Shotgun

Calder gripped my neck.

His fingers were cold and firm, pressing down just enough to steal air but not take it all. His nails dug into my skin, pressing against my throat like a snake coiling tighter, feeding on my panic. He leaned in close, and I could smell the sweat on his collar, the foul stench of incense and blood on his breath.

"You'll know once the Lord arrives," he whispered.

My vision swam. Pressure built in my skull like it might split open. My head pulsed, pulsed, pulsed—then finally, he released me.

I collapsed forward in the chair, coughing, gasping for breath like a drowning man who just breached the surface. Calder stepped back with a smirk playing on his face, the same calm you see in lunatics right before they light the match.

Then he raised both hands, while leaving the room.

The robed figures around me began chanting again, the same twisted language they'd been muttering before. Except now, it felt louder. Thicker. The sound didn't just vibrate in the air—it sank into the floor, into my bones. Something unseen began to move beneath the surface of this place.

The flames of the candles stretched unnaturally tall. Not flickering, not dancing—reaching, like something was pulling them from above. The air turned dense. My lungs had to work harder. My arms went heavy. My body wasn't mine anymore. I blinked hard, but the gold light bled across my vision until everything around me shimmered like a mirage.

Then it all went blurry.

The voices became static. Distant. The world around me quieted until all I could hear was my own heartbeat—hammering, uneven, desperate.

Until—

BOOM.

A gunshot ripped through the silence.

Sharp. Brutal. Close.

The chanting stopped like a needle had been yanked off a record. The robed figures stiffened. One turned his head. Then another.

The door at the far end slammed open.

Calder bolted back into the room, panting like a hunted animal. Blood sprayed across his cheek, his robe disheveled. His eyes were wide, wild, and for the first time, afraid.

"We're leaving," he snapped, voice harsh and cracked. He rushed toward me, dropped to one knee, and started yanking at the ropes with trembling fingers.

"What's happening?" I croaked. My voice came out small, distant. I could barely hold my head up.

Calder didn't answer. He just kept fumbling with the knots, hands shaky, frantic.

And then—

"Oi, cunt."

The voice hit like ice water. Sharp. Flat. British.

We both froze.

The doorway filled with a new shape. A man stepped through—calm, grounded, and completely out of place. His thick beard looked like it had been grown out of defiance, not fashion. His leather jacket clung to his shoulders like armor. The sawed-off shotgun in his grip was held low, but carried weight. Intent.

He walked in like he owned the room.

His eyes swept over the candles, the robes, the symbols carved into the walls. Then he landed on Calder with a look of disgust.

"What the fuck is this shit?" he said, his tone dry and amused. "I thought you lot were into time-travel and murderin' kids. Didn't expect robes and candles like some Poundland Satanists."

He didn't wait for a reply.

BOOM.

The shotgun thundered again.

Calder's chest exploded in a spray of red. He flew backwards, legs folding awkwardly beneath him. His body hit the altar behind us, bounced, and crumpled in a heap. Blood spilled across the stone like paint dropped on a canvas.

Silence.

I stared, stunned, unmoving. My hands were still half-tied. My mouth hung open, heart thudding in my ears.

The man with the shotgun turned to me.

His expression wasn't angry or intense. Just calm. A little bored. Like he'd done this too many times to still feel much about it.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, voice hoarse.

He stepped forward and extended a hand, casual as if he was offering me a beer instead of pulling me out of a literal death cult.

"Name's Arthur."

I hesitated, then grabbed it.

He pulled me up with a surprising gentleness—steady, sure. The kind of grip you don't expect from someone who just shot a man to death five seconds ago.

"I'm cleanin' up timelines, mate. Been doin' it for a while now. One at a bloody time.Ashmoore's where it all begins... or ends. Depends how you look at it. These cult pricks are new, "thought these wankers were only into sci-fi bollocks like time travel and rathadium. Either these wankers haven't got a clue what they're doing, or there's some proper dodgy shit going on in here too."

I blinked. Tried to breathe. "I don't understand. Timelines? What are you talking about?"

Arthur exhaled slowly, resting the shotgun on his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

"Long story. I was a cop. Small town. Case of a missin' kid. That's when I met Peter. We were dragged through the timelines—past, future, sideways. And in tryin' to save peter and serina, I broke the one rule you're never supposed to break. I broke the time sphere."

He paused. His face changed—less sarcastic, more haunted.

"There was this little girl, came Outta nowhere. She grabbed my hand, looked me right in the eye, and said, 'You're stayin.' After that... time stopped obeyin' rules. I don't exist in just one timeline anymore. I'm in all of them. I am the fuckin' timeline shut manager now."

He gave a dry chuckle.

"Bit poetic, innit?"

I stood there, still reeling, still shaking. My mouth hung open.

Arthur tilted his head at me, more curious now.

"What did that bastard say to you?"

So I told him. Everything. What Calder said. The fire. The box. Rathadium. The Dusk Society. Being "chosen." The accident I shouldn't have survived.

Arthur didn't flinch. He just nodded slowly, soaking it in like he'd heard worse.

"We'll find your mate Ethan," he said firmly. "Swear on it."

I stared at him, confused and exhausted. "Why didn't you go back? Back to see Peter and Serina? If you have all this power now?"

His face changed again—just for a second. Softer. Like something slipped through the cracks in his walls.

"Didn't want 'em gettin' dragged in again," he said. "I'm not safe. Hell, I couldn't even trust myself for a while. After I broke the time sphere, I nearly turned into... something else. Some kinda mindless shell. A fuckin' timeline zombie."

His voice dropped lower. Quieter.

"But then... I saw my dad."

I frowned. "Your dad?"

"Dunno if it was real or not. Dream, memory, who knows. But he handed me this."

Arthur reached into his coat and pulled out a small bronze compass. He held it with a strange reverence, like it meant more than just direction.

"This compass keeps me stable. Somehow it controls the Rathadium flow inside me. Keeps me human. Keeps me...me."

His smile, though faint, was real.

"It was my mum's. She had the same thing. The madness, the power. This stopped her from losin' it. Now it's doin' the same for me."

A sudden burst of gunfire cracked in the distance. Fast. Sharp. Closer.

I flinched.

Arthur moved without hesitation. He shoved me gently behind him and cocked the shotgun, muscles tense but eyes calm.

"Stay close," he said, that British accent curling around the edges of something dangerous.

His finger slid to the trigger. His eyes locked onto the door. He clocked the gun.

"Let's get this done."

To be continued