The clock struck 20:99.
Absurd?
Yet no one seemed to notice.
At that very hour, the city's bells echoed in unison. Musicians flooded the streets, their instruments weaving a symphony of sorrow.
As Ferry walked, a distant scream pierced the air—only to be swallowed by the clamor of the ensemble. He nearly missed it entirely.
It was winter, an unseasonable chill lingering through May in London. Ferry wore a thick coat trimmed with fur, its weight a comfort against the cold. He passed through the chaos without stopping, though the cacophony of the street musicians grated on his nerves.
He noted the strangeness of it—this spectacle unfolding near the eastern palace district. There had to be a reason. But Ferry dismissed it with a shrug.
He wandered aimlessly, chasing the crisp evening air—until a storm rolled in, scattering the crowd. Through the blizzard, a figure in heavy clothes pedaled desperately on a bicycle. From afar, Ferry watched as the rider faltered, tumbling into a drift of snow.
He reported it to Lady Jissie. Together, they hauled the man inside.
"Why would you do something so reckless?" Jissie demanded.
"I had no choice. My company would've collapsed," the man gasped.
Ferry smirked. He clapped a hand on the man's shoulder. "Poor devil."
They debated whether to help. Something about his story felt incomplete.
Finally, the man confessed:
"I own Marc News. Overnight, Cartographery crushed us. Our reporting was called 'dull' next to their 'fresh' headlines. I tried pivoting, but my capital vanished—every journalist I hired defected to them."
Jissie cut in, "That doesn't explain the suicide ride."
"Cartographery partnered with the bank. My loan's interest jumped to 34% weekly. If I don't pay, they'll seize everything."
Ferry's grin sharpened. "So you want us to clear your debts?"
"No! Just—take my place for a week. That's all I ask."
"You won't run?" Ferry's stare pinned him.
"Wait—Ferry, you do recall your promise?" Jissie interjected.
"Which one? Oh, that. Relax, I'll handle it," he said airily.
"Ferry. Focus."
"Fine. One week," he conceded.
The man sagged in relief. "Thank you, Mr. Ferry!"
"Conditions," Ferry countered. "One: I've got military ties. Flee, and they'll hunt you. Two: I operate my way. No complaints."
"Agreed."
The next morning, Ferry borrowed Jissie's car for the commute. His duties were simple: sort documents, compile reports, and deliver them to Cartographery's offices.
Yet Ferry altered things—shuffling dates until discrepancies glared. A clerk noticed him skimming confidential files but dismissed it as eccentricity.
Days one through three passed without incident.
Then came May 14th. Ferry skipped work. Instead, he blew the man's wages on a VIP theater ticket, yawned through a classical drama, then paid to switch the program to an action play.
He even dragged Jissie's military aide on a museum tour—all funded by a single day's salary.
Meanwhile, a curious clerk peeked at the latest report. Inside, a foreign phrase glared in French:
"Go to Oxford Street. —Mr. Malep White."
Back at the museum, Jissie's expression darkened. Her eyes burned like coals; her clenched jaw might as well have snarled, "Why don't you just die?"
Ferry strolled past, unbothered.
Evening fell.
As he turned toward home, the memory struck—he'd forgotten something.