The studio lights were warm. Almost too warm. Ezra sat in a plush leather chair across from the talk show host, feeling a bead of sweat gather at his colr. The audience buzzed with anticipation—hundreds of eager eyes staring at him, waiting.

  He hated this.

  The hostess, a refined woman in her mid-forties, exuded warmth and confidence. She had the presence of someone who had been doing this for years, her salt-and-pepper hair elegantly curled, her deep burgundy dress tailored to perfection. She sat with practiced ease, a soft but knowing smile on her lips.

  "Ezra Key," she began, her Japanese accent lilting his name ever so slightly. "Welcome to Momoka at Midnight."

  Ezra shifted in his seat, offering a polite nod. "Thanks for having me."

  Momoka Kisaragi had been a household name in Japan for over two decades. She wasn’t just a talk show host—she was the talk show host. Revered for her ability to turn even the coldest, most reluctant guests into open books.

  Ezra already didn’t like his odds.

  She crossed one leg over the other, holding a sleek cue card in her manicured fingers. "I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to this interview ever since the world saw that footage." She motioned toward the rge screen behind them, where a clip of the infamous car accident reversal pyed. The audience let out an audible gasp.

  Ezra forced a smirk, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. That’s me. The guy who puked after pying god."

  The audience ughed. Momoka chuckled. "Yes, well, I imagine the physics of that must do strange things to the human body. But what you did, Ezra—it wasn’t just science. It was… miraculous."

  Ezra let out a small breath. "Yeah, I don’t know about that. It’s just math and engineering. Nothing divine about it."

  Momoka tilted her head, studying him. "So, you don’t see yourself as special?"

  Ezra barked a ugh. "Lady, I’m just a guy who likes breaking things to see how they work."

  More ughter. The crowd loved him. Momoka leaned forward slightly. "And yet, you created something that defies everything we know about time. The ECHO isn’t just an invention, Mr. Key—it’s a revolution. And with revolutions come questions." She tapped her cue card on the arm of her chair. "I think what the world really wants to know is… why?"

  Ezra raised a brow. "Why?"

  "Yes." Momoka smiled. "What drives a man to defy time itself?"

  Ezra exhaled slowly. "Curiosity, I guess."

  Momoka nodded thoughtfully. "Curiosity is a powerful thing. But isn’t there more to it? Surely, a man doesn’t dedicate his life to reshaping reality for fun."

  Ezra scratched his jaw. The audience was dead silent, waiting. Watching.

  Momoka flipped to the next cue card. "Tell me," she continued. "You’ve saved lives. People are calling you a hero. Some are calling you something more. Do you ever think about the responsibility of that?"

  Ezra forced a smirk. "Not really my job to tell people what to think."

  "But surely you’ve considered it," she pressed. "If people rely on the ECHO to fix their mistakes, what happens when it fails? What happens when you can’t press that button?"

  Ezra stiffened.

  Momoka’s expression softened. "You lost someone, didn’t you?"

  Ezra’s breath hitched.

  The audience held their breath.

  Ezra shifted in his seat. "Look, I didn’t come here for a therapy session—"

  Momoka gently pced her cue cards down. "I know," she said softly. "But this isn’t just about the ECHO. This is about you. And I think—" she studied him carefully, "—I think the world deserves to know what’s driving the man behind the machine."

  Ezra clenched his jaw. "It’s just science," he muttered. "It’s not that deep."

  Momoka’s voice remained gentle. "Then why do you look like a man who hasn’t slept in years?"

  Ezra’s fingers curled into his pant leg. His throat was dry. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He could see it—the image burned into his mind. The day Haru vanished. The way everything in him screamed he’s still out there.

  "Ezra." Momoka’s voice pulled him back. She wasn’t prying. She wasn’t pushing. She was simply… asking.

  His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "I—" He exhaled sharply. And then—he cracked.

  "It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he muttered, voice thick. "He was just a kid. He—" Ezra’s breath shuddered. "Haru didn’t even get to be a kid. He was thrown into all this before he even had a chance to live."

  Momoka remained silent. She let him speak.

  Ezra clenched his fists. "He was brilliant. Smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. But he wasn’t just some child prodigy—he was my friend." His voice wavered. "And I let him down."

  The audience was still. Not a whisper. Not a breath.

  Ezra swallowed hard. His chest ached. "I don’t care about being famous. I don’t care about money, or recognition, or any of that bullshit." His eyes burned. "I just want him back."

  Momoka’s expression softened.

  Ezra sucked in a sharp breath. "I’ve been chasing this for years. Breaking my body. Breaking my mind. And you wanna know why?" His voice cracked. "Because I can’t not chase it. Because if there’s even a chance that he’s out there—" He clenched his jaw. "Then I have to find him."

  A single sniffle echoed from the audience. Someone was crying.

  Ezra rubbed his face, exhaling shakily.

  Momoka gave him a long, understanding look. "That," she said gently, "is why the world loves you."

  Ezra blinked. "What?"

  Momoka smiled softly. "You’re not a scientist pying god. You’re a man trying to undo a tragedy. Trying to save one person." She motioned to the audience. "That’s why people believe in you."

  Ezra looked up. The crowd was filled with glistening eyes, people sniffling, some even outright weeping. And just like that—his popurity wasn’t just big. It was unstoppable.

  Ezra barely made it past the stage curtains before his knees felt weak. His pulse was still racing, his head spinning, his hands cmmy with sweat. He had held it together long enough to finish the interview, long enough to shake hands and fsh one st polite smile before stepping offstage.

  But now, alone in a dimly lit corridor, the weight hit him all at once.

  He leaned against the cool metal of the dressing room door, exhaling shakily. His breath hitched. He pressed his palms against his eyes. Not now, not here, not— But his body betrayed him. The pressure that had been building for years—years of failure, years of trying to break through a wall that refused to crack, years of carrying the guilt of Haru—it all came rushing forward like a goddamn tidal wave.

  And for the first time in longer than he could remember… Ezra let himself cry.

  It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. It was silent, trembling grief, the kind that dug deep into the bones and refused to leave. He didn’t sob—just stood there, hands braced against the wall, shoulders shaking with the weight of everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant, gnawing failure.

  Thirty minutes. That’s all he had. All he could have. And it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

  He wiped his face roughly, sniffed, took deep, steadying breaths. When he finally straightened, his reflection in the mirror across the hall was a mess. Eyes red. Jaw tight. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found.

  The worst part? Momoka had seen it.

  She was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching him with a soft expression. She had been there long enough. Had seen him fall apart just enough to know better than to call attention to it.

  Ezra stiffened, clearing his throat. "You know, staring at people in the middle of their breakdowns is kinda creepy."

  Momoka smiled, but it was gentle, not teasing. "You’ve got a bad habit of hiding things, Ezra."

  He scoffed, running a hand down his face. "Yeah, well. Sue me."

  She took a step closer, still keeping that same warm energy she had on stage. The same quiet patience. "You remind me of someone I used to know," she said thoughtfully. "He was a brilliant man, too. Too brilliant for his own good, sometimes."

  Ezra arched a brow. "Did he also have cameras shoved in his face twenty-four seven?"

  Momoka chuckled. "No, but he had the same look in his eyes. Like he was carrying the weight of the world alone."

  Ezra exhaled sharply. "And what, you fixed him with a pep talk?"

  She tilted her head. "No. But I reminded him that failure doesn’t mean the end of the story."

  Ezra paused.

  Momoka smiled. "You haven’t failed, Ezra. Not yet."

  He scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah? Tell that to Haru."

  Momoka’s expression softened. She didn’t push. Just let the silence sit between them for a moment. "You think you’re failing him because you can’t go back far enough," she murmured. "But what if you’re just looking in the wrong direction?"

  Ezra frowned. "The hell’s that supposed to mean?"

  She shrugged. "You’re chasing the past so hard, you might be missing what’s right in front of you."

  Ezra stared at her for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. A question he wasn’t sure how to ask. A doubt he wasn’t ready to voice.

  Finally, Momoka patted his arm. "Just… don’t lose yourself in it, alright?" She smiled again, stepping back. "The world needs you. Not just the past."

  Ezra swallowed, nodding once. "Yeah. Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind."

  She gave him one st lingering gnce before walking off, leaving him with her words echoing in his mind. Not just the past.

  Ezra let out a long breath. His next stop? Duty call.

  The hum of the core chamber was a steady backdrop as Ezra ran through his checklist, clipboard in one hand, stylus in the other. It was business as usual—or at least, as usual as things could be in this godforsaken deathtrap of a job.

  Clover stood off to the side, silent as ever, watching him with that unreadable expression of hers. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter. Just the same cold, clinical detachment she always carried.

  Ezra had gotten used to it.

  Mostly.

  He was mid-sentence in his report when— WOOoomp—everything cut to bck.

  The low hum of the core stuttered into silence. Emergency lights flickered weakly, barely illuminating the chamber in a dull, blood-red glow.

  Ezra paused. Blinked. "Oh, for fuck’s sake," he groaned, rubbing his temples. "What is this, the third power outage in the st six months? Y’all buy your fuses off eBay or some shit?"

  Clover didn’t respond. Didn’t even move.

  Ezra frowned. "…Okay, normally, you at least tell me to shut up."

  Still, no response.

  Ezra exhaled sharply. "Alright, I’ll bite—does this have something to do with the whole ‘user experiences’ nonsense?"

  Silence. Clover’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture stiffened ever so slightly.

  Ezra had his answer. "Shit." He ran a hand through his hair. "So it’s not the Silent Legion screwing with me, huh?"

  More silence.

  Ezra sighed. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

  The door behind them remained sealed, the security locks engaged. He could hear faint movement from the other side—Silent Legion grunts already working to cut their way in. They were quick. Efficient. But they weren’t faster than him.

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a spare ECHO.

  Thirty minutes ago, the doors were open. Thirty minutes ago, he and Clover had walked in without a problem.

  Ezra clicked the button.

  -BWOMP-

  The chamber flickered. Time snapped back. The security doors slid open as if nothing had happened.

  And standing just beyond them were the Silent Legion—cutting torches in hand, drills at the ready, frozen mid-preparation. Ezra smirked, shoving the ECHO back into his pocket.

  "Beat ya to it."

  The Legion didn’t react. They never did.

  Clover exhaled through her nose, stepping past him without a word.

  Ezra rolled his shoulders, tucking his clipboard under his arm as he followed. "You know," he mused, "I’m starting to think you really don’t want to talk about this."

  Clover kept walking.

  Ezra smirked. "Fine. I’ll let you keep your spooky secrets."

  He didn’t need to hear it from her, anyway.

  He had already seen enough.