The room shuddered. The window became a door. Beyond it, Marlow saw Lena Vasquez, ageless, standing in a corridor lined with ticking clocks—all stopped at 4:05. She waved him forward.
wasn’t a time. It was a pattern.
The reflection slid a key across the glass—a physical key, impossible, clattering to the floor on Marlow’s side. Etched on it: . - - - - - - Private Eyes SPD-016 -4-5