The delay worsened before it improved.
Akiro lay still for several minutes, listening to the room breathe around him. Not literally, but it felt that way. The hum in the walls rose and fell, uneven, like a machine struggling to maintain a rhythm it no longer understood. He counted his breaths out of habit, then stopped when he realized the numbers weren't lining up cleanly. Inhale, pause, exhale. The pause lingered. Not long enough to panic. Long enough to notice.
He noticed it first in the smallest places. The tap of his fingers against the bedframe sounded faintly out of sync, the noise arriving a fraction too late. When he exhaled, the fog on the glass lingered longer than it should have, as if the air itself hesitated to respond.
He didn't mention it.
The instinct to report everything tugged at him. Say the wrong thing at the wrong time and see who reacted. But he forced it down. Information had weight here. He could feel it in the way Takeda spoke, in what he chose not to explain. Whatever was happening to him, understanding it too quickly felt dangerous. Like stepping on ground that hadn't finished forming yet.
Whatever this place was, he had learned enough to understand that observation went both ways. The less he volunteered, the more clearly he could see what others noticed without saying.
The pain in his chest came and went in shallow waves. Not sharp, not enough to bring him to his knees, but persistent. Like a reminder written into his body. You are not finished paying.
He swung his legs off the bed carefully and stood.
Nothing collapsed. Nothing cracked. His knees didn't buckle. For a moment, he almost felt normal.
Almost.
A sound echoed down the corridor outside his room. Footsteps, measured and unhurried. They stopped at his door.
Takeda entered alone.
"You're moving," he observed.
Akiro shrugged. "You said walking was allowed."
"I said testing wasn't." Takeda's gaze flicked briefly to Akiro's chest, then back to his eyes. "How does it feel?"
"Like something's waiting."
Takeda nodded once. "Good."
"That's not comforting."
"It's accurate."
Takeda leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "We're relocating you."
Akiro stiffened. "To where?"
"A deeper level. Same facility, different wing."
"Why?"
"Because you've been noticed."
That familiar chill crept back up Akiro's spine. "By who?"
Takeda didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied Akiro in silence, as if deciding how much truth he could afford to give.
"By people who track residuals," he said finally.
"Residuals of what?"
Takeda tilted his head slightly. "Causality strain."
Akiro let out a quiet breath. "So… the delays."
"Yes," Takeda said. "When actions don't resolve cleanly, they leave traces. Most are microscopic. Yours aren't."
Akiro's jaw tightened. "And that's bad."
"It's inconvenient," Takeda corrected. "Bad depends on who finds you first."
They moved through the corridors again, but this time the route changed. The walls grew thicker, the lighting dimmer. The hum beneath everything deepened, vibrating faintly through the floor.
Akiro noticed another thing as they walked.
People avoided looking at him.
Even those who glanced his way quickly looked away, expressions tense, uncertain. One man's hand twitched as Akiro passed, as if he expected something to happen a second too late.
"They can feel it," Akiro murmured.
Takeda didn't deny it. "Some can."
The new wing was smaller, more isolated. Fewer observation windows. Fewer people. The air felt heavier, like a room waiting for a storm that never arrived.
They stopped outside a door marked with a single symbol Akiro didn't recognize. It wasn't text. More like an abstract knot, lines folding inward.
Takeda pressed his palm against it. The door opened.
Inside sat a single figure.
An older man, thin and hunched, wrapped in a simple coat. His hair was white, but not with age alone. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, unfocused and distant.
He smiled when Akiro entered.
"There you are," the man said softly.
Akiro froze.
Takeda remained by the door. "This is Elias."
The man chuckled. "That's what they call me now."
Akiro swallowed. "Do I know you?"
Elias tilted his head. "No. But you will. Or you would have. Or you already did."
Takeda's voice cut in sharply. "Careful."
Elias laughed again, coughing lightly. "Always so serious."
Akiro took a cautious step forward. The air around Elias felt… wrong. Not delayed exactly. More like stretched thin, pulled too far.
"What is this?" Akiro asked.
"A warning," Takeda replied.
Elias leaned forward slightly. "I used to be like you. Not the same. Close enough."
Akiro's heart skipped. "Used to?"
"Yes," Elias said calmly. "Then reality caught up."
Silence pressed down on the room.
"What happened?" Akiro asked.
Elias raised a trembling hand. It passed through the air slowly, leaving the faintest afterimage, like motion remembered late. "I delayed too much. Too often. Thought I could outrun it."
Takeda spoke quietly. "His residuals became visible to higher-order systems."
"Systems?" Akiro echoed.
"Rules," Elias said. "They don't like being ignored."
Akiro felt the weight in his chest shift uneasily.
"So you're telling me this is how I end up," Akiro said.
Elias smiled sadly. "No. This is how I failed."
The door hissed softly as Takeda moved closer. "That's enough."
Elias leaned back, gaze drifting again. "You still think you're surviving because you're lucky," he said to Akiro. "You're not. You're surviving because reality hasn't decided how to kill you yet."
Akiro clenched his fists. "And when it does?"
"That depends," Elias said. "On how much you owe."
The words stayed with him long after they left the room.
Back in his new quarters, Akiro sat alone, staring at the wall. Elias's voice echoed in his mind, layered and unfinished.
You're not surviving because you're lucky.
The pain in his chest surged suddenly, sharp enough to steal his breath. He hissed, dropping to one knee, gripping the edge of the bed as a wave of delayed force slammed through him. His vision blurred, spots dancing.
Then, just as abruptly, it receded.
He remained there for several minutes, breathing hard.
When he finally stood again, something had changed.
Not the pain.
His awareness.
He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation in his chest. Not resisting it. Not pushing it away.
Acknowledging it.
The pressure shifted. Not lessening, but… settling.
"Acceptance," he whispered.
The word felt dangerous.
He didn't know what accepting consequences meant yet. Only that ignoring them wasn't an option.
Outside his room, unseen and unannounced, systems monitored the quiet fluctuation in the chamber's readings.
Akiro felt none of that.
He only felt the world hesitating again, just for a moment longer than it should.
And for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he stopped running from the delay-and started walking with it instead.