Chapter 70: Where Sins Converge
The stopwatch’s weight seemed lighter in Vincent’s trembling hand, a silent challenge wrapped in steel and glass.
My mind set ablaze, the gears of thought spinning faster than the beat of my frantic heart. Time compression—three minutes of suspended reality, a bubble within the chaos of the world, a pause button carved into the relentless flow of existence.
Three whole minutes? That can’t be enough—no, it’s too much. Three minutes to suspend everything? Gods, the sheer arrogance of it. Or genius. Or both.
It was absurd, it was terrifying, it was utterly brilliant.
The implications alone flooded my brain with impossible possibilities, slicing through my resolve with the subtlety of a scalpel. A small, irrational part of me screamed to run, to escape before curiosity dug its claws too deep, but a larger, darker part rooted me in place, riveted by the unknown story that Vincent was about to unravel.
I was barely prepared when Vincent lifted a hand, fingers outstretched like a general calling for ceasefire in the midst of war. The command was wordless yet absolute, stopping my lungs mid-exhale and my hands before they could lash out in retaliation.
My pulse hammered in my ears, but the fire that had ignited inside me twisted now into something colder—curiosity sharpened by a touch of wariness. Vincent’s movements were slow, deliberate, almost fragile as he pushed himself upright against the cold pillar, his crippled hand cradling the stopwatch like a fragile child. Through all of this, there was a certain softness in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.
My instincts screamed for betrayal, but my heart thrummed with a strange, reluctant hope.
He lifted the stopwatch like a flag of surrender, his voice low and steady when he finally spoke. "I’ve already admitted defeat. Our fight... it’s over."
His words fell heavy between us, saturated with a strange mixture of resignation and anticipation. "I’ve been waiting for a moment like this, Cecil. Waiting for you to see... to understand."
Understand what? That this was never a game? That I’ve been running circles in a cage of his design? Gods, what does he want me to see?
My brows knitted together, confusion prickling beneath the surface as I turned my gaze to his. Those eyes—soft, almost pleading—were magnetic, drawing me closer like a moth circling a flame. His hand extended toward me, an invitation coated with a fragile trust.