| A Clock’s Whisper

༺ The Fractured City X ༻

A butler walked along the dimly lit corridor, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the plush red carpet. The walls were lined with ornate wooden panels, each carved with intricate patterns that spoke of wealth and power. Elegant tables flanked either side of the hall, each adorned with golden candelabras and small, well-kept sculptures. The soft glow of the candles flickered, casting long shadows that danced with his movement.

He carried a silver tray, balancing it with practiced ease. Resting atop it was a vintage English tea set—delicate porcelain with gold trim. A faint wisp of steam curled from the spout of the teapot, the scent of Longjing tea filling the air.

At the far end of the hall stood a set of double doors, flanked by two imposing figures. The soldiers were clad in dark greyish armor, their chests marked by a barely visible white Adarga, a symbol scarred and worn, yet still commanding authority. Their faces were completely hidden beneath Full Face Mask Tactical Military Helmets, their posture rigid, alert. Each soldier gripped an HK416 rifle, their fingers resting just above the trigger guards.

The butler, unfazed by their presence, approached with measured steps. He leaned in, whispering something into the ear of one of the guards. A password. The soldier gave a slight nod before stepping aside, his gloved hand pressing against a panel on the wall. With a low mechanical hum, the double doors parted.

Inside, the office was bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the room, offering a breathtaking view of the cityscape below. The skyline was a sea of glass and steel, skyscrapers towering in eerie silence.

In the center of the room, a man sat at a grand oak table. One hand rested idly on the polished surface, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His other hand adjusted the red tie draped over his crisp black suit. His entire face was obscured by a white-greyish mask, an uncanny resemblance to an owl's visage, its smooth surface devoid of emotion.

The butler entered without hesitation, moving with the same grace he had carried through the corridor. He set the tray down gently, lifting the teapot to pour the steaming Longjing tea into a delicate porcelain cup.

The masked man reached forward, his gloved fingers resting on the handle of the cup. With an air of quiet contemplation, he lifted it to his lips, inhaling the scent before taking a slow sip.

The butler finally spoke.

"Sir, there's a powerful figure that has entered the battle between us and the rebels."

A silence stretched between them. Then, the man slowly placed the cup down. His fingers moved to the edges of his mask, lifting it off and setting it beside him.

Only his mouth was visible. A faint smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

"Send him a gift."

The butler bowed. "Understood, sir."

The Starlights' headquarters was in turmoil.

The dimly lit room, once a place of strategy and quiet discussion, was now thick with tension. The leader stood at the head of the table, hands gripping the edge, eyes scanning the faces of those present. Rowan was among them, his expression unreadable.

Then, the doors burst open.

A panicked officer stumbled in, his breath uneven, his face pale with dread. "There's a situation!" he stammered.

The leader straightened. "Bring me to it."

Without another word, the officer turned, leading them down a winding corridor. The Starlights followed, their footsteps echoing against the walls. Rowan stayed near the back, his mind already piecing together the possible scenarios.

They arrived at a room where several members had gathered, their faces grim.

On the table, a body lay sprawled across its surface. The man's face was twisted in terror, his lifeless eyes wide open. Blood had splattered across the wood, some pooling onto the floor. His hands—rigid in death—were clutching something.

A small, yellow box with a red ribbon.

A present.

Pinned to the top was a folded note.

With careful fingers, the leader plucked it from the box and unfolded the paper. His eyes skimmed the words, his grip tightening.

"Winds howl, yet shadows see,

A tempest fought, but never free.

A gift in time, a thread unwound,

The hunter waits without a sound."

Rowan exhaled slowly, reading the message over the leader's shoulder. There was no doubt.

This was meant for him.

The realization was sharp, chilling. The Owl knew. He had always known. The location of their headquarters, their movements, their people.

Rowan met the leader's gaze. The unspoken question lingered between them. Should I open it?

The leader hesitated, then gave a stiff nod.

Rowan carefully undid the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled against the velvet lining, was a pocket watch.

The glass was shattered, thin fractures spiderwebbing across its surface. But what caught Rowan's attention was the way the hands moved—backwards.

A slow, deliberate reversal of time.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. The gift—this watch—was a message. But what was it saying?

Rowan's fingers brushed over the cracked glass. His mind raced, analyzing every possible meaning. A watch, time moving backward. A clue, but to what?

His gut told him the person who delivered it was still here. Watching. Waiting.

His gaze flickered across the room, scanning every face, every subtle movement.

The Owl's gaze is upon everyone in this city.

The leader seemed to come to the same conclusion. His voice was cold, unwavering.

"Search everyone. No one leaves this room until we find the envoy."

The security gets stricter. The soldiers search the headquarters as all exits are blocked. Even the area around the headquarters in the city is blocked as there are members there. The Starlights, caught in the middle of the situation, join the search. They decide to split up. Rowan and Elyssa search on the rooftops, as they are experienced, while the old man and Viktor join the guard to search.

Rowan, moving from roof to roof alone, scans the area below. His mind races through possibilities, each moment ticking away like the seconds on a clock. The search is exhaustive, the tension palpable in the air. As he jumps to another rooftop, something catches his eye—a glimpse of a dark figure darting through a window. His instincts scream at him, and without thinking, Rowan leaps.

The window shatters as he crashes through, rolling to absorb the impact. In the dimly lit room, a figure clad in full black clothing stands at the far end, their back to Rowan. The faint sound of metal against fabric whispers in the stillness. The figure wears a black mask, with a spray-painted white skull design running from the top of their head down to the collarbone. Droplets of white paint cascade like a waterfall, creating an eerie contrast against the dark attire. Circular goggles cover their eyes, the glass pitch-black except for a faint white dot in the center, mimicking the appearance of eyes.

Rowan's heart races as he instinctively reaches for his side, fingers brushing against the familiar hilt of his keris. The blade hums with promise, the curve of the steel seeming to call to him as if sensing the danger in the room. He pulls it free, the weapon gleaming in the low light, ready for whatever the envoy might throw at him. The metal feels heavier now, as if its weight carries the expectation of what's to come.

The figure turns slowly, revealing a face hidden behind the mask. The envoy's posture is calm, calculating, as they grasp the chain of their kusarigama. Rowan tightens his grip on the keris, preparing for a fight that he knows will be nothing short of lethal.

For a moment, the room is still, the tension thick in the air. Rowan locks eyes with the envoy, each sizing up the other, knowing this moment will define everything.

Then, in a blur of motion, both charge. The envoy's footsteps are like thunder against the floor, the chain of the kusarigama spinning in their grasp. Rowan's feet slam against the ground as he propels himself forward, his keris raised and poised to strike.

The room seems to narrow as the two close the distance between them, both unstoppable forces rushing toward each other. The sound of their footsteps echoes, sharp and deafening, as they collide at the center of the room, the air thick with anticipation.