Inessa’s palms were slick with Merrick’s blood, hot and sticky, then chilling fast. She pressed down, hard, her knuckles white, hearing the wet, squelching sound of the wound beneath her efforts. Sirens wailed closer, a chaotic symphony of urgency outside the apartment door. She pushed on his sternum, counting mechanically, then tilted his head back, pinching his nose, forcing air into his unmoving lungs. One, two, three… His lips were cold, still. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, reflecting the emergency lights now flashing through the grimy window. It was useless. She knew it. The data said it. But she wouldn't stop. Not for him. “Don’t you dare, you absolute bastard,” she snarled, pressing her weight into his chest again, hearing a faint crack. Her own voice was raw, unfamiliar. “You don’t get to die on me after I finally got some leverage.” Heavy boots pounded up the stairs, followed by the crash of her door being kicked in. Uniformed officers flooded the room, their faces grim, weapons drawn. A medic, surprisingly calm amidst the chaos, pushed her aside with gentle firmness. "Let me through, miss. We've got him." Inessa stumbled back, trembling, watching as they cut away the rest of Merrick's bloodied shirt, attaching electrodes, barking orders. The room smelled of iodine and coppery wet cotton. She backed into the doorframe, knuckles hooked into her denim pockets to keep them from shaking. The CEO, still trussed like a Christmas ham, lay muttering on the floor, a pool of drool forming around his slack jaw. She was hustled out, a blanket wrapped around her, her skin clammy. Two investigators cornered her on the landing, their clipboards rattling against the banister while she spat short answers through chattering teeth. Behind the yellow tape, the ambulance rear doors clapped shut with a heavy latch. She kept her gaze fixed on the receding red cross, even as reporters swarmed, their flashes popping like aggressive fireflies. The Morvalis evening news played on a small, wall-mounted television in the hospital waiting room. Inessa, still covered in smudges of grime and dried blood, stared blankly at the screen. Her CEO, Wilfred Korven, was being led out of the corporate tower in handcuffs, red-faced and yelling obscenities at the flashbulbs. The anchorwoman detailed the collapse of the conglomerate, attributing it to a massive data leak that had exposed a global web of illicit shell companies. “Sources indicate,” she announced, “that the anonymous whistleblower who provided the information has brought down a titan of industry.” Inessa watched the ticker crawl along the bottom of the screen, her thumbs digging into the vinyl upholstery. Hours later, a doctor, his face lined with fatigue, approached her. “He’s stable, for now. Lost a lot of blood. The bullet grazed his heart… but we managed to restart it.” Inessa’s knees nearly buckled. “Restart?” Her voice was a cracked whisper. “He flatlined for almost two minutes on the way here. We used the paddles. He’s a fighter.” The doctor offered a small, tired smile. “You can see him, briefly. He’s in ICU.” She walked down the long, antiseptic corridor, the smell of sterile cleaners assaulting her nose. In the intensive care unit, Merrick lay pale against the white sheets, tubes running from his arm, an oxygen mask covering his face. The rhythmic *beep-beep-beep* of a heart monitor was the only sound. He was alive. Her breath caught in her collarbone, leaving her dizzy against the doorframe. His eyes, bruised with exhaustion, cracked open. He tried to smile, a weak, lopsided tilt of his lips. “You… look like hell.” His voice was raspy, barely audible. Inessa leaned closer, gripping the aluminum bed rail. “You know what, Merrick Tahl? I’m going to kill you myself if you ever pull a stunt like that again.” Her voice was thick, betraying the terror she’d felt. “You absolute, suicidal idiot. I just got you back. Don’t you ever leave me.” His gaze softened, a hint of his old, quiet amusement returning. He reached out a shaky hand, finding hers. His palm was rough, calloused, familiar. “Couldn’t leave you to face Morvalis alone, could I? Might actually have had to look at a spreadsheet.” She squeezed his hand, a genuine, if still darkly tinted, laugh escaping her. “Too true. You really are a glutton for punishment.” Two days later, Tavi burst into Merrick’s private hospital room, a whirlwind of hyperactive energy that made the nurses glare. He held a thick, embossed envelope. “Look at this! Look at this! The papers came through! They seized the old man's personal holdings, the legal team said it was a… a ‘reparations package’ for the ‘unnamed parties affected by his corporate malfeasance’.” Tavi practically vibrated with excitement, waving a large, official-looking document. “This! This is the deed! To the *Pelagic Seraph*! Thirty meters, twin engines, a helipad, and a fully stocked galley! They even threw in a year’s worth of fuel!” Inessa grinned, her arm tucked around Merrick’s as he slowly recovered. “So, no more *Sea Urchin* for you, then?” Tavi preened. “Never again! I’m going to sail it to every single remote island, deliver packages, and tell everyone my tale of daring escape! This is freedom, Inessa! Absolute, undeniable freedom!” He hugged them both, carefully avoiding Merrick’s bandaged chest, then bounded out, already making plans. Later that week, in Merrick’s private recovery suite—paid for by a liquidation settlement fund from the shuttered firm—she unzipped her battered laptop case. She looked at the sleek, black machine, the conduit to her old life, the source of her constant dread. She opened it, navigated to the desktop, and with a decisive click, dragged the entire contents of her ‘Work’ folder to the recycling bin, then emptied it. She then closed the lid, and for the first time in over a decade, unplugged the power cord, placing it neatly in a drawer, never to be touched again. “Feels good?” Merrick asked, watching her from his armchair, a faint scar running along his jawline from the attack. “Liberating,” she confirmed, turning to him. In her hand, she held another official document, heavier, more substantial. “And this?” She presented it to him. “The deed to the Salted Fig Inn. The Morvalis authorities deemed it ‘structurally unsound after an unfortunate incident involving highly flammable materials and a rogue lightning strike.’ They offered significant compensation, enough to rebuild it. Bigger, better, with actual working clocks this time.” Merrick set the document flat on his knee, running his fingers over the seal. He reached for the deed, his thumb tracing the crisp paper. “Pellaris.” “Pellaris,” Inessa echoed, stepping into his arms, carefully minding his injuries. She rested her head against his steady chest, listening to the strong, comforting beat of his heart. The Glass Summer was still raging, a distant, shimmering haze visible from the hospital window, but its hold felt less terrifying now. It was just a temporary anomaly, a phenomenon to be waited out, not feared. From a small, antique clock on the bedside table, a clock Merrick had insisted on having, the minute hand jerked forward, a small, barely audible *tick* breaking the quiet. For the first time, in a long time, the clocks were moving forward.

Ticking Clocks and New Deeds