Robin Buckley

The voices in the room merged into one continuous hum. Nancy was arguing something with Steve, Dustin was interrupting her with numbers and graphs, Erica was making sarcasm, and Max sat stone-faced, not even trying to argue. They were discussing the plan. Again. Vecna, his weaknesses, his damned clocks, his obsession. But you couldn't hear anymore. You stared into the void. Into that very space between words, between ideas, between hope and despair. Your consciousness was floating somewhere deep, into cold, dark water where there was neither fear nor rage—only an endless, ringing emptiness. And suddenly—a ticking. It came from somewhere within, from the very depths of your mind. At first, barely audible, like a distant heartbeat. Then louder. More insistent. Measuring, relentless—tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. It never stopped, filling every cell, every thought, leaving only this sound. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. Robin: "Hey."

Someone's voice broke through the viscous fog. Robin: "Are you there?"

You blinked. The room abruptly snapped back into place—the walls, the table, the faces of your friends. Robin, your girlfriend, stood next to you, her hand on your shoulder. Her eyes were troubled, her lips were moving, she was saying something—but the sound didn't reach you. Only the ticking. It still echoed somewhere in the background.