The walk back to my apartment was different. Usually, I spent those forty minutes staring at the cracked pavement, counting my steps to distract myself from the wind cutting through my threadbare hoodie.
But that night, I walked with my head up. My hand was shoved deep into my pocket, gripping the crinkled wrapper of the Honey Bun like it was a golden ticket.
I didn't stop time again on the way home. My head felt like it had been put through a dehydrator, and every time I blinked, I saw red spots dancing against the dark sky.
But the knowledge—the weight of the "Silence" sitting in the back of my brain—that was better than any drug.
My apartment was a shoebox on the fourth floor of a building that smelled permanently of boiled cabbage and damp drywall.
I pushed the door open, the hinges screaming in a way that usually made me wince. Not tonight. I just laughed.
I sat on my sagging mattress, the springs groaning under me, and looked at the pile of overdue bills on my "desk" (which was actually just a plastic crate covered with a piece of plywood).
Electricity. Water. Rent.
"You guys have no idea," I whispered to the envelopes. "The rules just changed."
The next morning, I was supposed to be at the diner by 6:00 AM. I've spent two years scrubbing dried egg yolk off plates for seven dollars an hour plus tips from people who look at me like I'm part of the furniture.
I stood outside the diner's glass doors. I could see my boss, Lou, a man whose neck was broader than his forehead, screaming at a new cook. I could see the steam rising from the grill. I could see the exhaustion waiting for me in that grease-stained apron.
I didn't go in. Instead, I walked three blocks over to "The Sterling." It was one of those boutiques where the mannequins wear suits that cost more than my car, and the air inside smells like sandalwood and "fuck you" money.
I stood by the entrance, my heart hammering. I wasn't hungry anymore, but I was tired. I was tired of being the boy in the gray hoodie. I wanted to be the guy people looked at.
I reached for the "click" in my mind.
It was easier this time. It didn't feel like a lucky break; it felt like a muscle I was learning to flex. The roar of the morning traffic—the honking taxis, the screeching brakes of the city bus—suddenly hit a wall of absolute void.
Silence.....
I pushed through the boutique's door. It was heavy, like pushing through a foot of wet snow. Inside, the world was a masterpiece of stillness. A sales associate was caught mid-gesture, her hand extended toward a rack of silk ties, her mouth frozen in a polite, practiced smile.
I walked right past her.
I reached out and touched a charcoal-gray suit. The fabric "woke up" under my fingers, the wool softening as it entered my timeline. I stripped off my hoodie, throwing it onto the floor. It didn't fall; it drifted down like it was sinking through honey, eventually settling in a heap.
I dressed myself in the "Silence." I put on a crisp white shirt, the silk tie, the suit jacket. I even found a pair of Italian leather shoes. Putting them on was a struggle—I had to manually force my feet into the "frozen" shoes, the leather unyielding until my body heat and touch softened the material.
I walked over to a mirror. For the first time in my life, I didn't look like a charity case. I looked like I belonged.
But then, I looked at the sales associate.
From two feet away, she didn't look like a person. Her eyes were fixed, the moisture on her pupils shimmering like glass. I could see a tiny speck of dust caught on her eyelash.
She was a prop. A doll.
The horror of it hit me then—not a "run away" kind of horror, but a cold, creeping realization. If I stayed here long enough, I could do anything to her. I could move her, I could take the watch off her wrist, I could rearrange her life, and she would never know.
To her, I was a ghost. To me, she was an object.
The amazement fought back the creepiness. I walked behind the glass counter. There was a stack of hundreds in the register, half-counted. I didn't take them all.
I wasn't a "criminal"—not in my head, anyway. I just took two. Two hundred dollars. A "convenience fee" for the universe.
My head started to throb. The red spots were back.
"Start," I choked out.
CRACK.
The sound of the city hit me like a physical blow. The sales associate finished her sentence—"—and these are hand-stitched in Milan."
She blinked, her eyes finally focusing. She looked at me, then looked down at my old hoodie on the floor, then back at me in the three-thousand-dollar suit.
"I... I'm sorry, sir," she stammered, her face turning a bright, confused red. "I didn't see you come in. Can I help you with... is that your sweatshirt?"
I smiled. It was the easiest smile I'd ever given.
"No, just some trash I found. I'll take the suit. I'm already wearing it, after all."
I handed her the two hundred-dollar bills I'd just taken from her own register. She took them, her hands shaking slightly from the sheer "weirdness" of the moment she couldn't explain. She didn't question it.
People hate admitting their brains just skipped a beat. They'd rather believe a lie than admit they lost a second of their lives.
By the end of the week, I had stopped going to classes. Why study for a degree to get a job I didn't need?
I spent my days exploring the "Stall." I found that if I stood perfectly still in the frozen world, I could hear things. Not sounds, exactly, but a low-frequency hum, like the vibration of a tuning fork held against my skull. And sometimes, in the corner of my vision, I'd see a shadow move. Just a flicker.
A smudge of blackness that didn't belong in a world where nothing moved.
I ignored it. I was too busy being a god.
I started going to the high-stakes poker games held in the back of "Manny's Garage."
These weren't college kids playing for pizza money; these were guys with tattoos on their knuckles and guns in their waistbands.
I sat at the table, wearing my New York suit, looking like a trust-fund brat who'd lost his way.
"Fold," I'd say, over and over, building a reputation as a coward.
Then came the big one. A guy named 'Brick'—who looked like he'd been carved out of a granite quarry—pushed a stack of chips into the center. "Five thousand. You in College?"
My heart was doing that slow, heavy thump-thump again. I didn't even have five thousand.
"I'm in," I said.
I didn't wait for him to show his cards. I clicked.
The world turned to stone. The smoke from Brick's cigar was a grey, twisted pillar rising toward the ceiling. I stood up. The air was thicker here—maybe because of the tension, or maybe because I was using the power too much. I felt like I was pushing through invisible gelatin.
I walked around the table. I leaned over Brick's shoulder. His eyes were wide, predatory, fixed on his cards. I reached out and peeled his fingers back.
Three Kings!
I looked at my own cards. Two Pair. I was dead in the water.
I didn't just look. I switched them. I took his Kings and gave him my garbage.
The cards felt heavy, resisting the change in "ownership." As I moved them, I felt that sharp, stabbing pain behind my eyes. My nose started to drip.
I looked at the shadow in the corner of the room. This time, it wasn't just a flicker. It was a shape. A tall, thin smudge of darkness that seemed to be watching me. It didn't have a face, but I felt its eyes.
Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through me.
"Start!" I yelled.
The world exploded into motion.
Brick grinned, slamming his cards down.
"Full house, kid. Read 'em and—"
He stopped. He stared at the cards in front of him. A three and a seven. Non-suited. Garbage.
"What the...?" he whispered.
I laid down the three Kings.
"Tough luck, Brick. Guess the deck didn't like you tonight."
I scooped the chips toward me. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped them. I could feel the blood running down my lip, warm and metallic.
Brick stood up, his chair flying backward.
"You cheated. I don't know how, but you cheated!"
"How?" I laughed, the adrenaline masking the pain in my head. "I didn't even move, man. We all saw it."
I walked out of that garage with ten thousand dollars in a duffel bag. I felt like a king. I felt like I had conquered time itself.
But as I walked under a flickering streetlight, I looked at my shadow. For a split second, my shadow didn't move when I did. It stayed still, its "head" tilted to the side, watching me.
The "Silence" wasn't just a tool. It was a place. And I was starting to think something lived there.