The Price of a Second

Six days later, the cold autumn wind swept across the industrial district of Newark.

Carter arrived in an expensive rideshare, stepping out onto the cracked asphalt outside a red-brick warehouse. The building looked decades old, bearing a faded brass plaque: *Vance Mechanical Restoration & Vocational Institute*.

Carter had traded his designer leather for a heavy flannel shirt and work boots he had bought the night before. His hands, uncalloused and soft, felt numb in the morning chill.

He pushed open the heavy steel door. The smell of machine grease, citrus solvent, and aged copper hit him immediately.

At a long workbench under hanging fluorescent lamps sat half a dozen workers. Among them, wearing a dark canvas apron with sleeves rolled up, was Julian. He was carefully adjusting the escapement wheel of an antique grandfather clock using a set of micro-tweezers.

Julian looked up as the door slammed shut.

"Six o’clock sharp," Julian noted, glancing at the mechanical wall clock overhead. "You’re on time, Carter. Put your phone in the locker by the entrance. No screens on the bench floor."

Carter hesitated, his fingers clutching his device like a lifeline. For years, validation had come entirely from notifications. Giving it up felt like losing a limb.

Slowly, he walked to the metal locker, placed the phone inside, and turned the key.

"What do I do?" Carter asked quietly, his voice lacking every trace of the arrogance he had carried on 5th Avenue.