The compass was a stupid, tarnished piece of junk. Foster was sure of it. It sat on his dresser, a ten dollar monument to his own poor acting and Havelock's shrewdness.
For days, he'd ignored it, a silent reminder of a failed reconnaissance mission.
But on this particular morning, as he prepared for another day split between two worlds, his eyes kept drifting back to it.
The memory of its erratic behavior—not pointing north, but towards the window, towards the city, nagged at him.
_It's broken._
He told himself.
_That's the whole point. The old man sold me broken goods._
Yet, a stubborn, paranoid thought took root. Havelock was many things, but he was not a cheat. He was a craftsman. Everything in his shop, even the junk, had a history, a purpose.
What was the purpose of a broken compass?
Driven by a impulse he didn't understand, Foster picked it up before leaving for the station. He shoved it deep into his pants pocket, the cold brass a faint, ridiculous weight against his leg.
A good luck charm? A punishment? He didn't know.
The station was its usual hive of grim activity. He spent the morning buried in the OmniCorp file, his Andrew Garfield mind cross-referencing it with the Mill case notes from his Foster Ambrose mind.
The synergy was sickening. Every piece of data he'd gathered as a cop about the mill's layout and access points was now being used by his other self to plan its efficient demolition and redevelopment.
He was a snake eating its own tail.
During a lull, he found himself standing over the evidence table where the remains of Leo's "whispering device" were stored. Neil had it mostly reassembled, a sad skeleton of wires and crystals.
"Anything new?" Foster asked.
Neil shook his head. "It's like trying to read a book that's been burned. The data is just… gone. That same perfect erasure."
He gestured at the device. "But the design is brilliant. He wasn't just an enginee, he was an artist. He was trying to listen to the city's heartbeat."
Foster's hand, resting in his pocket, brushed against the compass. He felt a sudden, sharp vibration, a faint buzz that traveled up his leg. He jerked his hand back.
"You okay?" Neil asked, noticing his flinch.
"Fine. Static." Foster mumbled, his heart hammering. He slowly reached back into his pocket.
The compass was warm. Not from his body heat, but with a strange, thrumming energy. He wrapped his fingers around it.
The vibration intensified. It wasn't random. It was a pulse, a slow, rhythmic beat that seemed to sync with the thrum of anxiety in his own chest. He pulled it out, cupping it in his palm so Neil couldn't see.
The needle wasn't spinning wildly anymore. It was trembling, straining against its pivot, pointing with unwavering intent towards the east wall of the station.
Towards the Mill.
"I, uh… I have to go." Foster stammered, closing his hand around the compass.
The pulse was now a steady, insistent throb against his palm, a silent alarm.
"Everything alright, Ambrose?" It was Captain Hanson's voice, flat and sudden from behind him.
Foster spun around, shoving the compass back into his pocket. The vibration muted, but didn't stop. "Yes, sir. Just… following a hunch."
Hanson's gaze was a physical weight. "Hunches are for racetracks, Ambrose. We deal in evidence."
His eyes flickered to the evidence table, then back to Foster.
"The Mill case. Wrap it up. The union is getting loud, and the vultures from OmniCorp are circling. I want it closed. Today."
The command was a bucket of cold water. "Sir, there are still unanswered—"
"Answer them with 'case closed due to lack of evidence,'" Hanson interrupted. "That is an order." He turned and walked away, leaving no room for argument.
Foster stood frozen, the Captain's order warring with the frantic pulse in his pocket.
The compass was pulling him towards the Mill, towards the truth. Hanson was ordering him to bury it.
He looked at the evidence table, at Leo's brilliant, broken device.
He thought of the journal, the authorities, the web of connections. He thought of the ten-dollar compass, a piece of junk that was now humming with a life of its own, a gift from a clockmaker who understood the city's hidden gears.
Hanson wanted it closed. The compass was telling him it was just beginning.
He made his decision. He wouldn't close it. He would follow the needle.
He didn't know what he would find at the mill—a clue, a monster, or just his own ruin.
But the compass, the stupid, tarnished, ten-dollar compass, was the first thing in this entire twisted world that had given him a clear, undeniable direction.
He walked out of the station, the Captain's order hanging over him like a blade, and the compass in his pocket beating like a second, rebellious heart.