CH 1 — Perth — First Ticktock
The summer sun over Perth could have sautéed an egg on Lucas Vale's scalp, but heat was background noise compared with the thrumming inside his chest. He stood on the edge of the Kings Tower roof—twenty-six stories up—hands hooked in his pockets, shirt ballooning in the coastal breeze like a sail hunting direction. Down on the street, lunchtime foot traffic sluiced around construction barricades. From this height they looked like colored beads pushed by an invisible hand. A perfect view, Lucas thought, if your hobby was watching ordinary people survive ordinary lives.
Ordinary is just slow death, he mused, rolling a pebble beneath the sole of his sneaker. He checked his phone. No new notifications. Nothing ever dinged unless he let it. Boredom pulsed at his temples like a low headache. He was already planning a mischief-run to the nearest casino tonight—until the clatter started.
Metal shrieked. Across the street, a half-finished scaffolding tower shuddered, its joints wobbling under an unexpected gust. Two tradies on the lower platform shouted warnings; a third, balanced precariously on the top rail, froze—their brain clearly buffering for a response that would arrive too late.
Lucas's pulse spiked. Finally—Finally—something unpredictable.
The scaffolding bolt sheared with a whip-crack. A two-ton lattice of steel and plywood tipped toward the footpath below. Screams blurred with the traffic roar. Time snapped into a strobe of adrenaline. Lucas inhaled, let the air fill every corner of his lungs, and stepped between the seconds.
Silence slammed down. No breeze, no distant engines, no terrified shouts—just the faintest crystalline hum he'd never decided was real or a trick of an overstimulated brain. The world froze like a paused video, motionless except for him. Dust motes hung mid-air, glinting like suspended fireworks. Lucas grinned.
He strolled across the roof, hopped onto the parapet, and surveyed the street. The scaffolding sat mid-fall, a steel Jenga tower leaning eternally. The topmost worker's eyes were wide discs of midnight terror, his mouth fixed in an O. Lucas examined the man's shirt tag sticking out—size L, 100 % cotton—and flicked it playfully. The fabric rippled, then stopped, caught in the syrup of halted time.
Five minutes, Lucas reminded himself. That was the longest he'd ever pushed the chrono-pause. After two he usually felt the hangover tug at his stomach lining—nausea first, then a tidal migraine if he got greedy.
He vaulted the parapet, landing cat-light on the arrested scaffold planks. With a gentle shove of telekinesis—a flick really—he nudged the collapsing structure just enough to re-center its weight. Bolts realigned themselves like obedient soldiers. Gravity, momentarily tricked, would reassert itself cleanly when the clock unspooled.
Lucas dropped to street level, weaving through statues of pedestrians mid-flinch. A courier paused in a comedic lunge, coffee cup tilting but refusing to spill. Lucas considered righting it—then decided spilled latte would make a better story for the guy later. He crouched beside a little girl whose ice cream occupied an impossible diagonal stall from its cone, and, on impulse, used a fingertip to push the scoop back into place. Random acts of frozen kindness.
One-minute warning, his gut told him—an internal metronome he trusted more than any watch. He jogged back to the tower's service stairwell, vaulting up flights two at a time. Sweat beaded under his collar; exhilaration washed fatigue away. He reached the roof, exhaled, and let the universe start again.
Sound slammed back—horns, screams, the resounding bang-clang-clang of scaffold poles locking neatly into place instead of flattening a fruit stand. The top worker hollered something unprintable, though Lucas doubted he understood how he'd been spared. Onlookers blinked, confused the collapse hadn't completed. A low cheer went up at the apparent miracle.
Lucas leaned over the roof edge, waving invisibly like a benevolent ghost. You're welcome, Perth. His phone vibrated—a single buzz. He checked the display: Battery low. Always anticlimax.
Boredom attempted a comeback. Lucas smothered it with a grin. Saving strangers was fine, but the high evaporated too quickly. He needed risk, not altruism, to feel the buzz in his bones. He spun, letting the sun dazzle his eyes, and pictured the casino pit—the spin of roulette, the chorus of internal thoughts he could skim like headlines. He could walk in broke and waltz out fueled for months if he played the angles. Small enough grabs not to trip auditing software. Large enough to keep the adrenaline shark swimming.
He padded toward the access door, boot soles thumping rhythm on the concrete. Halfway there, a shadow shifted near the HVAC vent. He froze—ordinary freeze, not chrono-freeze. A seagull waddled out, head cocked as if judging his antics. Lucas laughed.
"You and me both, mate," he told the bird. "Sky's nicer up here."
The seagull blinked. Lucas caught a whisper of its attention—not language, more sensation. Hunger, mainly; a glimmer of hostile curiosity. Animal minds were fuzzy radio stations at the edge of his telepathic range. He tossed the pebble he'd been carrying. The seagull pecked, disappointed, and fluttered away.
He pressed two fingers to his temples, probing the buzz still fading from the chrono-pause. Nausea: mild. Headache: a background throb, the price of miracles. Worth it. Always worth it.
Bien joué, inner voice applauded in mangled French. He'd taught himself languages during high-school lunch breaks—something to stave off boredom before drowning fear rewired his neurons. Now phrases surfaced randomly, unbidden commentary from his id.
The id wanted more. Ordinary life is over. The mantra crystalized inside him, echoing like a church bell. He remembered last night's failed attempt to amuse himself: an online poker room where he'd tried playing honest for a change. Ten minutes in he'd cheated subconsciously—cards didn't hide well when they screamed their identities from opponents' frontal lobes. He'd apologized by mailing the pot to a random charity, but the guilt wasn't what bothered him. It was the yawning nothing that followed.
He needed bigger arenas. Larger chessboards. Maybe Asia. He'd seen a doco about Macau's casinos—rivers of cash, superstitious whales, cameras he could scramble with one discreet time-stutter. And rumor had it security teams still fought over whether the infamous "Frame-Skip Phantom" was a real hacker or a camera manufacturing fault. He could wear that moniker nicely.
Lucas tapped a rhythm on the roof rail: go, go, go. The impulse to book a flight surged so hard he almost time-skipped again just to savor the edge.
But first—practice. He slid his phone free, opened the stock trading app, and inhaled. One quick telepathic sweep of the city might tell him which CFO was about to leak tomorrow's takeover bid. Except…where's the sport?
The phone buzzed again—this time an incoming call. Mum. He grimaced, thumb hovering. You couldn't ghost your mother without cosmic payback. He answered.
"Lucas, love! You sound out of breath. Are you up to something?"
"Morning exercise," he said, voice casual while he eyed the street for signs of disturbance. "How's Mandurah?"
"Hot, sticky, and your father's fishing like the apocalypse is tomorrow. Will you come Sunday?"
"Of course." He doubted it. He already felt the future stretching overseas, boarding passes whispering his name.
"Don't run yourself into an early grave," she chided. Mothers had uncanny radar for danger—even metaphysical varieties. "I see those stunt videos on the internet."
Lucas chuckled. "Promise I'm being safe."
"Mm-hmm. And I'm the Queen of England. Love you."
"Love you too." He hung up, the phrase "early grave" pinging like sonar against his skull. He'd almost met one at fifteen, lungs filled with saltwater, the world dimming until the first chrono-pause cracked open like a secret hatch. The memory flashed: thrashing, then everything still, liquid turned to glass, bubbles immobile as pearls. That moment had been terror and transcendence fused. Since then, risk equaled life. Nothing else reached the same voltage.
Lucas pocketed the phone and headed for the stairwell with renewed purpose. He needed cash, contacts, and a plane ticket to Asia before boredom stitched lead weights to his limbs.
The service stairs echoed as he descended. Every level he passed contained a microcosm of nine-to-five hum: office workers microwaving noodles, printers coughing, a receptionist silently rehearsing breakup lines to her boyfriend—Lucas winced, tuning out the unwanted thoughts. It wasn't voyeurism exactly; it was like walking through someone else's radio left on low.
Ground floor. He stepped into the lobby's refrigerated air. A security guard at the desk glanced up—eighty kilograms of compliance uniform, face glazed with monotony. Lucas's glance brushed the man's surface thoughts: Lunch break in seven minutes, ham & cheese toastie waiting.
Lucas smiled, then let a pulse of micro-influence leak across the marble floor—just a nudge of contentment. The guard's shoulders loosened, his eyes brightened, and he returned the smile without suspecting the gift. Lucas didn't do it out of kindness; he simply liked seeding the day with inexplicable good vibes, the way a graffiti artist tagged walls others would never trace back to him.
Outside, Perth's sky burned a deeper blue. The scaffolding crew bustled with renewed urgency, checking bolts, shouting over traffic. The near-disaster was already rewriting itself in their memories: freak gust, lucky rebound, no one hurt. Humans were experts at smoothing chaos into coincidence.
Lucas crossed the street, weaving past tourists and office drones. His trainers left dusty ghosts on the sun-soft asphalt. He paused beside a newsstand, eyeing the front page: Stock Market Dips on Mining Uncertainty. Simple to reverse for personal gain, but stocks felt like kindergarten after you'd stopped time.
A bus advertisement screamed Fly Singapore Airlines—Gateway to the World. As if on cue, a passenger inside wondered whether Macau casinos really cheated or if some punter had played the system. Lucas tasted the man's speculation like fizzy lemonade in his mouth. The idea of Macau resurfaced, brighter, demanding.
He checked his digital wallet: three grand left, plus a tiny mountain of crypto from previous exploits. Flights were trivial. The real puzzle was how far boredom would chase him. And what awaited on the other side—maybe someone else who could walk between ticks, someone who understood.
He headed for the riverfront, craving movement, energy. The afternoon wind curled off the Swan, carrying the briny scent of possibility.
Tonight, he decided, I'll take the casino for fifty grand. Nothing greedy, just an appetizer. He'd play roulette blindfolded, enjoy the staff's confusion when the ball ignored physics in his favor. Then a celebratory pint, a booking app, and wheels-up before dawn. Perth would wake to rumors of a glitch no one could source.
His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since a pre-dawn coffee. Adrenaline disguised hunger but couldn't erase it. He ducked into a fish-and-chip shop, ordered barramundi, and perched on a stool by the window. While waiting, he let his mind roam. Surface thoughts inside the shop swirled: an elderly couple debating sauce portions, a backpacker rehearsing English phrases, the fry cook counting hours until knock-off.
This city dreams so small, he thought. Time to find bigger dreams.
The server called his number. Lucas accepted the paper-wrapped parcel, its heat warming his palms. He wolfed a chip, tongue singed, and savored the sting. Pain proved he was alive; danger made him feel.
As he ate, a street performer outside juggled machetes. The crowd clapped. Lucas considered joining—freeze the blades mid-air, swap them, unfreeze, watch the juggler panic at the impossible rearrangement. He chuckled into his fish. Not today. He needed to conserve juice for the casino run.
Meal done, he crumpled the wrapper and slipped it into a recycling bin, then flicked a telekinetic nudge to close the lid without touching it. Small theatrics kept the muscles limber.
He strolled back toward his apartment to pack, mind drafting a mental checklist: two passports, RFID blocker wallet, plain clothes, dark shades for telepathy shield, and—why not—his lucky silver Zippo though he'd quit smoking years ago. Even immortals had rituals.
Crossing the intersection, he felt the faint ache behind his eyes bloom—chrono fatigue catching up. He rolled his neck. It would clear after a nap. If he timed it right, he'd wake at dusk primed for mischief.
A busker strummed acoustic chords near the train station, singing "Time Is on My Side." Lucas tossed a coin, laughed at the cosmic playlist, and kept moving.
By the time he reached his building, the decision was carved in steel: ordinary life was officially canceled. Tonight he'd dance with roulette wheels and probability; tomorrow he'd vault continents. Somewhere out there, perhaps, another walker waited, bored senseless, dreaming of someone who understood the emptiness between moments.
Lucas touched the brass handle of the lobby door, feeling the chill metal ground him. One last safe breath. Then, like a diver poised above black water, he let anticipation tip him forward.
Let's see how deep the seconds go.
CH 2 — Perth — Trivia & Temptation
Lucas pushed through the varnished doors of The Brass Quokka, a federation-era pub wedged between a comic store and a backpacker hostel. Inside, overhead fans did little more than herd the heat, while the Friday crowd marinated in lager and laughter.
He clocked the familiar fixtures: cracked pool table, chalkboard promising "QUIZ NIGHT JACKPOT—$800", and an elderly karaoke machine sleeping in the corner like a toothless dragon. Perfect. Trivia had always been low-risk pickpocketing for a telepath; he could read answers straight from opposing teams' frontal lobes, then pretend to guess in real time.
Lucas slid onto a high stool at the bar. The stool squeaked in protest, or maybe from anticipation.
Internal voice (half-amused):Easy money, Vale. But keep it small—casino's your real feast.
"Back again?" asked Marcie, the bartender with a sleeve of koi fish and a smile that had broken more than one tourist's resolve to stay sober.
"Thirst demands sacrifice," Lucas said. "Pint of pale, please—and can I still register a team for trivia?"
She scribbled on a pad. "Ten bucks entry. Jack-and-Jill rules—max four players, no phones."
Lucas handed over a tenner, ignoring the phone rule; he trusted his cortex more than Google anyway. As Marcie pulled the tap, Lucas skimmed minds nearby, letting thoughts brush across his consciousness like radio static. Surface thoughts only—no deep dives. Remember the ethics; don't pry, just sample.
Need a smoke—
Is she looking at me?
God, I hope the boss never finds out.
Then a brighter flare: "Have to convert Macau winnings to Aussie before Monday. Silly buggers still think the tables are honest."
Lucas's attention snapped to the source—a sunburnt man in a Hawaiian shirt, nursing a gin and tonic. The man's accent sang Queensland tourist but the thought about Macau winnings thrummed like a struck cable.
Macau—"impossible tables." Exactly the legend he'd half-promised himself.
Lucas let the thought pass, pretending interest only in his beer. The quiz-master, a lanky uni student with glitter eyeliner, called for team names. Lucas scribbled "Between the Seconds" on a registration slip—private joke—and drifted toward an empty booth.
Round One – General Knowledge
The pub's speakers crackled. "Question One: Which planet in our solar system has the most moons?"
Lucas scanned the room—team "The Fact-Bats," a trio of IT guys, instantly pictured Jupiter. Lucas jotted it.
Click… The round continued, easy pickings. Lucas's pen glided, fed by the crowd's mental murmurings. Each correct answer landed like a coin in his dopamine jar. His headache from the afternoon chrono-pause had faded to a polite throb; the reward loop was back online.
By Question Ten his team—of exactly one—held a perfect score. The Fact-Bats looked over, suspicious. Lucas offered a lazy wink.
Intermission – Bar Banter
Drinks refilled, the Hawaiian-shirt tourist strolled over. "Saw your sheet, mate. Solo flyer?"
"Guilty," Lucas said. "Lucky guesses."
"Luck's relative." The tourist extended a hand. "Gavin. From Cairns."
"Lucas." They shook. Lucas caught the surface swirl—Gavin smelt faintly of money, airport lounges, and a private thrill he couldn't share with his wife.
"Your team name—'Between the Seconds'—reminds me of something," Gavin said, leaning on the booth. "Ever been to Macau?"
"Not yet, but it's high on the list." Lucas kept his tone breezy. "Why?"
Gavin's eyes glittered. "Heard of the phantom roll? Friend swears a guy downtown walked away with fifty grand on red… two spins in a row. Casino still can't explain the video glitch."
Lucas's heart thumped. Frame-Skip Phantom legend—already here.
"Urban myth." Lucas shrugged. "Roulette's pure probability."
"Unless someone's bending it," Gavin whispered conspiratorially. "Heading back myself next week to test the odds. You know, stories like that… they spark an itch."
An itch Lucas had been scratching since fifteen. He smiled, letting his micro-influence seep—just a faint pulse of camaraderie. Gavin's shoulders relaxed.
"Careful," Lucas said. "Casinos hate magicians."
They clinked glasses. Lucas's phone vibrated a low-battery warning again—fitting metaphor. He ignored it.
Round Two – Pop Culture
Question One: "Which film won Best Picture at the 2015 Oscars?"
Lucas dipped into the nearest team's mind—a backpacker couple argued internally: 'Spotlight'—no, wait, 'Birdman?' Lucas double-checked across the room—another thinker pictured Michael Keaton's wings. Consensus: Birdman.
Question Two: "Name the lead singer of the Arctic Monkeys."
Alex Turner, chorused three brains in sloppy unison. Lucas wrote and sipped.
By the end of the round he maintained his flawless streak. The quiz-master raised an eyebrow but allowed it; pubs loved prodigies so long as they bought drinks.
Headspace Check
Lucas breathed, evaluating mental fatigue. Telepathy was low-energy compared with chrono-pause; still, sustained scanning could leave his senses fuzzy. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the Zippo in his pocket like a talisman.
His internal monologue strutted: Perfect game so far. But petty cash isn't what you're after, Vale. Crown Perth roulette first; then, hello Macau.
Round Three – Mystery Music
Here the quiz-master played seven-second snippets of songs. Lucas anticipated the crowd's recognition spikes before the chorus even hit. After the fourth snippet Lucas deliberately missed an answer—scribbling "Blinding Lights" instead of "Can't Feel My Face." The table behind him collectively exhaled in relief.
Let them taste hope. Keeps the suspicion lower.
Tension Builds
As scores were tallied, Lucas checked Gavin's thoughts again. The man's mind replayed a memory of neon lights, Mandarin chatter, the clack of chips, and a roulette ball seeming to glitch—freeze for half a heartbeat before settling on nine.
Lucas's pulse echoed that glitch. Did Gavin witness a chrono-pause artifact? If so, was there someone else like him already in Macau? The possibility drummed adrenaline through his veins.
Final Round – Sudden-Death Shootout
The quiz-master announced a face-off: highest-scoring teams would answer rapid-fire until one stumbled. "Which planet rotates counter-clockwise?"
Lucas buzzed first. "Venus."
"Correct."
Opponents buzzed—missed. Eliminated. Next team stepped up.
"Fastest land animal?" "Cheetah."
"Capital of Iceland?" "Reykjavík."
With each answer Lucas parried not only the question but the spiderweb of suspicions creeping over the room. His opponents' frustration grew—waves he could taste. Resentment carried signatures of heat and static in neural echoes; Lucas dodged letting it cling to him.
Final question: "In which year did the Berlin Wall fall?"
The IT trio buzzed, hesitated—1988? 1991? Lucas didn't read; he remembered: 1989. His buzzer beat them.
Victory bell. Cheers. Lucas bowed theatrically. Jackpot: $800 bar-tab voucher. Not cash, but he could flip it—drink rounds for strangers then accept their real money in exchange. Petty grift, but entertaining.
After-Party
Gavin sidled over. "Mate, that was mental. Ever think about professional quizzing?"
"Only as cardio for the brain." Lucas raised his voucher. "Fancy burning some of this?"
"Legend." Gavin signaled Marcie for two whiskeys.
As glasses arrived, Lucas leaned. "You mentioned a glitchy roulette. Which casino?"
"The Golden Lotus, Cotai Strip." Gavin took a gulp. "Table camera hiccupped—ball seemed to teleport. Security chased the guy but he vanished."
Vanished… or walked between ticks.
"What'd he look like?" Lucas asked.
"Couldn't say—only saw the footage second-hand. Blurry." Gavin laughed. "Maybe David Copperfield moonlights in Macau."
Lucas filed the data. Golden Lotus became pinned in his mental map, glowing like a hotspot icon.
Micro-Influence Experiment
Mid-conversation, Lucas practiced a subtle nudge—easing Gavin's lingering skepticism to mild awe. He pulsed a warm emotional tone across the link, no words, just a gentle trust me. Gavin's posture softened.
Side-effect: Lucas's stomach fluttered, a queasiness he'd identified as feedback lag. Influence sessions under thirty seconds rarely hurt, but stacking them could. File that under future risk accounting.
Closing Time
The trivia crowd dispersed toward taxis and rideshares. Lucas helped Gavin pour into a cab, slipping the man his share of the tab voucher in exchange for crisp twenties. Small bills bulged Lucas's wallet beside his passports.
Outside, muggy night air clung to skin like cling-wrap. Lucas exhaled into the ozone tang of distant lightning. Perth's skyline shimmered; below, the Swan River reflected streetlights like scattered gold coins.
He checked his watch—9:42 p.m. Plenty of time for the Crown Perth roulette floor before last call. He rolled the neck of his tee, adjusting his shoulders.
Inner daredevil:Casino next. Golden Lotus later. One city at a time, Vale.
But his imagination already leapt continents: neon dragons, whispering croupiers, surveillance dead zones begging to be exploited. And perhaps, amidst the baccarat haze, another chrono-walker waiting to be found.
Cliff-hanger (17 w)
Lucas stepped into the streetlight's glare—roulette wheels spinning in his mind—Macau's shadow tugging him forward.
CH 3 — Perth — Suitcase Symphonies
Scuffed trainers slapped parquet as Lucas flicked on the lights. The East Perth shoebox he called home glowed sterile white: one futon, one Ikea table strewn with gadget entrails, and a city-view window that framed the Crown complex twinkling across the Swan like a showgirl flashing too many sequins. Beneath the table, an overfed backpack lay yawning from their last Bali fling—still half-packed with snorkel gear and an unopened hotel toothbrush that now qualified as survival kit.
He unclipped his jacket pocket, letting $47 000 in mixed chips tumble onto the table. The haul gleamed like hard candy under the pendant lamp. Fifty grand target missed by a whisker, he noted, but one doesn't haggle with probability gods once the cameras start twitching.
Memory replayed the heist in jittery loops: chrono-pause at the wheel's first click, fingertip nudge to the ivory ball, five-second tableau of neon freeze, security guard mid-blink; unfreeze—ball dived to thirty-two twice running, gamblers howling disbelief. Lucas cashed out before the pit boss finished recalculating reality.
Phone battery—3 %. He tossed it onto the couch for a mercy charge, fed by the braided cable that always looked one yank from retirement.
Inner daredevil:Macau, Lucas. Seven-hour hop, and Frame-Skip legend is yours to wear properly.
He thumbed his crypto wallet on the laptop, transferring ten ETH to a burner card—airline ticket money free of customs sniffers. While the blockchain hashed away, Lucas strode to the wardrobe and yanked its bi-fold doors. Packing time—a choreography he'd rehearsed in boredom since high school, but tonight had an electric edge: not just a holiday, a declaration.
Clothes: Two plain tees, one charcoal button-up for pretending to respect dress codes, a weather-beaten leather jacket, and jeans flexible enough for sprinting through "no-camera" corridors.
Passports: Australian and slightly persuasive Irish dual-citizen doc. He kissed the second cover. Thanks, Dad's County Cork ancestry.
Lucky Zippo: Spun once on his knuckles, landing with a metallic snick—talismen don't judge.
RFID blocker wallet: Stuffed with casino bills from Gavin's conversion, plus tonight's skim—he left the chips for later laundering.
Noise-cancel earbuds: Buffer against stray thoughts on red-eyes; telepathy plus crying infants equaled migraine murder.
Sunglasses: Anti-glare for both sun and uninvited eye-contact minds.
Toiletries pouch: Mostly mini-painkillers for chrono-pause hangovers.
Paperback copy of Casino Royale found second-hand years ago, margin-filled with Lucas's own odds scribbles—ironic bedtime reading.
Everything tangoed into packing cubes—order in chaos. He zipped, yanked straps tight, feeling a pilgrim's satisfaction.
Across the room, the phone buzzed mid-charge. Caller ID: MUM. Lucas grimaced at the wall clock—12:38 a.m. Saturday. Mandurah mums never sleep when sons imitate bats.
He accepted. "Hey, Ma. Can't sleep?"
"Could ask you the same," her voice crackled, equal parts fond and forensic. "Sound puffed, Lucas. What trouble now?"
He eyed the chip mountain. "Cardio packing session. Might skip Sunday, sorry. Work trip came up."
"Work? On a weekend?"
"You know the tech world—deploy or die."
Silence, the kind that measured heartbeats. "I watched the late news," she said. "Someone cleaned out Crown tonight. Cameras froze for a moment, they said. Your father joked aliens. You wouldn't know anything?"
Lucas laughed too brightly. "Aliens prefer poker."
He felt her maternal radar scanning across 100 kilometres. Micro-influence was an option, but using it on family felt like forging a signature—technically possible, morally bankrupt. So he leaned on half-truths. "Look, I've been restless. Thinking of flying east for a bit. Maybe Cairns—meet a mate." Gavin counts as a mate now, right?
"Restless I understand. Secrets I don't." She sighed. "Just promise me two things: call when you land, and don't gamble what you can't pay."
Lucas swallowed. "Promise." The word tasted suspiciously like a lie.
"Love you, troublemaker."
"Love you too." He hung up, guilt flicking behind his ribs. Family tether—tightening.
Logistics & Loose Ends
He converted the chip pile to a tidy envelope of cash using their online VIP program—pick-up scheduled post-trip. Next, flights: Perth → Hong Kong, short layover, turbojet to Macau. Departure 02:45 a.m.—cutting it close, but adrenaline fueled miracles.
Laptop pinged: funds cleared. He booked economy—appearance of modesty kept border eyes sleepy—and prepaid two nights at the Golden Lotus Hotel to blend with gambling tourists. Gavin's yarn said phantom roll happened there. Lucas's pulse twitched.
A thunderclap rolled off the Swan; summer storms marched inland. Rain peppered the window, turning city lights into smeared bokeh. Storms made him nostalgic—fifteen-year-old lungs fill with water, heartbeat thrums, first chrono-pause… He shook free of memory before its undertow claimed him.
He closed his eyes, running an internal diagnostic like a racing driver tuning engine idle:
• Telepathy fuzz: mild, residual from trivia scanning.
• Chrono nausea: dull ache at temples, three-pill rating out of ten.
• Micro-influence fatigue: negligible.
Sustainable for long-haul flight—provided turbulence didn't trigger an involuntary time-skip; last time that happened a flight attendant nearly dropped an entire coffee pot when reality jumped.
Door intercom buzzed—a harsh static rattle. Lucas froze, mind sonar pinging the corridor. Two minds outside, agitated… security guards? He tasted surface thoughts: deliver summons… casino…
Casino security already? He cursed. Crown moved quicker than expected. Lucas double-checked the chip envelope—no, they couldn't trace that digitally yet. Maybe someone saw him exit the restricted cage corridor too soon after the glitch.
He stepped lightly to the kitchenette, cracked the window. Rain-soaked night air wafted in, cool and electric. He could chrono-pause, slip out unseen, but each usage tonight stacked fatigue. Better play it soft.
Buzz again. "Mr Vale? Building management. Urgent maintenance."
Lucas swung the door half-open, chain latched. Two men in high-vis jackets, clipboard in hand. Their thoughts overlapped: just need signature for after-hours water-main inspection. No hint of casino. Lucas exhaled, unclipped chain.
Signature scrawled, door shut; he leaned back against wood, laughter leaking. "Paranoid much, Vale?"
Still, the episode accelerated his schedule. He slung the backpack, grabbed the lucky Zippo, flicked it—flame dancing tiny and defiant—and extinguished it with a breath.
Inner voice, softer now:No turning back once you walk out. Perth may stay ordinary forever.
Lucas killed the lights, stepping into corridor gloom.
Lift doors slid, revealing neighbour Mrs Chiang inside—retired librarian, night-owl crossword addict. She smiled. "Red-eye flight, dear?"
Lucas nodded. Surface-thought scan: she was debating 'quixotic' or 'iconic' for 7-Across. Safe.
Lobby smelled of rain-damp carpet. He cut through puddles toward the taxi rank, hood up.
Time noted: 01:27 a.m. Storm slowed freeways. Lucas weighed options—chrono-pause taxi traffic? No, fatigued head might miscount seconds, strand him mid-highway. He chose old-fashioned urgency—tipped the driver double to ignore speed cameras.
Telepathy: Reading driver's anxious loop about speed fines, Lucas micro-influenced calm, smoothing adrenaline spikes—less chance of crash. Influence under ten seconds, side-effect negligible.
They sliced through wet asphalt; every lightning flash strobe-lit the cabin. Lucas's fingers drummed Morse on his knee—Q for question, Q for quick, Q for quit stalling life.
Perth International smelled of disinfectant and half-awake ambition. Self-check kiosk spat boarding pass. Passport control—Lucas wore sunglasses despite 2 a.m. gloom, feeding official a story about a tech conference in Shenzhen. Surface texts from guard's mind: nerd, but paperwork clean. Stamp thudded.
Security queue crawled. Lucas sensed weariness, coffee cravings, a man rehearsing proposal speech, a teenager fretting about vape pen. No one seeing a thief. Safe.
But the metal detector betrayed him—the Zippo pinged. A guard asked him to empty pockets. Lucas obliged, letting coin tray swallow the lighter. Guard eyed it: "No smoking onboard." Lucas smiled, "Keeps me grounded." The guard's surface thought flashed: Cool vintage piece. Allowed through.
With twenty minutes spare, Lucas collapsed into a plastic seat. The storm hammered skylights; purple forks jittered above runways.
For the first time tonight, quiet reached him. He thought of Mum's voice, the worry beneath her colloquial scolding. Of Dad filleting fish tomorrow, bragging about catch sizes. What if Crown security knocks on their door while he's gone?
He clenched fists. Risk had always been personal, victimless (if you ignored corporations). But family collateral? That smelled like a line.
Decision bubbled: send anonymous tip redirecting suspicion—maybe leak doctored footage implying a software glitch. He'd handle it from Macau once rested. Conscience appeased—for now.
Lucas acknowledged a strange pulse underneath thrill: responsibility—the same twinge sparked when he saved scaffolding tradies earlier. Boredom still ruled him, but another kingdom was rising where people mattered. He didn't trust it yet, but he didn't swat it away either.
Passengers shuffled. Lucas joined Q-to-glory, clutching backpack. Over PA, captain apologized for turbulence risk. Lucas smirked—he liked when skies misbehaved.
As wheels left Perth soil, lightning forked—Lucas braced, wondering if the next jolt would freeze more than clouds.
CH 4 — Macau — The Frame-Skip Coup
The arrivals hall pulsed with jet-lagged gamblers ferrying wheeled optimism toward customs. Lucas blended in: hoodie up, backpack snug, sunglasses hiding the red veins laced through his eyes. Five straight hours of turbulence had rattled every bone; twice he'd had to clamp down on a reflex to slip between ticks when the aircraft bucked. A mid-air chrono-pause sounded poetic until you pictured two hundred frozen passengers and a flight deck of unresponsive instruments. He forced patience, counted breathing cycles, endured.
Now, earthbound, patience evaporated.
A shuttle whisked him across the Pearl River estuary, skyscrapers sharpening into blades of neon. The Golden Lotus rose from the Cotai Strip like a gilded lotus flower caught mid-bloom—thirty-odd floors of glass petals, each rim alive with LED pollen. Lucas's adrenal glands applauded the architecture.
Check-in took three perfunctory minutes. The clerk saw only another backpacker high on foreign currency; Lucas read her thoughts—company script, don't mention VIP lounge—and decided he liked her honesty of boredom.
Room 1911 smelled of disinfectant, citrus, and the ghosts of jet-lagged decisions. Lucas tossed his pack on the bed but kept the lucky Zippo in his pocket, a grounding weight. He splashed cold water on his face and stared into the mirror. Pupil dilation: normal. Tremor level: mild. Telepathy fuzz: low static. Chrono migraine: dormant but waiting.
Time to rehearse, he told his reflection. He traced the plan on the fogging glass with a fingertip: observe wheel → freeze mid-spin → relocate chips → unfreeze → smile for cameras. Simple choreography. The tricky bit: cameras. The Perth heist had shown that even a two-second frame-skip could spark rumors. Tonight, Lucas wanted those rumors—just not hand-in-cuff consequences.
He rode the escalator down into the casino atrium, a cavern of sound: slot machines shrieked, baccarat tables clacked, tourists gasped in seven languages. Cigarette haze tinted the ceiling gold. Lucas slipped through the currents, sampling surface thoughts like radio presets—double down,lucky streak,please God just one win. The mental noise tasted like sugary coffee—brief buzz, then crash.
Roulette wheels sat on raised dais islands encircled by velvet rope. Dealers in scarlet waistcoats performed spins with magician flourish. Lucas hovered, watching three wheels, timing their average spin lengths. Wheel Three—so designated by a discreet lacquer numeral—ran the slowest, giving him the largest freeze window. Better yet, the croupier's inner monologue repeated "Stay sharp, don't daydream, probation ends Friday." A mind on edge missed anomalies.
Lucas bought in for HK$10 000 (~A$2 000), palming a neat stack of four purple chips valued at 2 500 each. He positioned himself between a middle-aged Taiwanese tourist and a swaggering Russian high-roller radiating vodka breath. The Russian's internal soundtrack roared predator, predator—amusing but irrelevant.
"Place your bets," the croupier announced.
Lucas dropped one chip on black 17—safely meaningless. He needed observers to log his meekness before fireworks.
First spin: ball clattered, wheel blurred. Lucas didn't blink. Red 32. He lost. Good. The Russian cursed in Cyrillic. Lucas sipped comped green tea.
Second spin: Lucas sprinkled two chips across evens and third dozen. House won again. Another demonstration of mortality.
Third spin, Lucas's pulse synced with the ball's rattle. Now.
A breath in. Muscles clenched. The universe obliged him.
Sound died mid-clap. The ball suspended halfway between frets, a steel pearl in a wooden necklace. Patrons froze mid-gesture—cards in limbo, eyelids half-closed. The cinematic hush always stole Lucas's breath despite familiarity.
Checkpoint clock: unseen stopwatch inside his skull began ticking down from five minutes.
He vaulted the velvet rope. No alarms, obviously. In the amber hush he examined the frozen wheel; momentum vectors whispered geometry to him. The ball's trajectory was immutable—black 11. Good odds, and empty.
Lucas swept his remaining chip stack—plus three stray chips from a groaning tower the Russian had placed on red—and arranged them neatly across black 11 and the neighboring splits for cover. He considered taking more but conscience (or paranoia) nixed it. Thirty seconds elapsed.
Before stepping back, he reached into the Russian's jacket pocket, flicking a telekinetic push to settle the vodka flask deeper—small sabotage to reduce suspicion of missing chips later; the man would blame drunken calculation.
Lucas hopped behind the rope, exactly where he'd stood. A flush of dizziness unfurled behind his eyes—pause strain. He pivoted on his heel, scanning for stray glamor shots that might show reposition symmetry; angles looked natural. Minute twelve. Enough.
He exhaled, releasing the world.
Sound poured back like tsunami. The ball bounced once, twice—clattered into 11 BLACK, clinking like it shared the joke.
A chorus of multilingual disbelief erupted. The Russian's string of curses transcended language. Lucas felt the house lights warm him like applause.
"Black 11 pays!" the croupier announced, voice wobbling between awe and suspicion. Stacks of chips slid Lucas's way—HK$350 000 on straight bet plus splits. Rough math: A$70 000. A clean night's work.
Heart hammering, Lucas forced a sheepish grin, as though stunned by beginner's luck. He scooped chips into a tray while adrenaline weaved cold sweat across his spine.
But something was… off. He sensed eyes beyond normal curiosity. Surface thoughts pinged—camera stutter?No chip there before.Rewind footage. New pattern: security minds upstream stirring like hornets.
Thirty metres above, in a smoked-glass surveillance suite, two analysts rewound the digital feed. At 21:18:37 the table flickered—frame A showed Lucas idle with two neat chips; frame B, one second later, revealed eleven extra chips hugging Black 11 like barnacles. No intermediate frames. Glitch. Or a magician.
Protocol flagged LEVEL 2 anomaly. A soft alarm pinged a third analyst in a Singapore office—the domain of Mason Graves, Casino Loss-Prevention Consultant.
Graves, mid-supper, clicked the alert. He leaned toward the grainy freeze-frame, eyes narrowing. He'd chased identical ghosts for six months—from Monte Carlo to Perth. Same hoodie brand, same casual posture, same camera artifact: skipped frames exactly 0.48 seconds. Graves's pulse drummed a battle rhythm.
"Lock table, hold the player," he ordered via secure chat. His flight-deck map popped Macau centre. Got you, Phantom.
Lucas, oblivious to names but not to vibes, felt the casino's mood shift—heat seeking the cold spot that was him. He pocketed only half the winnings, leaving a polite fortune for the wheel; greed painted bulls-eyes, and he already wore enough neon.
He stepped from the pit toward the Cage Cashier. Telepathy scanned the corridor; conversations about jackpots, dinner reservations, foot pain—harmless. But a new thread pulsed from the pit boss's radio: "Keep eyes on player in grey hoodie." Lucas's neck hair rose.
He reached the cashier window. Smiling attendant counted chips into high-denomination plaques, then whispered an apology: "Regulation check, sir. One moment." Her mind screamed stalling per security.
Lucas thanked her, feigning calm. Clock in his head ticked again—fatigue from earlier freeze now blooming: mild nausea, temple throb. He could attempt another chrono-pause to ghost out, but vomiting mid-freeze complicated style points.
Alternative: micro-influence. He pulsed a vibe across the thin counter glass—reassurance, urgency mix—aimed at the attendant and the manager hovering behind her. Less than ten seconds. He pictured them picturing bureaucratic headaches evaporating if they hurried the payout.
The manager's shoulders dropped; he overrode the stall code. "No issue. Release winnings, please."
Lucas pocketed a thick envelope of Macau patacas, thanked them sincerely, and headed for the exit that led into the hotel lobby rather than street—security nets often oriented toward external doors.
He glided down an escalator lined with lacquered koi-fish mosaics. Behind him boots pounded—two security guards weaving through crowd momentum. Lucas kept pace, mind peeling their surface motives: "non-violent detain, question, escort to surveillance."
He pivoted into the Lotus Lounge bar—teak paneling, low jazz, mirrored back wall—and slid onto a stool tucked between potted bamboo. The bartender, tie askew, offered a cordial nod. Lucas ordered sparkling water; dehydration from freeze always bit next day.
Through the mirror he watched guards hesitate at lounge threshold—policy waffled over disturbing high-spend patrons in premium areas. They radioed for guidance. Lucas's reflection winked at them.
Upstairs, Graves zipped a carry-on closed. He'd catch the midnight shuttle from Changi to Macau; three-hour hop, boots on floor before dawn. He replayed the glitch again, zoomed Lucas's face until the pixels wept. The man smiled into the lens—cocky or oblivious. Graves preferred cocky; it tasted better to humble.
Mind-Power Usage & Mechanics
Chrono-pause: ~65 s; symptoms: temple throb, light nausea (2 pill rating). Within safe range; cool-down required before next freeze.
Telepathy: Continuous surface scan; noise manageable.
Micro-influence: 8 s reassurance pulse. Side-effect: faint stomach flutter.
Lucas noted the ledger mentally; fatigue cumulative—tonight was not the night to push five-minute horizon.
As he sipped water, a woman in a coral dress slid onto the neighboring stool. Mid-thirties, sharp cheekbones, press badge clipped to clutch. Lucas felt curiosity swirl around her like cologne before she spoke.
"Hell of a win back there," she said, voice musical with Singapore lilt.
Lucas feigned surprise. "Word travels fast."
"Especially when the table cameras hiccup." She stirred her mocktail. "Serena Kaur, Asia Gaming Weekly. I chase statistical freaks."
Lucas's heart tapped double-time. Serena—the investigative reporter from the plot outline—arrived an hour early in his timeline. He masked the panic with a grin. "Lucas. Lucky night, I guess."
Her eyebrow flicked. "Luck seldom trips CCTV. Care to comment?"
Before he could spin a deflection, security guards approached the bar entrance again, radios chattering. Serena noticed, eyes narrowing with predatory intrigue.
Lucas realized he stood at a three-way fork: fight (freeze and flee), flight (vanish into crowd), or finesse (talk his way forward). Boredom once demanded flight into chaos; now responsibility—family, future pursuit of other walkers—whispered for finesse. He chose conversation.
He turned to Serena, dropping voice. "Buy you a real drink if you help me dodge those uniforms."
Her pulse quickened—he could hear it in her surface thought excitement. "That depends. Are you the story or the source?"
Lucas smirked. "Tonight? Both."
Behind them, the guards stepped closer.
Lucas raised his Zippo like a toast—either a beacon or a fuse—asking: Ready to gamble on me, Miss Kaur?