“Focus,” she whispered, tapping the glass with her finger. “You’re losing time.” The cursor blinked. Once. Twice. He inhaled slowly. Letters began to form on the screen, hesitant at first, then bold and relentless. Each keystroke echoed like a ticking clock. Outside, the rain hammered the windows, washing the streets clean of the day’s noise. But inside, time was suspended—moments stretching long, then collapsing into seconds. Think fast. Type faster. Errors didn’t matter now; rhythm did. He wasn’t writing to impress anyone. He was typing to survive. “Three minutes left,” she said again. The words flowed—misspelled, mistyped, messy. But they came. They always did.