Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Temporal disturbances? How am I supposed to do that with a couple of guys and some firecrackers?""I've got some prototypes," Thorne said, pulling a small, metallic device from his bag. It looked like a fancy grenade. "These emit a localized temporal pulse. Nothing dangerous, but it will create enough 'noise' in their predictive systems to throw them off. Think of it as a temporal smoke screen.""Okay," Bucky said, taking the device. "So, diversions. What about us?""Max and I go in," Thorne stated. "We target the main research wing. The Shard has given me a clearer picture of the Chronos-Mark VII's location within the facility. It's in a secure vault, but near a primary temporal conduit. That's our entry point.""And the Enforcers?" Max asked. "They'll be waiting.""They'll be waiting for what they *predict* we'll do," Thorne emphasized. "We need to do something else. Something illogical. Something that goes against the most probable outcome. Max, you're goi

The minor Chronos Shard pulsed gently in Max’s palm, a faint, rhythmic thrum against his skin. They were back in Thorne’s hidden lab, the air cooler and drier than the Amazonian humidity they’d left behind. Bucky was polishing a heavy wrench, his usual way of thinking, while Thorne peered at a holographic map, occasionally tapping at the shimmering display.“So, this little rock,” Bucky began, without looking up, “it lets you see… what, exactly? Like, if someone’s about to trip?”Max chuckled, a tired sound. “More like I can feel the ripple before they even think about moving their foot. It’s subtle. Like a tiny tremor in the air. Or like seeing a ghost of a movement that hasn’t quite happened yet.” He focused on a small, empty coffee cup on the table. He could feel the faint temporal distortion around it, the lingering echo of Thorne’s hand setting it down. It was like the cup had a tiny, invisible aura that showed its recent past.Thorne straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose

Max looked at Thorne, who gave him a hesitant nod. He looked at Bucky, who just shrugged, a grim expression on his face. Max took a deep breath, the minor Shard warm in his pocket. He could feel the temporal energy radiating from the platform, a complex tapestry of potential shifts and distortions.He stepped onto the platform. Immediately, the air crackled. Beams of light, not lasers, but pure temporal energy, began to sweep across the platform, forming intricate patterns. Max could feel them, not just see them. He could sense their trajectory, their intent, the tiny temporal ripple just before they manifested.“The simulator is active,” Kael’s voice announced. “It is generating predictive models based on your perceived movement patterns. It will attempt to trap you.”Max moved. He didn’t think, he just reacted. A beam swept towards his left leg. He felt the temporal pressure, the subtle shift in the air, and stepped right, a fraction of a second before the beam materialized. Another

He turned, a distant look in his eyes. “I once thought I could control everything. That I could map out every variable, predict every outcome. The Syndicate taught me otherwise. They taught me that no matter how much you plan, there are always… anomalies. Variables you can’t account for.”“Like your own past?” Max ventured, remembering Thorne’s explanation of Kael’s history.Kael’s face hardened. “My past is a closed book. A chapter I wish I could erase. But even I, with all my temporal knowledge, cannot change what has been done.” He paused, then continued, his voice low. “I built the machines that allowed them to do what they did. I believed their lies, that it was for the greater good. That we were stabilizing the timeline. Instead, we were just… erasing inconvenient truths. Erasing people.”Max saw the raw pain in Kael’s eyes, a guilt that ran deeper than any anger. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Trying to fix what you helped break.”Kael didn’t answer directly. He just turned

Meanwhile, far away, in the bustling, sun-drenched suburbs of Mexico City, Ronald was a shadow. He moved with a practiced ease, blending into the background, his eyes fixed on a beat-up sedan. Bobby. The traitor.Ronald had been tracking Bobby for two days, a relentless, silent hunter. Bobby had been careful, but not careful enough. Ronald knew the Becker's tricks, knew their safe houses, their dead drops. And he knew Bobby’s habits.The sedan pulled into the driveway of a modest, two-story house, painted a faded yellow. It looked utterly normal, utterly suburban. A perfect hiding spot.Bobby got out, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He glanced around, a nervous habit Ronald recognized. He was jumpy. Good.Bobby unlocked the front door and slipped inside.Ronald waited. He counted to sixty, then to another sixty. No alarms. No other Becker agents. Bobby was alone. Or thought he was.Ronald moved. He scaled the fence in the backyard, silent as a cat. The back door was reinforced,