CHAPTER 1: Tick. Tock.
In Vetra, time is not just measured, it is worshipped. Every second is sacred, every movement synchronized. But when the illusion breaks for one man, he begins to unravel a system built on silence, fear, and a chilling truth buried behind the ticking.
Discipline was divine, until someone asked why.
An evening in the city of Vetra. A towering clock looms over the city square, its TICK-TOCK piercing the silence. It’s 6:29 PM. A sea of citizens—men, women, children, and the elderly—move in perfect unison, marching along the streets in tight, orderly groups. No talking. No deviation. Only the rhythmic echo of synchronized footsteps. DING! The clock chimes at 6:30 PM. Without hesitation, the crowd scatters. No words, no goodbyes—each person splits off with swift, efficient strides, disappearing into buildings flanking the lanes.
Within seconds, the streets are empty. The only sound left is the relentless ticking of the clock.
Inside the office buildings, rows of employees sit at identical desks, faces illuminated by the glow of laptops. The only sound—keyboards clacking in perfect sync. TICK. TOCK. The rhythm never falters. TICK. TOCK. It’s 8:00 PM. The clock chimes once more. In unison, every worker stands, closes their laptops, and walks toward the exit with a light murmur of conversation. Not a second too early, not a second too late.
Meanwhile, in the factories in Vetra, machines whir as factory workers move mechanically, assembling parts with precise, repetitive motions. The clocks on the walls tick forward, TICK. TOCK. 8:00 PM. A single DING echoes through the factory. Instantly, the machines power down. Workers freeze mid-motion, then as if controlled by the same invisible command, they turn filing toward the exit. Their movements are clean and deliberate.
It’s night, 8 PM. The city is eerily silent as citizens spill out of buildings onto the streets, forming rigid lines. Two GUARDS stand at attention, watching the queues with cold, unblinking eyes. Their hands rest lightly on batons, but no one dares to step out of line. Two buses arrive exactly on time, their doors hissing open. Without hesitation, the citizens step aboard, filling every seat in perfect order. No pushing. No rushing. Absolute precision. The buses pull away, right on schedule. The streets fall silent once more.
In the dim light of early morning, a pendulum clock rings through the living room. 5:30 AM. Across the room, a TV screen flickers to life on its own. The broadcast cuts through the silence, revealing a group of lavishly dressed elites standing before a massive sundial, their hands raised in ritual. The deep, commanding voice from the ritual echoes through the room, “Time is our God. To serve it is to honor it. Through discipline, we earn its favor. And when it is pleased, we will see the stars.” The family of four—a husband, wife, and two young daughters—stand motionless in front of the screen. With synchronized movements, they raise their hands, mirroring the figures on TV, and chant in unison, “O mighty Time, we move in stride. Bless our hands, our work, our lives.”
A moment of absolute silence follows. Then, as if on cue, they lower their hands, turn, and silently begin their morning chores. The sound of running water, clinking dishes, and sweeping floors fills the air—each task performed with mechanical touch. After a few minutes, they move to the dining table, sitting in silence as they begin their breakfast. The clock echoes—TICK. TOCK. TICK. TOCK.
Inside an office..
Mason, 25, athletic build with sharp blue eyes, leans over a blueprint, discussing details with a colleague. Their conversation is brief, efficient, and calculated. Around them, colleagues work with the same seriousness that defines Vetra and the rest of the country. No pauses. No distractions.
Just then, Mason straightens and walks toward the large glass window. Below on the factory floor, rows of workers move in perfect sync, assembling parts as the conveyor belt lining the sides of the hall, hums steadily. Not a single movement out of place. Across the office, Harper, a colleague, steals a cautious glance around before turning and nudging Mason. “You’re staring again. Come on! Don’t cause us trouble,” Harper whispers. Mason doesn’t flinch. His gaze still lingers on the workers, their movements eerily uniform, like ants. He speaks out in a low voice, “Why don’t we ever see stars?” Harper stiffens. A flicker of panic flashes across his face. He grabs Mason’s arm, tightening his grip, “Stop. You’ll be reported.”
DING! The clock strikes 1. A siren blares. Without a word, they turn, falling into step with the others as they walk toward the lunch buffet. The line forms flawlessly—orderly, rigid, synchronized. Two guards stand watch, their eyes sweeping the hall, ensuring order is maintained.
It’s noon. Sophia, 24, regal and an observant young girl, sits at a table in the garden of the Royal Palace. Her gaze drifts constantly toward another table, where Foreign Diplomats and her father, High Chronarch Luther are engaged in a leisurely lunch meeting. Standing beside them, a butler holds up a sleek screen device, displaying a live news broadcast. The diplomats raise their glasses in a toast, their laughter smooth, effortless. One of them leans forward, addressing Luther. “Luther, it’s astonishing how you’ve maintained control over the country. The discipline is outstanding.” The butler presses a button, and a video begins to play. On-screen, a female reporter stands before a massive productivity chart, the headline flashing: VETRA REACHES NEW HEIGHTS IN GDP – CHRONARCHS IMPLEMENT NEW PRODUCTIVITY METRICS.
The broadcast cuts to a video call with a citizen–hollow-eyed, yet smiling. His voice steady, almost rehearsed. “Through discipline, we honor time. Through devotion, we earn its favor. And one day, when we are worthy, our children will see the stars.” The diplomats nod, impressed. Luther chuckles, swirling his wine. “See? The people are happy.” A pause. He leans back, voice measured, authoritative. “The masses crave order, even when they don’t know it. And order—true order—only comes through discipline. My father gave them an idea, and they cling to it like a lifeline.” The diplomats laugh, shifting the conversation to an aviation parts deal.
But Sophia isn’t laughing. Her eyes are fixed on a prison system file lying next to him. Her fingers twitch. Her face hardens. “I need to know.”
Hours later, on the street outside, at exactly 8 PM, Mason and Harper emerge from an office building, blending seamlessly into the orderly crowd. Every step is measured. Every movement is intentional. A bus arrives—right on time. The doors open with a hiss. Without hesitation, the citizens file in, climbing aboard in a perfect queue. Two guards stand watch, eyes scanning, hands resting lightly on their batons. As usual.
Inside the bus, Mason and Harper stand in the aisle, gripping overhead hand straps, with their raised arms. The bus moves with mechanical consistency, its motion smooth, almost unnaturally controlled. A digital clock near the driver ticks rhythmically, a quiet yet persistent reminder of Time’s rule. The only other sound—a faint murmur of subdued conversation, hushed and restrained.
Mason mutters low, “Stars. We work day and night. Minute after minute. But I don’t see any stars.” Harper stiffens, eyes darting to the silent passengers around them. He leans in, whispering back, “I’m going to stop talking to you. I told you—they took my uncle’s son. He was eleven. We haven’t seen him in three years.” Harper pauses, then continues in a barely audible note, “I don’t want to go to prison, Mason. Please.”
Mason exhales, feeling the weight of Harper’s fear. He nods, choosing silence. Then—a nudge against his back. Mason turns his head around. A frail very elderly man with sunken eyes stares at him and whispers, “I have seen them.” Mason hesitates and gestures ‘what?’ with his hand. “The stars,” the man continues. Mason’s grip tightens on the strap above, shocked and low, he asks, “What? When?” The Elderly Man’s gaze darkens with memory. “When I was a child. My father showed me.” Mason’s mind races, hushed he asks, “How did they please Time?” The Elderly Man leans in. His next words send a chill down Mason’s spine. “They didn’t. We saw them every night.”
DING!
The bus hisses to a stop. Their conversation is cut short. The Elderly Man, along with several other citizens, steps off. He doesn’t look back. Mason remains standing, his mind reeling. His fingers turning pale around the strap. His looks out at the dark sky beyond the window and thinks to himself, with uneasiness in his chest, “What did he mean they didn’t please Time? How did they see the stars… every night?” The bus continues the journey. Mason remains motionless, his world quietly shifting.
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit underground prison, rows of black-barred cells hold two to three prisoners each. The air is stagnant, thick with silence. No windows. Only artificial light bulbs buzz overhead. The aisles are patrolled at schedule—guards inspecting every few minutes, their hands ready with weapons. No one dares to speak.
The metal doors groan open. A middle-aged couple, well-dressed, is escorted inside by four guards. They struggle in the grips of the guards. Their pleas go unheard and with a brutal shove, they are thrown into an empty cell. The door slams shut. Struggling, to the guards, the man shouts, “You’re blind. Like everyone up there.” The guards don’t react. They simply turn away. The woman follows, “Open your minds. We need to be united. They can’t hurt us if we stand together.” A few prisoners glance at her, but no one speaks. Pressing against the bars, the man screams again, “Look! We can waste time! It doesn’t hurt us! Come back, let me show you more!” A guard slams his baton against the bars. Silence returns.
It’s morning. Mason sits at a table with Harper in their office, with Jake and a colleague, analyzing yesterday’s blueprint—numbers, calculations, and angles carefully marked on paper. They conclude the meeting in agreement. With their task complete, they stand and proceed toward the staircase, leading to the factory floor. Downstairs, the factory operates with the usual mechanics. In the center of the hall, workers of all ages—teens and elderly—assemble machine parts, securing them with nuts and bolts and on the sides, conveyor belts feed in the parts, an endless cycle of labor.
Mason and colleagues enter. No one greets Mason and others. No one pauses to look at them. Work continues. Unbroken. Uninterrupted. Mason and the team split up in groups of two, inspecting both sections. The workers remain focused, detached, only responding when directly spoken to. Mason moves through the rows, checking off components on his paper checklist. He finishes the inspection and turns to leave, when he hears a hesistant whisper from behind, “What… are we even building? This looks like… something to create fog?”
Mason pauses mid-step, his body tensing at the rebellious tone of the whispered words. Stopping while walking is a crime—a waste of time, punishable like any other inefficiency. But right now, Mason doesn’t care and stops to listen, “If it’s a fog machine… then why is it so big? I don’t understand.” Mason risks a quick glance over his shoulder, searching for the voice. His eyes land on a middle-aged worker, who quickly presses a finger to his lips, “Shhh.”
Mason snaps out of it. Turns away and walks off. His mind races as he rejoins his colleagues, climbing the stairs back to the office room.
MASON thinks to himself, “Why didn’t I ever think about what we were making? She’s right…”
Meanwhile, in a busy mining site, young workers—boys and girls—dig into the earth with bare hands, extracting colored stones from mud-caked boulders. Their hands are cut, raw, bruised. The sun glares down. A clock strikes 12:45. A short bell rings. The workers immediately stop, their movements ceasing in perfect unison. They line up, forming a perfect queue. No chatter. No hesitation. At the front, a PROGRESS MANAGER sits at a table, a screen device in hand. He scans the checklist. His face remains cold. Expressionless.
Beside them, is a lunch table, served with a pile of dry white bread slices. No spreads. No side dishes. Just bread.
The Progress Manager stands from his chair. His voice booms across the silent queue, announcing, “Yesterday’s extraction was twenty percent below the weekly average. You have committed the sin of wasting time. The more you waste, the less food we can afford. God is displeased.”
The young workers bow their heads to him. After a pause, in a softer, almost merciful tone—the PROGRESS MANAGER continues, “But the Time God is not cruel. He has sent you bread, as forgiveness. Work harder. Make every minute count. And he shall bless our plates with thirty-six dishes and our skies with stars.”
The workers nod obediently. One by one, they take a slice of bread, nibbling it down with a glass of water.
There in the living room of the ROYAL PALACE, HIGH CHRONARCH LUTHER sits at the head of an ornate table, flanked by two ADMINISTRATORS. A fire crackles softly in the grand hearth, but the air is cold. “How many can we send by tonight?” says LUTHER in a calm, calculating voice. One of the administrators, flipping through a ledger, “279 in the downtown prison and 512 in the rural prison, Sir.” Luther nods, thoughtful, “Send 300 from rural and 200 from downtown. They should cross the border before dawn. Leave out the 50+, and the aggressive ones. I do not want any complaints from their Prime Minister this time.” The administrators nod. After a moment of brief silence, the other administrator shifts uncomfortably in his seat and hesitantly speaks out, “There’s… an issue to discuss. Reports suggest that some young citizens are—” Luther cuts in with a sharp voice, “Are what? Speak fast.” The administrator gulps, lowering his gaze, “Thinking about freedom. I-I mean, raising rebellious voices.”
Luther leans back, fingers tapping against the armrest. Then—a dry, amused humph. His expression darkens and in an icy tone, “Take them all in. Anything suspicious. A single voice. Throw them down there. And get me the details.” The administrator nods stiffly, sweat beading at his temple. Luther gazes at the fire, lost in thought.
The flames flicker. The room feels colder.
Unseen by Luther and the administrators, SOPHIA crouches behind the grand staircase, hidden in the shadows. Her breath is shallow. Her hands grip the railing. She had come down by chance—but now, she listens intently. Her heart pounds. Her mind races with questions. SOPHIA thinks to herself, “Across the border?” She presses back, straining to hear more, but the conversation ends. The administrators stand, nod to Luther, and take their leave. As their footsteps fade down the hall, Sophia slips away, moving swiftly yet silently.
MOMENTS LATER Sophia bursts outside in the Royal Palace Garden, her breath quickened and pulse hammering in her ears. She drops onto a bench, eyes locked on the horizon. The world around her is serene—birds chirp, the wind sways the leaves. But inside her, a storm brews. She presses a hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe.
What did she just hear? What did it mean? Her entire life—the discipline, the order, the rules—now feels fragile. She tilts her head up, staring at the sky. Searching. But for what, she doesn’t know.
It’s afternoon and the cafeteria in Mason’s office building is eerily uniform as always. Citizens stand in perfect queues, plating their meals in precise, measured movements. No rushing. No hesitation. The only sounds—the light clanking of utensils and the low, murmuring of restrained conversation. Mason, Harper, and Jake sit silently at their table, eating with the same mechanical precision as everyone else. Mason, usually a fast eater, suddenly slows his chewing, his mind elsewhere.
He risks it—a quiet conversation. In a low but fast tone, Mason speaks out, “When I marked the progress report, a girl at the station asked what we were building.” He leans in slightly, continuing, “It never struck me before… what do you think it is?” Harper’s expression hardens. He shifts his plate away, turning slightly as if to distance himself. Jake stares at Mason, but doesn’t respond. But MASON is persistent, whispering, “Jake, what do you think? I think it’s a humidifier of some sort.”
Jake’s eyes flick toward a guard standing at the end of the hall. His hands start to tremble. He lowers his gaze. He doesn’t answer. Mason exhales and stops speaking. Twice ignored. Jake stands abruptly, his meal finished. Without a word, he walks out. Minutes later, Mason and Harper follow.
It’s evening. Mason, Harper, Jake, and a female colleague sit at a long table in htier office, marking angles and making calculations on large blueprint charts spread before them. The room is silent. No extra conversation—only what is required. A KNOCK at the door. The door swings open. Four guards march in. The air turns cold. GUARD 1 speaks out, firm and emotionless, “Introduce yourselves.” Mason straightens, “Mason Sullivan. Head Engineer, Division A, Floor 1.” Then Harper speaks out, “Harper Reynolds. Head Engineer, Division A, Floor 1.” Followed by Jake, “Jake Bennett. Assistant Engineer, Division A, Floor 1.” The fourth colleague follows, stating her name and position.
GUARD 1 cuts in flatly, “Alright. Mason Sullivan, you are under arrest.” Mason’s stomach drops. Shocked, he asks, “What? Why? What did I do?” GUARD 1 continues, “You have repeatedly wasted time, even after…” He turns to Harper and Jake, and continues, “Serious warnings from your colleagues.” He looks at Harper and nods approvingly, “Harper, Jake—you have a good record. May the Time God be pleased with you.”
Two of the guards step forward. They grab Mason’s arms. MASON shouts struggling through, “My productivity report is 99.8%! I work hard, every minute—” They force his hands forward. Cold metal cuffs snap shut around his wrists. Mason whips his head toward Harper and Jake. MASON calls out desperately, “Harper, Jake… did you report me?” His voice breaks, as he turns to the guards, “Let me explain. I haven’t done anything out of line! You can’t take me—I’m head engineer! This project needs me!”
But, the guards don’t respond. Mason jerks back—a last attempt to resist. A guard brings up his baton, pressing it against Mason’s neck. ZAP! A sharp pulse surges through his body. Mason’s body tenses, then collapses, his limbs partially limp. The guards haul him up, dragging him toward the door. At the threshold, Guard 1 turns back to Harper and Jake and in a calm, menacing tone speaks, “I expect you to tell everyone in this facility what happened here today. Let this be a lesson—a great example of displeasing our God.” Harper and Jake nod stiffly, their faces pale. The guards march out, dragging Mason along. The door shuts. Silence follows. Harper and Jake sit motionless, terror sinking in.
Inside the UNDERGROUND PRISON, a metal door CLANGS open. Mason is dragged inside, his wrists still cuffed. His legs struggle to keep up. The air is cold and sterile, thick with the smell of cement and sweat. Overhead, artificial bulbs buzz faintly—harsh, unblinking light. A PRISON WARDEN stands at a metal desk, a screen device in hand. He doesn’t look up. PRISON WARDEN, flatly, disinterested, says, “Mason. Head Engineer, Division A, Floor 1.” as he flips a page, nods to the guards. “Cell 17.”
The guards shove Mason forward. He stumbles, his body sluggish, still recovering from the stun baton. Rows of black-barred cells stretch endlessly down the corridor. Inside, dozens of inmates stand motionless, their faces blank. Nobody reacts. The only sound—low whispers, too faint to make out. Mason is pushed into a cell. The barred door SLAMS shut. A cold silence settles. Mason presses his palms against the wall, struggling to steady his breath. His limbs tremble. His mind spins. Exhaustion pulls him down. His knees buckle. His body hits the ground. Darkness takes him.
Back in the ROYAL PALACE, it’s midnight. Sophia tosses and turns in her bed, shifting positions, but sleep refuses to come. She gives up, lying flat on her back, eyes wide open, staring at the cloth canopy of her ornate frame bed. SOPHIA thinks to herself, “Grandfather’s idea of Time as God is enforced relentlessly, yes… and it has some logic to it.” She pauses, then continues, “But the prisoners. Why is Father sending them away?” Sophia swings her legs over the bed, stepping toward the window. She pushes it open, staring at the vast sky. A faint breeze rustles the curtains A full moon hangs high, surrounded by a brilliant spread of stars.
Meanwhile at the same time, in PRISON CELL number 17, a hand nudges Mason’s shoulder followed by a low, urgent voice, “Wake up.” A few drops of water splash onto Mason’s face. He flinches, the cold drops forcing him awake. He blinks rapidly, his body still weak, his mind disoriented. A fellow PRISONER—a man in his 30s, rugged—kneels beside him. “They’re gone—but only for fifteen minutes. Tell me… what did you do?” he asks.
Mason pushes himself up, his breathing uneven. Then—reality crashes down. His eyes widen. His heart pounds. The memories flood back—the arrest, the betrayal, the handcuffs snapping shut. His throat tightens. MASON tearing up, voice shaking, “I don’t know. I worked every minute. My productivity score is 99.8%, but my colleagues reported me. They arrested me. No questions asked.” Tears well in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks. His body trembles. The prisoner pulls him into a quick, firm hug, giving Mason’s back a soft pat. “I’m Ethan. Now stop crying. They’ll be back before you know it.”
Mason sniffs, rubbing his face with his sleeve, “Yeah… okay. I-I only asked Harper why we never see the stars. And what machine we were building.” Ethan pauses. His expression changes—not surprise but understanding. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. ETHAN speaks out low but amused, “Ah! You asked questions.” Ethan pushes off the floor, walking toward the barred door of their cell. He grips the iron bars, peering across the corridor. Then, in a low, hushed shout, “This one’s the questions type.” A prisoner in the opposite cell looks up. A whisper spreads. One cell to the next. Like a ripple through still water, the murmur grows, a subtle shift in the silence. Mason pushes himself up, stepping beside Ethan. He watches the cells, confused, “What do you mean… the questions type?” Ethan smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ll know. But not now.” says Ethan in a quiet, cryptic voice, as he signals something subtle to the prisoner in the opposite cell and continues, “Wait for the next fifteen-minute break. Until then? Stay silent. And eat what they give you.”
It’s around 3am. A loud metallic CLANG echoes in the prison. Mason jerks awake, heart pounding. He pushes himself up, blinking in the dim artificial light. The air is thicker than before. A strange unease spreads through the cells. Down the corridor—FOOTSTEPS. Heavy. Purposeful. Mason nudges Ethan awake. He creeps to the bars, peering out into the dim corridor. Guards march in, moving cell by cell, unlocking doors. One by one, prisoners are dragged out. Some resist—they are stunned with batons. Others go quietly, their eyes dead, hollow. Mason grips the bars, whispering to Ethan, “Where are they taking them?” Ethan remains still, staring straight ahead.
Without turning, he shoots Mason a warning glare—stay quiet. A guard stops at their cell, glancing down at a screen device. Mason holds his breath, his stomach tightening. The guard moves on. Mason exhales, slow and shaky. Beyond the bars, he watches as the prisoners are led away, their figures swallowed by the dark corridor.
A distant metal door SLAMS shut. Silence seeps back in. The guards are gone. Half the prisoners remain, sitting in silence. Ethan turns to Mason, his expression unreadable, eyes locking with Mason’s, “Did you see it? They take some of us away… every other week.” Mason swallows hard and asks in a shaky voice, “But where? And why?” Ethan exhales, “We heard the guards talking about across the border. And why? You ask why? We don’t know. Because nobody ever came back.”
Mason’s breath catches. A creeping dread coils in his chest. “B-Border? I’ve never seen anyone other than from Vetra.” He asks stammering, grasping for reason. His voice quickens, laughing weakly, grasping for logic as he continues in disbelief, “Maybe—maybe they behaved well and returned home! This must be a rumor!” Ethan’s face hardens. His tone commanding, agitated, “Rumor?” He takes a sharp step toward Mason, eyes burning, “If it was a rumor, and they were so kind to send people back… Why did they stun them? Why didn’t they say anything? And WHY did they bring you here?” Mason freezes. He is defensive and scrambling, “I—I questioned the Time God. It’s a punishment, of course.” His voice wavers, trying to convince himself more than Ethan, he continues, “If I behave well and worship Him with sincerity, surely—surely I’ll be free.” Ethan laughs under his breath—but it’s not amusement. It’s frustration. “Do you see a clock anywhere? Any windows?” asks Ethan his voice sharp but controlled. “Perhaps you didn’t notice on your little trip here, but the God you worship…” He leans in, voice like a blade cutting through Mason’s mind and continues, “Is being wasted here. By all of us. Do you really think it’s logical to waste time… as a punishment for wasting time? Do two wrongs make a right?”
Mason blinks. His mind spirals. This new perspective hits him hard, shattering a belief he’s held his entire life. His chest rises and falls unevenly. He feels like he’s suffocating under a truth he never saw before. Ethan softens, gripping Mason’s shoulders gently, “Mason… You’re an engineer. You have a thinking mind. You asked the right questions—You barely touched their house of cards, and they threw you in here. Look beyond the walls they’ve built in your mind. This whole system—this Time God—is an illusion. They know it’s fragile. That’s why they cling to it, forcing it upon us, terrified of the moment it shatters.”
Ethan steps back. He turns away, moving toward his thin bedding on the floor. He lies down, eyes closing. Within seconds, his breathing slows. But Mason? Mason stands frozen. Like a wax statue, his mind racing, piecing together Ethan’s words. He looks down. At his palms, his feet and thinks to himself, “I’m… wasting time?” He exhales, shaky, trying to grasp it, “And no one is counting. It doesn’t even feel wrong.”
He looks at Ethan, peacefully sleeping. His gaze drifts to the walls. No clock. No ticking. Nothing to measure the minutes slipping away. His world shifts. “He’s right. There are no clocks. No windows. I don’t even know what time it is. How is this possible?” Realization dawning him like a slow-burning fire. His knees buckle. He crouches down, hands gripping his head. Everything he believed—everything he thought was absolute—Is falling apart.
End of Chapter 1.
Chapter 2 coming soon…
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