Chapter 2 – Family
Jack stepped out of the medical center and into the frigid city beyond. The wind met him with sharp, biting gusts, lashing at his face, while the snowfall settled silently on his shoulders like tiny, frozen whispers. Fortunately, his coat shielded him from the worst of it. Thick and heavy, it insulated his body completely, keeping the cold at bay.
The fabric was no ordinary material. It didn't come from any known Earth-bound textile. In fact, its origins lay far beyond this world—somewhere alien, unfamiliar, and way beyond anything he could reach. Its resistance to cold was almost unnatural, nearly perfect in its effect.
Exhaling slowly, Jack tilted his head up and stared at the sky. Though it was a clear day, scattered with clouds, the sight above was anything but ordinary. Looming high above, far beyond the clouds, was something surreal—an enormous clock.
Its sheer size was staggering.
The clock blanketed the heavens, stretching across the entire curvature of the Earth. The hands extended as far as the horizon itself, and each numeral was so massive it looked capable of swallowing entire continents. It wasn't a painting in the sky or a projection—this was real.
This was the Clock.
It had been there for as long as anyone could remember. No history book could explain when it appeared, and no myth could say how. It simply existed—an eternal presence watching over the world since the beginning of humanity.
No one knew its purpose. Every expedition or technological attempt to reach it had failed, no matter how advanced. Humanity had no choice but to live beneath its ticking gaze, helpless to do anything else.
Once every ten years, its second hand would move.
With that single tick, millions across the world would vanish—spirited away in the phenomenon known as The Skip. These people would reappear in another world, completely separate from Earth, reborn as Chronists—bearers of time, gifted with supernatural powers that defied all logic.
Jack's eyes were fixed on the time displayed above.
11:59:58…
"The Skip will happen next week," he thought to himself.
Every New Year's Day, the second hand ticked forward. And once it reached midnight—12:00:00—no one knew what would happen. Theories and debates had swirled for centuries. Still, no answer had ever come. And now, next week would mark the final ten-year stretch before that long-awaited moment arrived.
"The truth, huh?" Jack murmured. "People are obsessed with the truth… and yet they lie so much."
His gaze dropped from the sky to the world around him. He stood silently, observing the bustling city before slowly turning to walk home. The cold prompted him to slide his hands into his pockets, but his eyes remained alert, scanning.
He didn't blink often.
He didn't need to.
Jack's mind worked in overdrive. He noticed everything—the movements of the people passing by, their expressions, their posture, the texture of their coats, the stray cat darting across the sidewalk, the fragile snow piled atop a nearby rooftop, ready to fall. His awareness of detail was far beyond the average person's.
His memory was flawless, photographic. His thought process was rapid—so fast it outpaced most people's comprehension.
People called him a genius.
But Jack hated that word.
"I'm not a genius," he mused, walking quietly. "People just don't like to think. When they see something they can't do, they give it a label to make it feel familiar… to make themselves feel like they understand. But they don't understand anything at all."
He watched the people pass by, smiling, laughing, talking about trivial things—and felt a strange sense of envy.
They weren't burdened by endless thought. Their eyes were blank, their minds quiet. They weren't constantly calculating, analyzing, noticing. They were simply living, and that, to Jack, looked peaceful.
He hated that he could think the way he did.
He hated that he couldn't stop.
This constant barrage of thought, this uncontrollable awareness… it was a quiet torture, endless and unrelenting. No one understood it. Instead, they distanced themselves from him because of it. That was the real reason he had always been isolated.
Letting out a slow breath, Jack continued on his way, weaving through the streets until he finally reached the quiet outskirts of the city.
The neighborhood he arrived at was a far cry from the chaos of the city center. The streets were calm, lined with trimmed hedges and elegant trees. Large houses stood with pride behind tall gates, most with wide lawns and private gardens. It was a haven for the wealthy.
Jack's family lived comfortably. His father was a high-profile lawyer. His mother, a respected university professor. With their success came status—and luxury. Jack had never lacked anything material in his life.
But he had never asked for much either.
Reaching a large, three-story mansion, Jack fished out his keys. The house had a spacious front yard and a back patio with a large pool. Inside, it was just as grand—an open living room, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the backyard, and polished stairs leading upward.
He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and hung up his coat. The warmth of the house enveloped him immediately.
From the kitchen, he heard movement—someone shifting, a cup clinking against a saucer.
He walked toward the sound and found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. Her jet-black hair fell over her tired face. Beautiful once, but now lined with exhaustion and stress.
She didn't look up from her phone.
"How did it go?" she asked, her voice cold, distant.
"She said she can't help me," Jack replied, leaning against the doorframe.
"Again?" she finally looked up, her expression frustrated. "How does this happen every time? This is the 4th one to do it. Are these people even qualified? Unbelievable…"
Jack said nothing and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
"Wait, Jack."
He paused.
She got up and approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her voice softened—just a little.
"Don't worry. These incompetent people are useless. I'll find someone who can really help you… someone who can fix you."
She offered him a tired smile, as if it was meant to be reassuring.
Jack looked at her, eyes void of emotion. He didn't say a word—just gave a faint nod and turned away.
"Fix me, huh?" he thought to himself. "I never asked to be fixed."
His room was tucked into the far corner of the second floor. Inside, it was sparse and colorless—just a bed, a desk, some furniture. But what stood out most were the trophies neatly arranged across one shelf. Awards from chess, coding, painting, sports, writing. His parents had tried to introduce him to everything. He had mastered each one in turn.
But he had never enjoyed a single thing.
None of it interested him. Even when others thought he had to focus on these hobbies, he never saw the charm of it. It didn't pose a challenge for him to care.
It all felt like a task—pointless repetition.
Sitting on his bed, Jack scanned the room. His eyes blinked slowly as the whirlwind of thoughts in his head refused to quiet. No matter how tired he was, the constant mental noise remained. Thousands of ideas, observations, conclusions. Every moment, every second.
It never stopped.
But sleep… sleep was different.
He laid down, and for once, there was stillness. Jack never dreamed—not even once. For someone whose brain was always active, his sleep was peaceful, silent. It was the only time he felt calm. The only time he could rest.
And slowly, he drifted into that silence.
Time passed.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. Jack sank deeper and deeper into the void of sleep, untouched by dreams, untouched by thought.
By the time his eyes fluttered open, it was already dark outside. The clock on his nightstand read 8:23 PM.
"I've slept the entire day," he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He turned to grab his phone—but something outside the window caught his attention.
A faint light.
Jack paused.
Outside, piercing through the night, a soft glow hovered in the sky. Curious, he leaned toward the window. High above, floating gently, was an orb of light—its glow steady, warm, and strangely beautiful.
"What's that…?" he whispered, eyes narrowing.
As if responding to his voice, the orb began descending, slowly making its way toward his window.
Jack watched, unmoving, captivated.
It stopped just outside the glass. The orb was smooth, perfect—slightly larger than his head—and it radiated warmth like a gentle sun.
For a long moment, Jack could only stare. Everything else faded away.
His hand moved instinctively.
He unlatched the window and opened it.
The orb drifted inside, floating peacefully just in front of him. Its light bathed the room in a soft hue.
Jack's eyes widened slightly, reflecting the orb's glow. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Then, without warning…
…the orb began to change rapidly.