CHAPTER EIGHT

Amber and I found ourselves two weeks in the past, right before her disappearance. The vacant look in her eyes had been replaced by something far more unsettling—insanity. Her grip on the time machine loosened, and in a swift motion, she pulled a knife from a drawer near the door before stepping out into the night. I rushed to her side, desperate to stop her, to reason with her, but her eyes were cold—like she was already gone, lost in some dark place.

I begged her, over and over, to return with me, to come back to our time. But it was as if the weight of her grief had shackled her, and no amount of pleading could reach her. In her eyes, I saw nothing but sorrow, weariness—the kind that comes from battling demons too heavy to bear.

I let her go. My heart twisted as I watched her walk toward her fate, unable to stop her. I stayed hidden behind the front steps, trying not to make a sound, barely breathing as I watched past Amber face the knife. She drove it into herself, the pain etched on her face, over and over, until her body crumpled to the floor.

A hollow laugh escaped past Amber’s lips as she turned to face me, a sickly smile twisting her features.

"I can see why she did it," she whispered, the light flickering in her eyes.

Amber’s form began to distort, fading into a blur, as if time itself had no place for her anymore. I stepped forward to help her, but just before I crossed into view of the security camera, I hesitated. I knew if I stepped into the frame, the timeline would be altered forever.

Suddenly, the garage door creaked open, and Slattery entered with Chloe. They froze at the sight, Chloe’s eyes wide with horror as Slattery assessed the scene.

"I’m taking her back to the future," Slattery muttered, his tone cold and determined.

I grabbed his arm, pleading with him. "Don’t! If you do this, time could collapse on itself. You don’t understand—"

But it was too late. He picked up Amber’s lifeless body, and I felt an overwhelming pull in my chest to undo it. Without thinking, I stretched my hand out, and time started to reverse, snapping back to the moment before Amber’s fatal decision. The camera, mercifully, remained off as I worked, and Amber’s past self remained unaware of the horrors to come.

I managed to stop her—stopping the knife from ever touching her skin. The past Amber stood frozen, eyes wide in confusion, watching in disbelief as she witnessed herself, trapped in her own torment. I reached out, wanting to comfort her, but it was Slattery who stepped forward, pulling the past Amber into a cryo-chamber to preserve her in this moment of non-existence.

He turned to me then, pulling the Catch-22 from my bag. "We’re going back to our time," he said, the chill in his voice matching the icy air of the cryo-chamber.

The machine hummed to life.

The world around us twisted and distorted as the time machine activated. First, it was a night, then a day. Then a day again, then a night. The cycle began to grow faster, spinning out of control. A week. Another week. A year. It was as if time itself was fracturing, warping as the machine screamed its protest.

We arrived back in our time—weeks later, the echoes of the fractured timeline still reverberating in my bones. Amber lay in cryo-sleep, her body frozen in a state of suspended animation, forever caught between two fates.

Slattery gave a long sigh. "Time for me to leave," he said, his face unreadable.

The door to the garage creaked open, and a group of Time Patrollers entered, their weapons raised. They surrounded us like a cage, the oppressive weight of their presence suffocating. Behind them, a man in a grey suit, leaning on a cane, walked forward. His cigar glowed ominously in the dim light.

I looked at Slattery, and the recognition in his eyes sent a chill down my spine.

"Long time, Richard," Slattery said, his voice clipped with a hint of old bitterness. "Nice to see a conniving friend still running the family business after all these centuries."

Richard's smirk was cold and knowing. "Well, I couldn’t let you have all the fun in the future, could I?" He flicked the ash from his cigar, his eyes locking onto mine. "While still being CEO of a company I took from you, I figured I'd have to play this game on more than one lifetime."

I felt the air shift as the CEO of Time Drifters Inc. gestured to his men, signaling them to close in. But before they could make their move, Slattery quickly activated the Catch-22. A brilliant flash erupted from the machine, filling the room with a blinding light.

The machine screamed.

Time fractured again.

First, a day. Then a night. And again, the cycle repeated. A week. A month. A year. Decades collided—2055, 2019, 1999, 1986, all merging into one chaotic storm. The machine’s roar seemed to echo across the ages, bending reality itself.

I had no idea where—or when—we would end up next.