The Second Hand

The streetlamp flickered above, casting long, janky shadows that danced with the drizzle. Leo’s breath hitched, a raw, ragged sound stuck in his throat. Mickey, his partner, lay sprawled near the back door of Morelli’s Jewelry, a dark, growing stain blossoming on his chest. And the guard. Oh, God, the guard. He wasn’t moving, just a silent lump beside an overturned trash can, a cheap pistol still clutched in his hand. The alarm, a shrill, piercing shriek, ripped through the damp night air, drilling a hole right into Leo’s skull. His hands were shaking, not from cold, but from something far worse, a deep internal tremor that threatened to tear him apart.

He remembered the clock, a beat-up old pocket watch he’d lifted from a pawn shop weeks ago. Not for time, no. This thing was different. Heavy, cold metal, etched with markings he couldn’t decipher, and a single, almost invisible button on its side. He’d pressed it once, by accident, and the world had juddered, then blurred, and he was suddenly back, standing a foot to the left, a minute before. A minute to do it over. A minute to change everything. His gut clenched, a knot of desperation and something like nauseous hope. He pulled the watch from his coat pocket, his fingers fumbling, slick with sweat.

His thumb found the button. A soft click, barely audible over the alarm. The world around him twisted, a visual screech of static, then snapped back into focus. He was there. One minute ago. Mickey was still fumbling with the lock on the back door, hunched over, his back to Leo. The guard hadn’t rounded the corner yet. The rain still fell, a steady, indifferent whisper. Leo’s chest burned, his head throbbed. He remembered the future, a cruel phantom limb of what was to come. He had to stop it. He had to.

“Mickey!” Leo barked, his voice raw, hoarse. Mickey flinched, startled, dropping his lock picks. “Forget the lock, man! The guard! He’s comin’!” Mickey’s eyes, wide and panicked, met Leo’s. He spun, gun already in hand, a cheap nine-millimeter. The guard, a scrawny kid barely out of his teens, stumbled around the corner, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, right into Mickey’s face. Mickey didn’t hesitate. A crack, loud and sharp, echoed off the brick walls. The guard pitched forward, the flashlight clattering away. But then, a second shot. Mickey’s gun discharged again, this time hitting the doorframe, ricocheting, and tearing a chunk out of Mickey’s own arm. The alarm started its ear-splitting wail. Same damn outcome, just messier. Leo’s heart seized. Not good enough.

He pressed the button again, a frantic stab. The world ripped, stitching itself back together. The same minute. Mickey, bent over the lock. The rain. The silence before the storm. Leo’s throat was tight. He felt dizzy, like his brain was being stretched and squeezed. This wasn't some video game. Each rewind left a bitter taste, a metallic tang in his mouth. He could feel the clock humming against his palm, a faint vibration, almost a thrumming. He glanced at the watch face; the second hand was indeed ticking backwards, a slow, deliberate march against sanity. Three uses left, the arcane symbols seemed to warn him. Three chances. What a goddamn joke.

“Drop it, Mickey!” Leo yelled, lunging forward, trying to slap the gun from Mickey’s hand before he could even raise it. He got a grip, but Mickey, surprised, spun, twisting out of Leo’s grasp. The guard, bless his quick reaction, was already there, tackling Mickey from behind, sending the gun skittering across the wet asphalt. Good. No shot. No death. But then the guard, a surge of adrenaline making him bolder than smart, tried to hold Mickey down. Mickey, all wiry muscle and pure panic, thrashed, headbutting the guard hard. A sickening crunch. The guard went limp, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. Mickey scrambles up, wild-eyed, and sees the gun, picks it up, aims it at Leo. “You trying to get me caught?!” he screamed, voice cracking. The alarm. Leo closed his eyes. Wrong again. Worse, maybe.

Again. The click. The blur. The jarring snap back. Mickey at the door, oblivious. Leo felt the exhaustion creeping in, a cold dread seeping into his bones. His arm ached, his head pounded. He was burning through these precious seconds, trying to outrun fate, and all he was doing was hitting dead ends. This wasn’t fixing anything, it was just… changing the flavor of the disaster. He could save the guard, sure, but what about Mickey? What about him? The loot, the whole point of this damn night, felt like a distant, cruel joke now. He just wanted it to stop. He just wanted to un-do it all.

He tried a different approach. “Mickey, we gotta go! Cops are on their way!” He grabbed Mickey by the collar, tugging him hard away from the door. Mickey hesitated, looking back at the jewelry store with longing, but the urgency in Leo’s voice, the sheer terror in his eyes, got through. They started to run, splashing through puddles. Just as they cleared the alley, the guard’s flashlight beam swept past them. They heard the guard yelling into his radio, saw his shadow pursuing them. They got away, yes, but empty-handed, and now Mickey was pissed, blaming Leo for losing the score. And the guard? He was alive, but he saw their faces, clear as day under the streetlights. The clock, Leo noticed, was completely still. The second hand frozen. No more rewinds. No more do-overs. Just this. Just the chase.

He heard the sirens in the distance, growing louder, closer. Mickey was cursing, spitting. “We gotta split, Leo! They got our faces, man! Damn it all!” Leo didn’t reply. He just ran, the cold, heavy weight of the now-useless pocket watch pressing against his chest, a constant, physical reminder of all the chances he’d had, all the grim, rotten choices he’d made, and the one he was still living, right now. His lungs burned, his legs ached. He didn’t look back.