The trouble comes early.

  Buck is halfway through a boning knife when the common room changes temperature. Not literally. Socially. Conversation does not stop so much as thin out, voices pulling back into throats like everyone decided to inhale at the same time.

  Elysia looks up from the floor first.

  Her smile vanishes.

  Boots on wood. Slow. Deliberate. The Atlantic Guard do not knock. They do not hurry. They arrive like gravity.

  Buck keeps his eyes on the blade.

  Angle. Pressure. Listen to the stone.

  Maeve stands behind the counter, shoulders squared, jaw tight. She has seen this before. Everyone here has.

  The man who steps forward wears confidence like a uniform. Clean coat. Clean hands. A smile that never reaches his eyes.

  Caleb “Low Tide” Mercer.

  “Morning,” he says pleasantly. “Heard you’ve been generous lately.”

  Maeve does not blink. “I run a boarding house. Generosity comes with the rent.”

  Low Tide glances at Buck, then back to her. “Funny. Favors usually come with permission.”

  Buck feels the air tighten.

  This is a pivot, B.U.C.K. says quietly. Pay attention.

  Low Tide gestures with two fingers toward Buck. “That one yours.”

  “He works,” Maeve says. “Same as anyone else.”

  Low Tide smiles thinly. “Irish work has a way of getting crowded.”

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  A chair scrapes. Someone mutters a prayer. Someone else goes very still.

  Buck finishes the stroke and wipes the blade clean. He does not look up yet.

  Maeve steps forward. “You don’t collect here.”

  Low Tide sighs, as if disappointed. “You don’t decide that.”

  One of the men behind him steps closer. Too close. His hand reaches for the knife Buck is holding.

  Buck moves.

  Not fast. Not violent. Exact.

  He stands, pivots, and presses the freshly sharpened edge against the man’s throat. Not enough to cut. Enough that everyone understands the difference is a breath.

  The room freezes.

  Buck’s voice is calm. “Don’t.”

  The man swallows. It is visible.

  Maeve gasps. “Buck.”

  Easy, B.U.C.K. says, steady but tight. You’re balanced. Stay there.

  Low Tide raises a hand.

  “That’ll do,” he says.

  His tone has shifted. Curious now. Measuring.

  He studies Buck properly this time. “Good hands.”

  Buck does not answer.

  Low Tide steps closer, slow and deliberate. “You’re new. You don’t know how this ends.”

  Buck meets his eyes. “I know how this ends.”

  Silence stretches.

  Then Low Tide chuckles softly.

  “Put the knife down,” he says. “Before someone makes a mistake they can’t walk back.”

  Buck holds the blade a heartbeat longer, then eases it away and steps back. The henchman stumbles, rubbing his throat, eyes wide.

  Low Tide straightens his coat. “We’ll speak again.”

  Maeve says nothing.

  The Guard files out. Boots heavy. Presence lingering like a bad smell after the door closes.

  The room exhales as one.

  Maeve turns on Buck, fear and anger tangled together. “You cannot do that.”

  “I know,” Buck says quietly.

  You really cannot do that again, B.U.C.K. adds.

  Buck nods once.

  That afternoon, Buck does not sharpen.

  He waits.

  When dusk settles, he slips out back into the narrow alley behind the boarding house. Brick walls. Damp stone. Old smells. The city breathing on the other side of everything.

  “This is it,” Buck says.

  Yes, B.U.C.K. replies. We do not get another warning.

  Buck’s heart is steady. That surprises him.

  “Tell me exactly what to do.”

  The HUD appears, faint but precise. The spiral. The sequence. The smallest interval highlighted. At the center of his awareness, something that looks like a knife switch that would be found on early electrical systems waits for him to flip it into place. Not physical. But Intentional nonetheless.

  You have to choose, B.U.C.K. says. Not push. Not force. Just… agree.

  Buck closes his eyes.

  He breathes.

  And then, mentally, deliberately, he flips the switch into place.

  The sensation is immediate and intimate. Not violence. Not rupture.

  It feels like friction disappearing.

  Like the difference between trying to slide dry skin against dry skin and suddenly understanding why lubrication exists.

  Time does not resist. It yields.

  Yes, B.U.C.K. makes a sound like letting a breath out, relief flooding the words. That’s it.

  Corporate travel is like going in dry. This is… more cooperative.

  Buck almost laughs.

  The alley does not explode into white. It does not tear or scream.

  It glides.

  Reality loosens its grip just enough to let him pass. A single careful step forward, like shifting weight from one foot to the other when the ground is exactly where you expect it to be.

  No nausea. No pain.

  Just motion that feels indecently right.

  The alley reforms around him.

  The bricks are the same, but subtly not. The air carries a different weight. The city hums at a slightly altered pitch.

  Buck opens his eyes, breath catching.

  “That was,” he says.

  Yes, B.U.C.K. replies softly. That was surging.

  Somewhere behind him, time settles back into place. And for the first time in his life, Buck has moved with it instead of being dragged along.