Jessica was crying. I kept pressure on his wound and gripped his hand.
"Whatever you need. I'll do it."
"Listen." He wet his lips. "Every traveler Damian sends comes through the same wormhole. That means they all arrive on the same day—today. But you were the first one through. Do you know why?"
"Because the Marcus of 2007 was physically closest to you."
"Exactly. Which means that even if I die—even if I don't—as long as the parameters aren't destroyed, more travelers will keep coming after you."
His breath was ragged. "Find the Damian of 2007. He's dangerous. Once he has the parameters to himself, there's no telling what he'll do."
Forty-something years old. In a position of power. And he was telling me to assassinate someone.
"When I came through, Damian was already past fifty. He'd be in his forties now, entrenched. How do I even find him?"
Victor pointed at the hard drive in my hand.
"You have this. He'll come to you."
He started coughing. The wound in his side had affected his breathing—each cough sent fresh blood welling through my fingers. I grabbed towels and rags from a shelf and packed them against the wound.
Anything to buy him a few more minutes.
When the coughing finally subsided, his voice was almost gone—a dry rasp I had to lean in to hear.
"Marcus. You came back because of my daughter, didn't you?"
I didn't answer.
"My mistakes—the Gate, all of it—it's dragged Jessica into this. And you came back for her."
Jessica's crying grew louder beside me.
His eyes drifted toward the shelter's ceiling. "Stephen warned me. He said don't calculate the parameters. I said I'd calculate them but not publish them—what's the harm in that?" A bitter ghost of a laugh. "He told me the moment I finished the calculation, Pandora's box would open."
His focus was starting to waver. But his grip on my wrist was iron—from a man who had nothing left to lose.
"I don't care what happens to the world." His voice was barely a whisper. "My daughter has to live."
---
Jessica's grief didn't manifest as tears.
It manifested as fury.
"You got what you wanted!" She was screaming. "Your mission is done, Marcus! Now get out! GET OUT!"
She threw herself at me—fists, nails, anything she could grab. Books, cans, pieces of broken computer casing. Everything became a projectile.
I didn't dodge. I didn't need to. I was already calculating.
In 2017, the first time I entered the lab, Damian and I had tested each other's combat readiness.
Captain Reeves had walked me through several security checkpoints. Damian strolled over and asked, "This is him?"
Reeves said, "Psych eval aside, he's the best of this batch."
Damian glanced at the security monitor. "Kid, a cop who doesn't carry weapons into the field has a short career."
Then his hand moved—one clean, blinding motion—and a knife was at my throat, edge pressed half a centimeter in. Just enough to draw a bead of blood, not enough to spill.
That was how I knew he was ex-military. Decades of that kind of precision.
But I hadn't lost, either. By the time his blade touched my neck, I'd already removed the top button of his shirt.
That was the fifty-year-old Damian. The forty-year-old version would be even more dangerous.
Jessica was still hitting me, but her blows weren't aimed at anything vital. Every strike was fury without direction. And she hadn't touched the knife lying on the floor.
Conclusion: venting. Not attacking.
The thought filled me with a strange, hollow sadness.
Compared to death, composure of this sort felt almost tragic.
But at least it made things simpler.
Jessica raised both fists for another blow. I caught her arms and pinned her to the ground.
"Shut up."
"Let me go!" She kicked and twisted, but her angle was wrong—every strike missed. "Let me go, Marcus!"
"Jessica, I'm saying this once. I'm not the Marcus you know, and I won't go soft on you!"
I increased the pressure on her wrists. The pain cut through the rage, and she stopped thrashing.
Pain is an efficient sedative.
I leaned close, meeting her eyes. "Let me remind you—if you don't want to die, if you want the eighteen-year-old Marcus to survive this, then shut up and listen."
I released her.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her wrists. "You're not afraid of dying either, are you?" Her voice was quiet and bitter.
"I've considered myself dead for years."
---
I turned to the unconscious assassin and pulled the gag from his mouth.
"Tell me. After me, how many more did Damian send?"
He was tied to a chair, arms wrenched behind his back. I sat across from him.
"Traitor."
He spat a mouthful of blood at my face.
I'd been a cop long enough not to flinch. And back then, I'd had rules—no violent interrogation. But now was different. In a little over six hours, my consciousness would snap back to 2017. If Victor was right about Damian wanting to monopolize the parameters...
Then I had a little over six hours left to live.
I gagged him again and wrapped towels around my fists.
"You know, I once went to the Golden Triangle with Captain Reeves, tracking a drug cartel." I went to the sink and washed my face. "When we arrived, one of our people had been captured. We didn't know the terrain. It took us two days and two nights to locate the compound and extract him."
"Know what they did to him?"
I wound another towel layer around my right hand.
"No fingernails. No teeth."
I pulled the gag and hit him with a padded punch to the jaw. Then again. And again.
Jessica had her eyes squeezed shut, but she didn't leave the room.
After the fifth blow, I pulled the gag free. It came out trailing broken teeth and blood.
"Next time, I start on the fingernails." I grabbed his jaw. "After me, how many more did Damian send?"
"I don't know the total. But I'm number five."
His voice was fading.
"Why do you know who I am?"
"Because my orders were to kill you and Victor Zhou."
"Kill me?"
"That's right. After you came through, they identified you. The three travelers before me all failed."
"Failed how?"
"Killed. By you."
I froze.
I'd killed more people?
If it was to save Jessica, maybe I could convince myself that certain actions were necessary.
But killing? Multiple people? Three?
I turned to look at Jessica. She'd opened her eyes now, and they were brimming with tears.
She was afraid of me.
And honestly? She had every reason to be.
Even I was afraid of myself.
---
I told Jessica to take her father back to the apartment. The wound was deep but the bleeding had slowed—I'd packed enough towels to last the trip.
She looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "You're not coming?"
"I need to think."
She'd stopped crying. She'd stopped yelling. Now she just looked at me with those wide, wet eyes and said nothing.
Then she hooked her arms under her father's and helped him up. Victor leaned on her, limping toward the shelter's exit. He paused at the doorway.
"You have the hard drive," he whispered. "Use it."
And then they were gone.
I sat in the ruined shelter for a long time after that, the unconscious assassin behind me, the hum of dying computers the only sound.