtfully during the freeze. In the drop experiments earlier when I tried to will it without an actual trigger, it mostly failed.

So maybe I needed a spark—some genuine spike of intention or urgency—and then I could ride that wave. If so, learning to create that spark internally was key to doing it completely at will.

I recalled how just before seeing Trevor slip, I'd been musing on making a necessity. Almost as if the universe gave me one. Or I subconsciously heard him struggling and anticipated it. Hmm.

Another note: "Time perception during freeze – lighting flicker, sound bass – evidence external processes slowed (lights flicker at 60Hz looked like flashing, sound frequency down). So indeed likely near-full stop relative outside."

As I compiled data, I felt a bit of a mad scientist vibe. But the grounded details kept me steady. This wasn't magic; it was some ability following rules. If I could learn the rules, I could refine it responsibly.

One more thing I realized: the more I succeeded, the more I'd have to be mindful of secrecy. I got lucky that Trevor's eyes were shut. If someone fully saw what I did, how would I explain? I needed to be careful not to expose myself inadvertently, which meant picking moments like these with caution.

At the same time, the thrill of it made me bolder. I sensed a tug-of-war forming inside: part of me craving to push further, faster—another part urging caution and stealth.

In bed, sleep eluded me for a while. I kept replaying the freeze-frame scene in my head, marveling at small details I'd noticed: how dust motes hung in the air like tiny planets, how even the digital displays froze (the hallway clock's second hand stuck mid-tick, confirming electronics paused too).

It was a beautiful, eerie stillness. And I had the power to summon it.

For the first time, I allowed myself to think beyond the next day. If I continued developing this, what might it mean for my future? Would I always hide it, or eventually use it openly? Could it become something more than a neat trick for personal satisfaction? Possibly, if carefully used, it could save lives, like it already did. But that path was fraught with complications.

One step at a time, I reminded myself. Literally one second at a time, as elastic as those seconds might become.

I closed my eyes, and this time when I drifted into dreams, I wasn't just witnessing a frozen world with confusion—I was walking through it confidently, aware of my power, and for once, feeling in full control of where I was headed.

Little did I know, this was just the beginning of understanding what rules governed my gift—and what rules I would have to set for myself in using it.