The rendezvous point was an abandoned radio station three floors beneath a karaoke bar in Shinjuku's entertainment district. Sound-proofed walls that once contained broadcast equipment now housed a sophisticated command center assembled with practiced efficiency by Kojima's network of associates—people whose connections to the flamboyant restaurant owner were as unexpected as they were unquestioningly loyal.
Aiko's fingers flew across her keyboard, the lines of code on her screen resembling a complex musical score that only she could properly interpret. The Minutehand sat next to her, its metallic cylinder connected to her computer via a custom interface she had constructed from components scavenged from the radio station's old equipment.
"This encryption," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, "is beautiful. Layers within layers, pattern recognition triggers, temporal locks... whoever designed this was thinking five steps ahead."
Kojima, lounging against a nearby console with deceptive casualness, snorted. "That would be Himura. Man's always thinking seventeen moves ahead, which is why he's so damn dangerous. Also why he's terrible at karaoke—too busy calculating optimal breath control to actually feel the music."
Across the room, Yumi frowned as she checked Takashi's vitals. The young man lay sleeping on a makeshift cot, his complexion improved but his breathing still shallow. "His condition is stabilizing, but we need to keep him hydrated. The antibiotics are working, but he needs proper medical attention within the next twelve hours."
"Is he going to die?" Hana asked, her voice small but eerily practical as she handed her mother fresh bandages with the precision of a surgical nurse.
Yumi squeezed her daughter's shoulder. "No, sweetheart. But we need to be careful with him."
"Like the time Papa had the bullet in his shoulder and you made him sleep on the couch for three days?" The question floated with innocuous childhood curiosity, but it froze everyone in the room.
Kojima's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Well now! That's a story I haven't heard. When exactly did our shopkeeper friend acquire a bullet wound? During a particularly aggressive inventory count, perhaps?"
Yumi's expression remained carefully neutral. "Two years ago. Home invasion. Two men, supposedly random burglars."
"Nothing is random," Kojima and Aiko said simultaneously, then exchanged startled glances.
"Hourglass?" Kojima asked, his usual joviality evaporating.
"I don't think so," Yumi replied, securing the fresh bandage on Takashi's side. "Kenji said they were too unpolished, too obvious. Local criminals testing neighborhood security, most likely."
"Or someone was testing him," Kojima mused, his eyes calculating behind their playful glitter. "Probing to see if the shopkeeper was truly just a shopkeeper."
"Did Papa kill them?" Hana asked with that same uncanny practicality, arranging medical supplies in perfect rows beside her mother.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.
"No, sweetheart," Yumi said finally. "He just... convinced them to leave."
"Two men with guns left without shooting more than once because your father 'convinced' them?" Kojima's grin returned, wolfish. "I would have paid to see that particular conversation."
Aiko looked up from her screen, her eyes wide with sudden realization. "That was you? The midnight break-in at Sunshine Heights that no one could explain? The neighborhood gossip network buzzed about it for weeks—how two armed robbers were found on a street corner three blocks away, both with broken arms, both insisting they'd fallen down stairs."
"They did fall," came a new voice from the shadows near the stairwell. "Just not down stairs."
All heads turned to see Matsuda stepping into the weak fluorescent light, his movements displaying none of the fatigue that should have accompanied his recent encounter. There was a fresh tear in his jacket sleeve, a faint bruise shadowing his left cheekbone, but otherwise he appeared exactly as he had when he left them hours earlier.
"Papa!" Hana rushed forward, stopping precisely three steps away—not throwing herself into his arms as most children might, but maintaining the distance protocol they had clearly established for situations like this.
Matsuda closed that gap himself, kneeling to her level and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "All secure?" he asked, the question directed as much to the room as to his daughter.
She nodded solemnly. "I counted exit vectors like you taught me. Twenty-three total, eight optimal, three primary. I memorized the maintenance tunnel map. And I helped Mama with Takashi-san's bandages."
Something flashed across Matsuda's face—pride mingled with a deeper emotion that might have been regret. "Good work." He rose, his gaze finding Yumi across the room, an entire conversation passing between them in the space of a few heartbeats.
"Himura?" she asked simply.
"Contained," Matsuda replied. "For now."
Kojima pushed himself away from the console, bouncing slightly on his toes with barely suppressed energy. "Please tell me you didn't actually fight him. The man's pushing sixty-five and still trains three hours daily. He once killed a North Korean assassin with a fountain pen during a diplomatic reception. A *fountain pen*. While discussing fine arts with the Japanese ambassador's wife."
"I didn't fight him," Matsuda confirmed, moving to check on Takashi's condition. "We merely... clarified our positions."
Aiko's fingers had never stopped moving across her keyboard, but her attention was clearly divided. "Did you know they're calling it a gang-related incident? The convenience store, I mean. Official police reports have already been updated to suggest your store was caught in the crossfire between rival criminal organizations."
"Standard Hourglass containment protocol," Matsuda nodded. "Fabricate a plausible narrative that redirects attention while burying the truth beneath multiple layers of misdirection."
"They're very good at it," Aiko continued, her voice taking on an edge of excitement that seemed at odds with their precarious situation. "But they didn't account for someone who knows how to follow digital breadcrumbs. I've been tracking their narrative construction in real-time—they've already placed strategic comments on local news sites, created falsified CCTV timestamps, and established backdated police reports."
Matsuda studied her with newfound appreciation. "You can track their digital architecture that precisely?"
Aiko flushed slightly under his gaze. "Information systems have patterns, just like anything else. I notice patterns."
"She's not just tracking them," Kojima interjected with theatrical pride, as if Aiko were his own protégé rather than Matsuda's employee. "Our little digital prodigy here has already cracked three layers of the Minutehand's encryption. Show him, Aiko-chan!"
The girl's flush deepened, but her fingers danced across the keyboard with renewed purpose, bringing up a complex display of file structures and decoded metadata.
"I haven't accessed the core files yet," she explained, professional focus overriding her natural awkwardness. "But I've mapped the peripheral architecture. The Minutehand isn't just a data storage device—it's a self-contained intelligence system with environmental awareness capabilities. It knows where it is, who's handling it, even the ambient temperature. And it's designed to transmit periodic confirmation codes to another system somewhere."
"A failsafe," Matsuda translated grimly. "If the device doesn't check in at regular intervals, it will trigger a predetermined protocol—probably a data purge or possibly something more aggressive."
"Exactly," Aiko nodded. "But I've managed to isolate and replicate the confirmation signal. As far as the main system knows, the Minutehand is still exactly where it's supposed to be, functioning normally."
"That buys us time," Yumi said, joining them at the console. "But how much?"
Aiko's expression turned uncertain. "That's... harder to determine. The signal algorithm includes multiple timestamping vectors that I don't fully understand yet. It could be hours, it could be days."
"It'll be exactly forty-eight hours," Matsuda said, his certainty drawing everyone's attention. "Himura gave me that timeline deliberately. He knows about the failsafe, knows that we need time to work with the device before it self-terminates."
"And you trust him to honor that timeline?" Kojima asked, incredulity evident in his tone.
"Not trust," Matsuda corrected. "Calculate. Himura wants what's on the Minutehand as much as we do—possibly more. If he truly believed Takashi's claims about Singapore, about Project Clockwork, he would have moved differently tonight. His tactical approach suggests uncertainty, not conviction."
Kojima whistled softly. "You got all that from a conversation in a fish market?"
"That, and from this." Matsuda removed something from his pocket—a small data chip that gleamed dully under the fluorescent lights. "He palmed this to me during our... exchange. Deliberately, with a specific precision that ensured I would notice."
Aiko's eyes widened. "He wanted you to have it? But that's—"
"Tactically inconsistent," Matsuda finished. "Unless the chip contains information that he believes will influence our approach to the Minutehand."
He handed the chip to Aiko, who examined it with expert attention, turning it carefully between her fingers.
"Military-grade quantum encryption," she murmured. "I can't access this without—"
"The password is 'Prague,'" Matsuda interrupted. "Lowercase, followed by the date of the operation. Month, day, year, no separators."
Aiko looked up at him, a question in her eyes that she didn't voice. She inserted the chip into her computer, entered the password, and nodded when the system accepted it without resistance.
"It's a video file," she reported, fingers dancing across the keys to perform a quick security scan. "No embedded malware that I can detect. Single file, approximately four minutes in length."
"Play it," Matsuda directed, his expression betraying nothing of what he might expect to see.
The screen flickered, then resolved into an image that made both Kojima and Yumi inhale sharply. A conference room, elegantly appointed with dark wood paneling and subdued lighting. Twelve figures seated around an oval table, their faces intentionally shadowed despite the high quality of the recording.
And standing at the head of the table, unmistakable despite the decade that had passed, was Himura—younger, somehow more vital, his posture radiating absolute authority.
"Operation Clockwork," he was saying, his voice carrying that same cultured precision they had heard in the fish market hours earlier. "Phase One implementation has provided promising results, but the Singapore contingency demonstrates the inadequacy of our current approach."
One of the shadowed figures leaned forward. "Seventeen casualties is hardly significant given the scope of what we're attempting to achieve, Director."
"Every casualty is significant," Himura replied, his tone sharp enough to cause the figure to sit back abruptly. "Not because of sentimental notions about human life, but because inefficiency creates vulnerability. Clockwork requires precision. Seventeen unplanned variables represent seventeen potential exploitable weaknesses."
Another figure spoke, this one's voice artificially altered. "The board remains concerned about your attachment to outdated operational parameters, Director. We recruited you to modernize Hourglass, not to preserve its antiquated moral framework."
Himura's expression hardened. "You recruited me to ensure Hourglass fulfills its foundational purpose: maintaining balance in a world increasingly defined by systemic instability. Project Clockwork represents our best opportunity to achieve that balance, but not if we sacrifice our core principles in the process."
"Principles," the distorted voice repeated with evident disdain. "The luxury of those who don't understand true power."
"On the contrary," Himura countered, his composure never wavering. "Principles are the only thing preventing power from consuming itself. Without them, we're no different from the very forces we were created to counterbalance."
A tense silence fell over the conference room. Then a new figure rose at the far end of the table—tall, imposing even in silhouette.
"This philosophical debate, while stimulating, is ultimately irrelevant," the newcomer stated, their voice carrying an accent Aiko couldn't immediately place. "The board has made its decision. Project Clockwork will proceed according to revised parameters, effective immediately. Your concerns are noted, Director Himura, but your continued leadership depends on your compliance."
The recording ended abruptly, freezing on Himura's face—his expression a carefully controlled mask beneath which something like genuine alarm seemed to simmer.
For several seconds, no one in the radio station spoke. It was Kojima who finally broke the silence, his normally jovial demeanor subdued.
"Well," he said, "that complicates things."
"It suggests that Himura may not be the architect of whatever's happened to Hourglass," Yumi observed, her analytical mind cutting straight to the implication. "That he's operating under constraints, possibly even coercion."
"Or it's an elaborate misdirection," Kojima countered. "A strategically edited recording designed to create exactly this uncertainty. Classic Himura."
All eyes turned to Matsuda, who had watched the recording with unnerving stillness, his expression giving away nothing of his internal assessment.
"Both possibilities must be considered," he said finally. "The recording could be genuine evidence of Himura's resistance to Hourglass's transformation. Or it could be calculated manipulation designed to delay our response while he mobilizes additional resources."
"So what do we do?" Aiko asked, her gaze flicking between the darkened screen and Matsuda's impassive face.
"We continue as planned," he replied. "You focus on accessing the Minutehand's core files. Kojima will activate his information network to verify what we've just seen. Yumi will ensure Takashi receives the medical attention he needs." He checked his watch—the same precise movement he had performed countless times behind the convenience store counter. "We have forty-three hours and twenty-six minutes remaining."
"And what will you do, Papa?" Hana asked, the directness of her question carrying a weight beyond her years.
Matsuda regarded his daughter with that same complex mixture of pride and something deeper. "I'm going to have a conversation with someone who might know more about this 'board' that seems to be controlling Hourglass."
"Alone?" Yumi asked, concern evident despite her controlled demeanor.
"No," Matsuda replied, surprising everyone. "I'll take Aiko."
The girl's head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. "Me? But I'm not—I don't—"
"You have skills we need for this particular conversation," Matsuda explained. "And it's time you understood exactly what you've become involved in."
Kojima laughed, though the sound contained more tension than humor. "Bringing the shop girl into field operations? My, my, Timekeeper. Parenthood really has made you reckless."
"On the contrary," Matsuda replied with quiet certainty. "It's made me recognize potential in places I once wouldn't have looked." His gaze returned to Aiko, who was staring at him with a mixture of terror and something like suppressed excitement. "You've been observing me for months, cataloging inconsistencies, developing theories. Now it's time to see if your analysis translates to practical application."
"I—I don't know how to fight," she stammered.
"Good," Matsuda said simply. "That's not what I need from you."
---
Director Himura's private office occupied the entire top floor of a nondescript building in Tokyo's financial district. No corporate logos adorned the façade. No directory in the lobby listed its occupant. The elevator required a specific access code that changed hourly, and the security systems protecting the floor incorporated technologies that wouldn't reach the commercial market for at least a decade.
None of which presented any significant obstacle to Matsuda Kenji.
"This is insane," Aiko whispered as they moved through the darkened reception area, her heart hammering so violently she was certain it would trigger the motion sensors they had somehow bypassed. "We just walked in. Through the front door. Into the headquarters of a secret global organization. Using a keycard you made from a hotel room key and a microwave."
"Simplicity often presents the optimal solution," Matsuda replied, his movements so precisely calibrated that the ambient light sensors registered no change in the room's occupancy status. "Complex security systems create complex vulnerabilities. Himura knows this, which is why the true protection lies not in the technology but in the secrecy of the location itself."
"But you knew exactly where to find it," Aiko observed, struggling to match his ghostlike progress across the expansive marble floor.
"I helped design it," Matsuda said simply. "Though the implementation has changed significantly since my departure."
He guided her toward a sleek ebony door at the far end of the reception area, pausing exactly three steps away. "This is where I need your particular skills. The office beyond is protected by an advanced biometric system—retinal, fingerprint, voice, and gait pattern recognition. All calibrated to admit exactly one individual."
"Himura," Aiko guessed, already reaching into her backpack for her specialized tablet.
"Yes. But there's a secondary access protocol buried within the primary recognition matrix. A contingency I insisted on implementing against Himura's objections. He believed having any alternate entry method created unnecessary vulnerability."
"And you think it's still active? After ten years?"
"Himura never removes a system component without replacing it with something superior," Matsuda explained. "It would be inefficient. Since he gave me the access credentials to his data chip, it suggests he anticipated I might attempt to access his office. Which means the secondary protocol is not only still active but has been deliberately maintained."
Aiko's fingers moved across her tablet screen, connecting to the door's hidden access port using an adapter Matsuda had assembled from components that looked suspiciously like they belonged to a gaming console.
"I see it," she murmured, her earlier nervousness replaced by focused concentration. "Nested within the primary authentication sequence, there's a... wait, this doesn't make sense. It's not a backdoor protocol. It's a parallel authentication system with identical security parameters."
"Not identical," Matsuda corrected. "Complementary."
Understanding dawned on Aiko's face. "It's keyed to you. He maintained a complete biometric authentication system specifically calibrated to your personal identifiers."
"Yes."
"But why would he—" She stopped, comprehension shifting her perception of the relationship between these two men. "He always expected you to return."
"Or he wanted me to believe he did," Matsuda replied, neither confirming nor denying the implication. "Can you activate the secondary protocol without triggering the security alerts?"
Aiko studied the system architecture displayed on her tablet, her mind mapping the complex interrelationships between security subsystems. "Yes, but... there's something strange about the configuration. The alerting mechanism isn't designed to notify security of an intrusion. It's more like..."
"A personal notification," Matsuda finished. "Directly to Himura himself."
"You think he wants to know if you come here?"
"I think he's been waiting for me to come here for ten years," Matsuda replied, his expression unreadable. "The question is whether that expectation represents hope or calculation."
Aiko looked up from her tablet, a new understanding of the complex relationship between her employer and his former mentor taking shape in her mind. "This isn't just about the Minutehand, is it? Or even about Hourglass. This is personal."
"Nothing in this world exists in isolation, Aiko-chan," Matsuda said, a subtle warmth entering his voice as he addressed her with the familiar honorific for the first time since the convenience store. "Every system, every organization, every conflict ultimately resolves to the personal relationships that compose it. That was my first lesson from Himura. And the one he himself seems to have forgotten."
He placed his palm against the door's unmarked surface, positioning his eye before an seemingly decorative panel that Aiko now recognized as a disguised scanner.
"Timekeeper," he stated, his voice dropping to that lower register that still sent a chill down Aiko's spine. "Authentication Prague-Seven-Seven-Omega."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a soft hiss of releasing pressure, the ebony door slid silently open, revealing the inner sanctum of Hourglass's director.
Unlike the sleek, modernist reception area, Himura's office was a study in traditional elegance. Dark wooden floors. Hand-painted scrolls adorning walls of soft cream. A massive desk of polished black cherry that seemed to float above the floor on nearly invisible supports. The space was illuminated only by the ambient glow of Tokyo's nighttime skyline filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a 180-degree view of the city below.
"Thirty seconds," Matsuda instructed as they entered. "Locate the primary terminal and establish connection. I'll secure the physical space."
Aiko moved immediately to the desk, her eyes quickly identifying the subtle indications of advanced technology embedded within the traditional aesthetics. She placed her tablet on the smooth wooden surface, activating a specialized interface program she had developed for navigating unfamiliar systems.
Meanwhile, Matsuda circled the office with predatory efficiency, his movements revealing nothing of the shopkeeper who had carefully maintained inventory for a decade. In this environment, surrounded by the trappings of the world he had left behind, Matsuda Kenji seemed to recede, allowing Timekeeper to emerge fully from whatever internal compartment had contained him for ten years.
"Access established," Aiko reported, her fingers flying across her tablet. "The system recognized your biometrics and has granted Level Seven clearance. But there's something strange—the file architecture isn't what I expected for an organization of this sophistication. It's almost deliberately arcane, like—"
"A trap," Matsuda concluded, returning to her side. "Himura would never leave his actual files accessible, even to someone with appropriate clearance. What you're seeing is a constructed environment designed to occupy an intruder while security protocols activate."
"But you said the secondary authentication was legitimate," Aiko protested, her confidence wavering.
"It is. Which means this isn't meant for intruders. It's meant specifically for me." Matsuda studied the displayed file structure with narrowed eyes. "This is a message. A puzzle."
Aiko watched as he reached past her to enter a sequence of commands that made no sense within the apparent system architecture. Yet the screen responded, the illusory file structure dissolving to reveal a true interface beneath—elegant, streamlined, and providing access to what appeared to be the actual Hourglass operational database.
"How did you know what to do?" she asked, unable to keep the awe from her voice.
"Because it's exactly what I would have done," Matsuda replied, his focus unwavering as he navigated through the system with practiced efficiency. "Create a surface deception that appears convincing to anyone with standard knowledge of organizational data structures, while embedding the true access points in patterns that would be recognizable only to someone who thinks as I do."
"That's... incredibly specific."
"Himura trained me," Matsuda said simply. "In many ways, my thinking is an extension of his own, refined through my personal experiences and perspectives. He's counting on that shared foundation."
His fingers paused over the keyboard as he located a specific directory: PROJECT CLOCKWORK - PHASE THREE IMPLEMENTATION.
"This is it," he murmured. "The answers Takashi was seeking."
But before he could access the directory, a new window appeared on the screen—not an error message or security alert, but a video feed showing a familiar elegant figure seated at what appeared to be an identical desk to the one before them.
"I was wondering when you'd arrive," Himura said, his voice emerging from hidden speakers with perfect clarity. "Though I must admit, I expected you to come alone. The shop girl is an interesting choice of companion."
Beside Matsuda, Aiko froze, her eyes wide with shock and fear.
"She has talents that proved useful," Matsuda replied, his composure unshaken by the unexpected communication. "As I believe you already know."
Himura's lips curved in that same thin smile they had witnessed at the fish market. "Indeed. Her digital footprint has been... noteworthy. Particularly her activities in certain restricted forums frequented by those with interests in information security."
Aiko paled, but Matsuda placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"This conversation isn't about Aiko," he stated firmly. "It's about Singapore. About Project Clockwork. About the recording you deliberately placed in my possession."
"Ah, yes." Himura leaned back slightly in his chair, the movement so precisely controlled it reminded Aiko of a dancer executing a choreographed step. "Tell me, did you find it convincing? The concerned director standing against shadowy board members with nefarious intentions? The principled resistance to corruption within the system?"
"I found it provocative," Matsuda responded carefully. "Whether it's genuine or fabricated remains to be determined."
Himura's smile widened a fraction. "Always the analyst. Always calculating probabilities, assessing variables, mapping contingencies. It's what made you exceptional, Timekeeper. What continues to make you exceptional, despite your best efforts to suppress it beneath inventory lists and customer service protocols."
"Is the recording genuine?" Matsuda pressed, ignoring the bait.
"What do you think?" Himura countered. "You've accessed my office. You're speaking to me now despite the fact that I'm currently on the other side of the city. What does that suggest to you about my level of awareness regarding your movements? About my intentions in allowing this conversation to occur?"
Matsuda was silent for a moment, his expression betraying nothing of his internal calculations. "It suggests that either you're setting an elaborate trap, or you genuinely need my help. Given our history, the former seems more probable."
"Our history," Himura echoed, something like genuine regret flickering briefly across his aristocratic features. "Yes, our history would indeed suggest caution on your part. But consider this, old friend: if I simply wanted you eliminated, there were at least seventeen opportunities during your journey to this office where it could have been accomplished with minimal complications."
"Kojima would say that's exactly what you want me to think," Matsuda observed.
Himura actually laughed—a short, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him. "Kojima. That flamboyant peacock is still part of your orbit, is he? Some things truly never change." His expression sobered. "But time is limited, and we have more pressing matters to discuss than our mutual acquaintances."
"Project Clockwork," Matsuda stated.
"Yes." Himura leaned forward, his posture shifting subtly to convey increased urgency. "The recording is genuine, Timekeeper. The board has been systematically transforming Hourglass from an organization dedicated to maintaining global balance into something far more... interventionist."
"Define interventionist," Matsuda pressed, his voice neutral despite the gravity of the claim.
"They're attempting to create a predictive system that doesn't merely respond to global instabilities but actively shapes them according to predetermined parameters," Himura explained. "Singapore was the first large-scale field test—the collapse designed to eliminate a specific group of individuals whose activities threatened certain board interests."
"Seventeen civilians died," Matsuda said quietly.
"Yes. Unplanned variables. Inefficiencies in the system." Himura's expression hardened. "But to the board, they weren't even that. They were simply acceptable collateral in pursuit of the larger objective."
Beside Matsuda, Aiko had been silently absorbing this exchange, her analytical mind mapping connections between what they were hearing and what she had discovered in the Minutehand's accessible files.
"The Minutehand contains evidence of this?" she asked suddenly, unable to contain her question despite her earlier determination to remain silent.
Himura's gaze shifted to her, his assessment almost palpable even through the video feed. "Cleverer than she appears, your shop girl. Yes, the Minutehand contains everything—operational records, board communications, implementation protocols. Most importantly, it contains the predictive algorithms themselves and the target list for Phase Three."
"Which is why Takashi stole it," Matsuda concluded.
"Precisely. Though young Ryusei doesn't fully comprehend what he's taken. He believes it's merely evidence of corporate malfeasance and operational overreach. The reality is far more concerning."
"Enough vague implications," Matsuda said, his patience visibly thinning. "What exactly is Project Clockwork attempting to achieve?"
Himura was silent for a long moment, his expression suggesting an internal debate about how much to reveal. Finally, he sighed—a small sound that nevertheless conveyed genuine weariness.
"They're trying to create a controlled world, Timekeeper. A global environment where specific outcomes can be engineered through precisely calculated interventions. The ultimate expression of systems theory applied at a planetary scale."
"That's impossible," Aiko blurted, her technical knowledge overwhelming her caution. "No algorithm could possibly account for the complexity of global human behavior and environmental variables."
"Not with current technology, no," Himura agreed. "But Project Clockwork isn't limited by current technology. The board has access to computational resources and theoretical frameworks decades beyond what even the most advanced nations have achieved."
"And they've been using Hourglass as their implementation mechanism," Matsuda stated, the pieces aligning in his mind. "Converting an organization designed to maintain balance into one that enforces controlled imbalance to achieve predetermined outcomes."
"Yes."
"Why tell me this now?" Matsuda asked, his gaze never leaving Himura's face on the screen. "After ten years of silence, why reach out? Why allow us access to the Minutehand's contents?"
"Because Phase Three begins in sixty-four hours," Himura replied, his composure slipping just enough to reveal genuine urgency beneath. "And unlike the previous phases, this one targets not specific individuals or isolated systems, but fundamental global infrastructure. The potential for unintended consequences is... significant."
"How significant?" Aiko asked, a cold dread settling in her stomach.
Himura's gaze shifted back to her, his assessment even more penetrating than before. "If the predictive models are flawed—and I believe they are—the cascading failures could affect everything from financial systems to power grids to communication networks. Conservative estimates suggest potential casualties in the millions."
The office fell silent as the implications of this statement settled over them. Matsuda's expression remained carefully controlled, but Aiko could sense the intensity of his internal calculations.
"And you want me to help you stop it," he said finally. "That's why you gave me forty-eight hours with the Minutehand. That's why you've maintained the secondary access protocol to your office all these years. You've been preparing for this scenario."
"Not specifically this one," Himura corrected. "But I always knew there might come a time when Hourglass itself became imbalanced. When the very organization created to prevent systemic corruption might itself become corrupted."
"And you believe I'm the solution?" Matsuda's tone carried a subtle edge of skepticism. "The convenience store owner who walked away a decade ago?"
"No," Himura replied with unexpected directness. "I believe Timekeeper is the solution. The operative who understood systems better than anyone else in the organization's history. The tactician who could anticipate variables that even our most sophisticated models missed. The strategist who repeatedly achieved what others deemed impossible through precise application of minimal force at optimal pressure points."
"That person no longer exists," Matsuda stated flatly.
"Doesn't he?" Himura's smile returned, knowing and somehow sad. "Tell me, when you disabled seven of my best operatives at the fish market, moving with such precision that none suffered permanent injury despite being neutralized with maximum efficiency—who exactly was performing those actions? The shopkeeper? Or the operative I trained for fifteen years?"
Before Matsuda could respond, a soft alert chimed from Aiko's tablet. Her eyes widened as she registered the notification.
"We have company," she whispered urgently. "Security systems just registered elevator access to this floor. Multiple individuals, armed based on the weight distribution and movement patterns."
"Not mine," Himura said immediately, his expression sharpening with alarm. "I've given explicit orders that you were not to be interfered with."
"Then whose?" Matsuda demanded, already moving toward Aiko, calculating exit routes.
"The board maintains its own security assets independent of regular Hourglass operations," Himura explained, his composure cracking further. "They must have been monitoring my communications. You need to leave, now. The northeast corner of the office, behind the Hokusai print. Maintenance access to the building's central core."
"Why should we trust you?" Aiko asked, even as she gathered her equipment with rapid efficiency.
"Because if I wanted you captured, I would simply have waited for you to access the Clockwork files before alerting security," Himura replied with brutal practicality. "The fact that I'm warning you suggests my priorities align with your continued freedom, doesn't it?"
Matsuda had already located the hidden exit, his fingers finding the concealed release mechanism with practiced ease. The ornate print slid silently aside, revealing a narrow access corridor beyond.
"Forty-three hours," he said to Himura, his voice carrying that same certainty it had displayed at the fish market. "I'll contact you when we've verified your claims."
"I would expect nothing less," Himura replied, the faintest hint of approval coloring his tone. "Good hunting, Timekeeper."
The video feed cut off just as the first sounds of forced entry reached them from the reception area. Matsuda guided Aiko into the hidden corridor, securing the entrance behind them with meticulous precision. Darkness enveloped them completely as they began their descent through the building's service infrastructure.
"Was he telling the truth?" Aiko whispered as they navigated the narrow maintenance shaft. "About Project Clockwork? About the board?"
"I don't know," Matsuda admitted, the rare uncertainty in his voice more unsettling than the darkness surrounding them. "But if he's lying, it's the most elaborate deception I've ever encountered. And if he's telling the truth..."
"Then millions of lives are at stake," Aiko finished, the enormity of their situation finally registering fully. "And we have less than sixty-four hours to stop a global catastrophe."
"First we confirm," Matsuda corrected, his metho