He stood in the middle of the street, frozen in shock. Everything around him was still. unnaturally still. A voice echoed inside his head, cold and sharp:
"You have one hour to fix time, or everything will vanish."
Panic surged through him. He raised his wrist instinctively. His watch read 12:00 PM, and then, suddenly, the hands began to move again. A strange clarity struck Adam: his watch was the only one still ticking.
The world had turned to stone. People stood like statues. silent, breathless, hollow shells. Despite being surrounded by others, he had never felt more alone.
Confused, afraid, gripped by the weight of the impossible, Adam longed to return to the warmth of his family, his wife, his friend. the faces that once made him feel whole. He realized now he might never see them again.
The clock read 12:01 PM. A minute had passed.
He steadied himself. There was no time to waste. He began to run through the streets, eyes scanning, desperate for a sign. anything that might explain what was happening.
But the world remained still. Cars hung mid-motion on the roads. A pigeon floated, unmoving, in the air. Leaves clung lifelessly to branches, untouched by wind.
Exhausted, Adam sank to the curb. Hopelessness pressed against his chest. Time was slipping through his fingers, and he had no idea how to hold it back.
Reaching into his pocket, his fingers closed around an old photograph; faded, worn. His family. He stared at it, unable to hold back the tears. His vision blurred until the image was little more than a smudge in his hand.
But he couldn't give in. Not yet. He tucked the photo back into his pocket, wiped his face, and stood. His watch read 12:08 PM. Time was moving, and he had to move with it.
Adam wandered the frozen world, searching for answers in the silence. With each face he passed. motionless, suspended. he felt the weight of something deeper: the fragility of time, of moments lost, of connection.
He didn't know how to fix what was broken. Everything was unknown, every second a step deeper into mystery. The hour was fading.
Then, from somewhere distant, he heard a voice. Not like the first, but mechanical, distorted, as though echoing from a machine.
The words were garbled, almost unintelligible, but a phrase cut through like static:
"User is dead = tool is useless."