The world turned black as the streetlights shattered.
For a moment, all I could hear was breathing—my own, Peter's, Serina's. Then came the rustling of coats, the slow shuffle of footsteps.
They were coming.
"Move!" Peter's voice cut through the darkness. I felt him grab my arm and yank me back just as something sharp slashed through the air where I had been standing.
We ran.
The streets twisted and turned, a labyrinth of the past. Old buildings with faded signs blurred past us. 1958. This was where it all began—where my father's fate had been sealed.
But this wasn't just history. This was real.
And those men were real too.
"They're still following!" Serina gasped, keeping pace beside me. Peter was just ahead, leading the way. His speed was unreal despite the bruises covering his face from our earlier fight.
I clenched my jaw. My chest was burning. A sharp, deep ache spread through my ribs—too familiar, too cruel.
Not now. Not now.
Peter glanced back. "Arthur?" His voice held something rare—concern.
I waved him off. "Keep running."
A narrow alley appeared on our left. Serina yanked me toward it, and we darted inside, pressing against the wall, hiding in the dark.
The Sentinels passed by, their shadows stretching across the alley walls. They didn't see us.
Not yet.
Serina's hand was still on my chest. Her breathing was unsteady. I felt it—her warmth, her pulse against my skin.
Peter looked at both of us and raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Should I give you two a minute?"
Serina shot him a glare. "Shut up."
I wanted to smirk, but the pain in my ribs twisted again. I leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply.
Serina's eyes narrowed. "Arthur…?"
I forced a breath. "I'm fine."
Peter's stare turned cold. "No, you're not."
His tone was sharper than usual. Like he knew something.
Serina turned back to me. "Arthur, don't bullshit me. What's wrong?"
I looked away. The ache in my ribs had been there for years. So had the warnings. The doctor's words, the diagnosis, the inevitable countdown.
Serina's hand tightened on my wrist. "Arthur."
I swallowed. "It's nothing."
Peter scoffed. "Yeah? Nothing's gonna kill you soon?"
Silence.
Serina's grip loosened. I didn't look at her, but I could feel it—the shift.
The way she understood without me saying a damn thing.
Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Great. So not only are we trapped in 1958 with time-traveling psychos hunting us, but you're also—" He stopped himself. Exhaled. "Whatever. We're not dying today."
I forced a smirk. "Confidence looks good on you, Peter."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
Serina was still watching me, her expression unreadable. But her eyes—there was something different in them now.
Not just worry.
Something deeper.
Something dangerous.
"We need to find shelter," she finally said. "Somewhere safe to figure this out."
Peter nodded. "Yeah. And we need answers. Starting with why those guys want Arthur so bad."
I pushed off the wall, ignoring the sharp pain in my side. "Then we find the one person who might know."
Peter frowned. "Who?"
I glanced toward the dimly lit streets.
"The man who started all of this."
Serina inhaled sharply. "Your father."
Peter's eyes darkened. "George Cardigan."
For the first time, the weight of it all hit me.
My father wasn't just a missing man.
He was the reason we were here.
And if the Sentinels wanted to stop us…
That meant finding him was the only way out.
The streets of 1958 felt strange and oppressive as we moved through the dark alleyways. The air was thick, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something—waiting for us to make our move.
Serina walked in front of us, her pace steady and sure, but I could feel the tension in her shoulders. Peter and I stayed close, the weight of what we were about to face gnawing at the edges of my mind. We had to find answers. We had to find my father.
"Arthur…" Serina called, her voice breaking through my thoughts. "We're close."
I nodded, my chest tight. I was sick of being led around by the unknown. Sick of feeling like I was chasing ghosts. But there was no turning back now. We had no choice.
Peter grunted beside me. "How the hell are we supposed to trust any of this? You, Serina, all this crap about Rathadium and jumping through timelines—it's insane."
I didn't look at him. He had a point, but right now, there wasn't room for doubt. Not anymore.
Ahead of us, the theater loomed—old and battered. The kind of place that seemed to hold too many secrets. As we approached the entrance, I could feel my pulse quicken. My father was somewhere inside. I didn't know how I knew it, but I did.
When we stepped through the worn doors, the stale air was thick with dust and age. The dim light barely illuminated the room, but there, standing at the edge of the stage, was a figure.
George Peter Cardigan.
My father.
The man who had disappeared before I was born. The man whose blood runs through my veins.
I froze.
Serina, sensing my hesitation, stepped forward first. "He's the one."
I swallowed hard. This couldn't be real. I had to be dreaming. There was no way my father was standing here, alive, in front of me.
Peter muttered under his breath. "This is some crazy shit. I think I've had enough of this time travel crap."
My father's gaze shifted from Serina to me. There was something in his eyes—recognition, but also something deeper, something darker. "Arthur," he said, his voice gravelly but calm. "I knew you'd come."
I shook my head, my throat tight. "You... you disappeared. Before I was born. What happened?"
"I didn't disappear, Arthur,"
"I was taken," my father corrected, stepping down from the stage. His eyes never left mine. "By them."
"By who?" Serina asked, her voice sharp.
"The Sentinels," my father said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They wanted me. Just like they want you now."
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
"Me?" I repeated, confused. "Why me?"
Peter crossed his arms. "Yeah, and what does that have to do with the Rathadium?"
My father's expression turned serious, and he stepped closer to me. "You've got it inside you, Arthur. That's why they're after you."
Peter's eyes flicked to me. "Wait. What?"
"Rathadium." My father's voice softened. "It's in both of you. But Arthur... you're special."
I looked at Peter, who was starting to lose his cool. His usual snark had been replaced with something else—a look of disbelief, of uncertainty.
"What the hell does that even mean?" Peter demanded.
"It means you're both carriers of the Rathadium. But Arthur," my father continued, his eyes locked on mine, "you're the one they've been searching for."
I felt like the floor had been ripped out from beneath me. I had Rathadium in my blood? But Peter did too. Why the hell was I special?
Serina seemed to sense my confusion. She stepped forward, placing a hand on my arm. "Arthur, you have to understand," she said softly. "Rathadium isn't just about time travel. It's not just a power. It's an anchor. You and Peter have the same blood, yes. But the difference is that you—" she hesitated, glancing at my father before looking back at me, "—you have a unique connection to it. It allows you to control time, not just travel through it. That's what makes you different."
I let out a shaky breath, trying to process what she was saying. But my mind kept coming back to one thing: why was I the one?
My father seemed to sense my thoughts. "They want you, Arthur, because you're the key to controlling all of it. They can't access the full power of Rathadium unless they can control someone with the connection—someone like you."
Peter's voice was strained. "So, we're just pawns in some sick game?"
I didn't answer, because I didn't know. But then, a part of me understood. I could feel it deep inside. The truth about my father's disappearance, the truth about my own body—it was all connected.
But the most chilling part was what my father said next.
"They need you to travel. Not just to fix time. They need you to destroy it. They want the Rathadium to collapse time altogether. To control all timelines. And to do that, they need to break the anchor."
I felt my stomach drop. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means they want to kill you, Arthur. They want to kill you and destroy everything you've ever known."
The weight of his words settled in like a stone in my chest.
Serina looked at me, her eyes soft but full of urgency. "We don't have much time. If we don't act, they'll find us. And we'll never get back."
My father handed me the vial of Rathoxile Metaphine, the blue liquid shimmering in the dim light. "Take it," he said. "It's your only chance. It will allow you to break through Rathadium's limits, to choose your own timeline."
I held the vial in my hand, but before I could speak, Peter's voice broke through.
"What about you?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically raw. "What happens to you?"
My father shook his head. "I can't go back. I don't belong in your world anymore. My time is over."
Serina's voice was quiet but steady. "Arthur, we have to go. Now."
I turned to look at her, and for the first time in a long while, I noticed something in her eyes—something more than urgency. Something softer.
There was a brief moment where everything seemed to pause—where I didn't feel like a man fighting to survive or someone on the edge of destruction. I felt like Arthur. The man who had loved and lost, the man who had always been trying to hold on to the pieces of a life that slipped through his fingers.
Serina stepped closer, her gaze softening. "Arthur…"
I couldn't help it. I reached out, my hand brushing against hers. There was so much unspoken between us. A connection that had started as an alliance, but somewhere along the way, had become something more. But I couldn't let myself believe it. I couldn't afford the distraction.
I pulled my hand back, swallowing the ache in my chest. "We have to go."
Peter glanced at us both, but his voice was rough. "What's it going to be, Arthur? You ready to pull the trigger?"
I looked at my father one last time.
"I'm ready," I said, my voice hoarse.
And as I took the vial and prepared for the leap into the unknown, I couldn't shake the feeling that even if we made it back to 2024, there was no escaping what we had started. The Rathadium was in my blood, and it had already changed everything.
Time had a way of making its own rules.