In a city accustomed to hearing an explosion echo through the walls of memory every single day, the quiet day was the most terrifying of all. Silence there was never peace — it was a threat suspended in the air, like a held breath before a scream.
Jim sat in his office, shadows pooling in the corners like slow-moving smoke. He paused for a moment, as though trying to grasp the last fragments of hope that stubbornly refused to die within him. He tried to believe in that hope — but the truth struck him with ruthless clarity: hope would not save the victim… he himself would have to.
He slapped his own face. Once. Then again — as if the sting could drag him back into a lost alertness.
He said, voice hoarse yet steady, as he moved towards his desk:
"Maybe you're right. Maybe, in your time, it worked… but here, things remain the same. So you'll have to give me everything about the next crime if I'm to make this real."
He stood by the window, breath rising and falling sharply.
"Em… give me everything. The rescue location, the victim's name, the killer's name, his address, his job — everything… even his bloody underwear if necessary. We have one hour to finish this."
Em's voice came back calm, though something trembled beneath the stillness:
"I understand… I'm with you. But I'll need some time to gather the information. Can you give me thirty… no, twenty minutes. Twenty minutes and I'll give you the key, and the rest is up to you."
Jim exhaled heavily, rubbing his forehead.
"Fine… but about me not killing myself in prison… are you absolutely certain?"
Em replied quickly, as if afraid Jim might doubt him further:
"Yes. Completely certain. Not just words… I went to the place where you live. I saw everything. Your older self — you — is living with your wife… a happy retiree… famous, even. Very famous. You kept your reputation."
He paused, then added with a slight tremor of emotion:
"And your children… they're adults now. I saw one of them leaving the house — tall, handsome. His name… Jack, isn't it? I saw it when I looked you up."
A faint smile tugged at Jim's lips. He laughed, soft and brief.
"Yes… his name is Jack. Do you know what he became?"
"I'm not certain… but he was dressed like a successful detective — and walking like one."
Light flickered in Jim's eyes, as though he glimpsed a life he had not yet lived. A warm tremor slipped through his chest.
Em continued:
"All right… I'll hang up now. Just wait a little… we'll change the future together. I mean — we'll put it on the right course."
"Right."
After the call ended, Jim went to his children's rooms. He stopped by Jack's door, watching him sleep — blissfully unaware of the temporal war raging beyond the borders of his childhood. His toys — plastic guns and a tiny badge — were scattered near the bed. Jim whispered, a breath of warmth:
"I can't imagine anything else for you…"
As he closed the door, his dog barked softly. Jim turned quickly, cupped the dog's mouth and whispered:
"Shh… you'll wake them."
He returned to his office and pulled out his notebook. With his left hand he held the walkie-talkie; with his right, the pen. He sat down like a soldier preparing for a final battle, and began rewriting his fate with his own hand.
Dougie kept staring at him strangely, as though watching something grow inside his master's soul.
Minutes later, the walkie-talkie crackled through the silence.
"Are you ready?" Em asked.
"Yes… I am."
Em's tone hardened:
"Write this down.
I found this blog entry about the case — I'll read it to you.
'Detective Jim — yes, the well-known Jim — saved the fifth victim… and the final one who would have become another casualty of the Hell's Angel murders. Her name was Mary Wickens. A young woman found near the Thames, under Southwark Bridge, at midnight, running… her nail torn off, just like the other Hell's Angel victims. She had severe abdominal injuries that caused her death. But before dying, she gave investigators the name of the serial killer: William Kane. A young man no older than twenty-five, living with his family in a modest house in East London, on Liberty Street, house number 01.'"
He fell silent, as if the truth itself weighed down the air.
"… that's all you found? Can you do it?"
Jim smiled — the smile of a man who sees one last road to salvation:
"You've already given me all the threads. But I won't arrest him yet… I need to save the fifth victim, get her testimony, so the arrest is official, not arbitrary. My job is to save that girl… It's only a matter of time. Isn't that right?"
"Em,Yes… I confirm it. From the year 2010."
Jim chuckled, and Em joined him and Said.
"Right… I'll hang up. I need rest. Tomorrow you'd better bring me good news… understood?"
"Jim, Of course."
Jim added:
"Tomorrow… 13 July… may be our last call. And then we'll meet in the future… and share a destiny between us."
Rm laughed softly:
"Fine… I'll try to be friendly in this timeline… though you sound like a grumpy, unfriendly old man."
The line cut. Jim stared at the walkie-talkie for a few seconds before setting it aside.
He slept deeply that night — for the first time in a long while.
No nightmares.
No crows.
In the morning he woke up a little late. His children were having breakfast, noisy and cheerful. He washed quickly, then told Elizabeth:
"I'll take them today."
He called the station and requested two officers to guard the house. He kissed his wife goodbye and left with the children. They got into the car and set off.
Jim ate an apple as he laughed. Emily was singing in her little voice. Jack covered his ears:
"Please stop… it hurts!"
Jim laughed:
"It's only singing… and she sounds lovely."
Jack snapped back:
"You're just taking her side! She sounds like an ancient radio breaking apart!"
Then his eyebrows lifted:
"Er… Dad? Why did that crow hit the window? Was it running from something? Or did it see something in my room… something it wanted?"
Jim paused, eyes narrowing:
"I don't know, son… animals don't think. They don't recognise glass. That's probably it."
After he dropped them off, he spent the entire day at the place where the victim had run. Sitting, standing, checking his watch, breathing uneasily. A madman passed by wearing only one shoe, a girl's watch, and layers of torn clothing. He looked at Jim and burst into laughter — starting as a whisper, then turning disturbingly loud.
Jim checked his suit, wondering what was funny — but the man kept walking, his laughter stretching down the street like the echo of something sinister.
Jim whispered, faintly amused:
"I'm not the one wearing a single shoe…"
He continued waiting. Every sound around him made him turn with the reflex of a hunted animal.
At 11:56, he was pacing near the river. Time was tightening. He ran. Looked left and right.
Then suddenly—A scream.
From atop the bridge.
He sprinted, climbed fast. Saw a girl running — a black car chasing her. She could barely stay on her feet.
He ran towards her, but instead of catching her, he pursued the car. It fled again.
Jim muttered:
"Run… but there's no shadow left to run into."
He returned to the girl. She winced, breath ragged.
"Are you all right? What's your name?"
She whispered through the pain:
"My name… Mary… Who are you, sir?"
She panicked when she saw the black car. She tried to run, but he showed her his badge.
He noticed her hand… her fingers… the torn nail.
He spoke gently:
"Don't worry… I'll take you to the station. We'll catch who did this to you."
"I don't feel well… can you take me to the hospital? My stomach… it hurts."
Jim, though fully aware of her destined death, decided to take her to the station first. He needed her testimony.
He said:
"After you tell us your kidnapper's name, we'll take you straight to the hospital. Otherwise, we can't."
The walkie-talkie crackle grew louder — but he ignored it.
When they arrived, he helped her inside and led her to the interrogation room. Son looked up.
"Who's this?"
Jim, panting, replied:
"She's the victim of the serial killer — Hell's Angel. Her name is Mary. She's on the missing list."
Son stared at his excessive excitement… his sweat… his unstable eyes.
"I'll take it from here. Go outside. Breathe. You don't look well."
Jim chuckled weakly and stepped out.
In the corridor… the walkie-talkie buzzed again. He checked the time — not much left.
He climbed to the roof. Stood on the edge. London's night stretched before him — its stars, its noise, its stone.
He raised the walkie-talkie:
— "Em… are you there? Answer me."
After a long silence:
"Jim… what happened?"
"What do you think happened? I saved the victim… she's downstairs giving her testimony. Once she's done, we'll arrest William immediately. We've beaten him… despite a few necessary sacrifices. He's finished!"
A heavy silence… then Em's voice trembled:
"Jim… what are you talking about? Everything's reverted… your fate is back to its tragic end… you committed suicide in prison! And the killer was never identified! Jim… what did you do wrong?!"
The ground seemed to shift beneath him. He looked down. The world blurred. He fell — backwards — onto the rooftop.
He whispered, trembling:
"Why? I saved her… it's only a matter of time before I arrest him…"
He ran. Rushing down the stairs like falling through them.
A scream — not pain, but shock. A scream that forced time back into its original track.
He burst into the room.
Son stood frozen.
A nurse in the corner — sobbing, screaming.
Jim looked at Mary.
She was collapsed on the floor. Eyes dead. Her abdomen torn open completely.
And from between Jim's feet… a rat crawled out, soaked in blood.
It had been trapped inside a capsule within Mary's stomach.
Jim froze.
Witnessing another death…
Not hers.
But his own.
His name.
His reputation.
His end.
Everything he had built — collapsing like the silence that comes before an explosion.