Mika’s Leverage

The sky‑lounge perched high above the glittering towers of Canary Wharf felt more like a glass cage than a bar. Floor‑to‑ceil­ing windows reflected the rain‑slick streets below, turning the city into a smear of neon and water. A faint hum of the building’s climate system thrummed beneath the low‑key jazz that floated from the center speaker, a sound so smooth it seemed to coat the air.

Jason sat at the sleek, black marble bar, his drumsticks still tucked in the pocket of his leather jacket. He watched the clock on the wall tick down—24 hours, 00 minutes, 00 seconds left on the Chrono‑Clock’s silent countdown. The numbers glowed faintly, a reminder that time itself was now a weapon.

Mika Alvarez entered, her shoes making a soft click on the polished floor. She scanned the room, then slipped into the seat opposite him, the leather of her chair sighing under her weight.

“Morning, Jason,” she said, the edge of politeness in her voice barely hiding the urgency humming beneath it. “We need to sort this out before the clock hits zero. I’m willing to give the Clock back. You have the same thing in the case, right?”

Jason’s eyes flicked to the small, silver case tucked beneath his arm. He didn’t answer, just tilted his head, watching a droplet of rain race down the glass. The air between them felt charged, like static before a storm.

Nina Cheng arrived a moment later, her hoodie pulled up against the chill, a sleek tablet clutched in one hand. She perched on the bar stool beside Jason, her fingers already dancing over the screen.

“You said you’d bring the proof, Mika,” Nina said, voice calm, eyes never leaving the tablet. “I thought you’d have it ready by now.”

Mika’s smile faltered. “I have the documents. I was… I was just waiting for the right moment. We can—”

Nina tapped a few more times and turned the tablet toward Mika. A live feed projected onto the polished surface of the bar—security camera footage from a corporate office on the 31st floor, the same tower they were now inside.

The image showed Mika sitting at a glass conference table, a silver‑capped pen clicking as she signed a document. The watermark on the page was unmistakable: **Chrono‑Pharm Ltd. – Executive Service Agreement**. A timestamp in the corner read *08:13, 12 Mar 2039*.

Mika’s hand froze halfway to her mouth.

“Is that…?” Jason’s voice cracked, the word hanging between them like a broken drumbeat.

Nina leaned in, her eyes cold. “That’s a contract. You’re still on their payroll, Mika. You get a six‑figure bonus every quarter for keeping us out of the black market. You told us you were done with them.”

Mika’s eyes darted to the window, then back to the tablet, as if the rain could wash away the image. “It’s… it’s a… a technicality. I—”

Jason stood, the leather of his jacket creaking. The bar’s ambient lights reflected off his face, turning the anger in his eyes into a metallic sheen. “Technicality?” he repeated, voice low and steady. “You signed a deal to protect the very thing we’re trying to stop. You used our band as a bargaining chip, didn’t you?”

Mika opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, each time the words dissolved into the hiss of the air conditioner.

“This isn’t just about money,” Nina interjected, her tone sharper than the glass that surrounded them. “It’s about loyalty. You’ve been feeding them intel. The Clock, the serum…it’s all been documented.”

Jason’s hand tightened around the edge of the bar. The digital clock on the wall glowed a fraction brighter, as if noticing the spike in tension. He glanced at the silver case under his arm, feeling the weight of the device like a heartbeat.

“We’re sitting here, three people, and you’ve been playing both sides,” he said, each syllable hit like a snare drum. “If you’re still working for them, what does that make me? A pawn?”

Mika swallowed, a thin line of breath escaping her lips. “I was trying to protect you… I thought I could control it. I didn’t—”

Before she could finish, the lounge’s holo‑projector, hidden in the ceiling grille, flickered to life. A thin column of light descended, coalescing into a crisp, lifelike image of a man in a crisp white lab coat, his hair slicked back, eyes sharp as a blade. The projection hovered mid‑air, the faint echo of his voice reverberating through the room.

“Good morning, Ms. Alvarez, Mr. Monroe, Ms. Cheng,” Dr. Felix Arkwright said, his smile precise, almost rehearsed. “I see you’ve discovered my little… oversight.”

The three stared, stunned, as the digital ghost of Arkwright continued, his tone smooth, dripping with controlled authority. “The Clock is not a trinket for bargaining. It requires a mind to be overwritten. You cannot simply hand it over and walk away. I’m afraid you’re already too late to change the terms.”

Jason felt the air thicken, the sophisticated elegance of the lounge now a cage of glass and projected eyes. He looked at Mika, then at Nina, the trust that had once held them together shattering into a thousand silent shards. The countdown ticked on, each second a reminder that the game had just taken a far more hostile turn.

Jason stared at the floating figure, his chest tightening as the projection’s voice cut through the low‑key jazz.

“​The Clock is not a simple bargaining chip,” Arkwright said, his eyes flickering with a cold blue light. “It needs a living mind to be overwritten. The imprint can only be anchored when a conscious brain surrenders its neural pattern to the device.”

Mika’s hand trembled on the bar‑top, the nail polish cracking like ice. “What… what are you talking about?” she asked, voice raw.

“The imprint you all cherish,” Arkwright replied, leaning forward as if he could see their throats, “is a quantum packet that will decay unless it is bonded to a host. The host must be willing… or forced.” He tilted his head, and the image of the pocket‑watch on the case glowed brighter. “Your friend Carter already seeded the Clock with his final moments. He died, but his memory is still alive, looping inside that little device. It will look for a new conduit—someone whose pulse matches the destabilizer’s frequency. Someone who carries the gun, the serum, the cash… and the fear of being a pawn.”

A cold draft swept over Jason’s skin. The lounge’s polished windows showed the rain still falling in sheets, the neon reflections turning the street into a smear of colour. He could feel the weight of the silver case against his side, the pistol inside humming faintly as if it too listened.

He tried to speak, but his throat constricted. A flash of memory burst forward, unbidden and bright. He was back in the cramped back‑alley kiosk, the smell of stale oil and wet concrete thick in his nose. The neon sign above flickered “Carter – Chrono‑Serum.” He saw Mika’s silhouette, illuminated by the flickering streetlamp, her coat pulled tight. She reached into the shadowed stall, pulling out a small vial and a folded envelope. Carter’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he slipped the vial into his pocket.

Jason’s heart hammered. The memory wasn’t his; it was Carter’s dying imprint, now playing through his own mind. He saw herself—Mika—lean close to Carter, whispering something he could not hear. The next image was a gun flashing, a scream caught in the rain, Carter collapsing onto the wet pavement. Blood pooled, mixing with the puddles at his feet. And then a voice: “It’s the only way, Mika. We need the Clock to work.”

The flash ended. Jason’s fingers clenched around the bar until the marble cracked under his grip. He could taste metal, feel his pulse race as if a drum beat in his ears.

“Mika…” he croaked, each syllable jagged. “You… you led him there. You set the trap.”

Mika’s eyes widened, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “No. I— I was trying to secure a line of supply. I never meant—”

“Secure a line?” Jason snapped, the words snapping like a snare. “You lured a dead‑man’s dealer into a street that you knew would be watched. You gave him the cash, the serum, the gun… and you left him to die so you could keep the Clock for yourself?”

Arkwright’s projection smiled, thin and perfect. “Exactly. You see, Ms. Alvarez, you underestimated the value of a dead‑man’s market. The moment Carter died, his imprint sealed into the device, waiting for a host. The host you have already prepared—Mr. Monroe.”

Jason’s vision swam. He saw the pistol tucked in his case, felt the cold metal press against his thigh. The Chrono‑Serum’s vial throbbed in his pocket like a living thing. He suddenly understood the full horror: the Clock would not just hand over memories; it would erase his own, replacing them with the dying thoughts of a man he never met. The next heartbeat would be his last—if he didn’t give it away.

“Are you saying you want me to die so the Clock can… function?” Jason asked, voice barely a whisper, each word shaking the air.

“The Clock requires a sacrifice,” Arkwright replied, his tone unwavering. “One mind, fully overwritten, to reset the temporal imprint. The process is instantaneous. You will feel a flash—a hundred seconds of Carter’s last minute—then your consciousness will dissolve into the device. The audience will hear the concert as you have imagined, but you… will be gone.”

The room seemed to contract. The sophisticated lounge, with its sleek chairs and soft lighting, turned into a steel cage. The rain outside hammered the windows, each drop a tiny drumbeat echoing Jason’s terror.

Nina’s tablet buzzed, a silent alarm flashing red, but the sound was swallowed by the projection’s voice.

“​And what of the others?” Jason demanded, trying to keep his voice steady. “What happens to you, to us?”

Arkwright’s eyes glinted. “I will retain control of the Clock. The imprint will be my property, sold to the highest bidder. As for you, Ms. Cheng, your interference will be… inconvenient.”

Jason felt his muscles seize, his hands turning white as the marble. He could not move. The panic rose like a tide, but under it, a thin thread of resolve sparked. He remembered the drummer’s creed: “When the beat stops, you find a new rhythm.”

He forced his eyes to lock onto Mika’s, seeing the fear there, the guilt burning behind her veneer. “You chose this,” he said, voice cracked but firm. “You chose to use Carter’s death, to use us. If you think I’ll give myself up… you’re wrong.”

A crack of thunder rolled low over the Thames, shaking the glass. The projection flickered, but Arkwright’s image held steady.

“Then you will resist,” he said, the words slicing the air. “And the Clock will seek another host. The countdown continues, and each second brings you nearer to the moment when it will find you.”

Jason swallowed hard, the taste of rain and metal mingling. He could feel the pulse of the Clock in his pocket, a silent metronome counting down to a climax he could not yet hear.

Mika’s shoulders slumped, the defiance draining from her posture. “Jason… I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words shattering like glass.

He stared at the projection, his mind racing, the hostile mood thickening like a storm cloud. The room hummed, the jazz now a distant echo. The world narrowed to three things: the ticking digital clock on the wall, the humming of the pistol in his case, and the relentless, hostile gaze of Dr. Felix Arkwright.

The silence stretched, each second a drumbeat of dread. Jason knew the truth now: the Clock had already marked him. The only question was whether he would become its victim or find a way to turn the hostile game against its maker.