Chapter 14: The Calm Before
With the Trevor conflict de-escalated for now, this chapter of my life provided a brief respite and a build-up to what came next. It started with something unusual for me: a stretch of relative calm. Over the next few weeks, I fell into a steady rhythm that almost felt normal.
I excelled at my new role, balancing careful, moderate use of my power so as not to raise eyebrows again. I still occasionally froze a moment at work for an extra edge, but only in small, safe ways – double-checking a calculation in a frozen minute here, reading ahead in a presentation there – always mindful of cameras and logs. Mostly, I relied on good old-fashioned effort and, ironically, my fake AI assistant (which I continued to refine a bit so it wasn't a total facade). Grace had me present Chronicle in a team meeting as planned. It was bizarre giving a presentation on a tool that was essentially a smokescreen. Yet, to my surprise, explaining it and fielding questions felt invigorating – maybe because it was one lie I could tell guilt-free, and it even helped colleagues. A few devs started tinkering with their own productivity scripts afterwards, and Grace praised me for "setting an innovative example." I smiled at that, accepting the praise with humble nods, all the while thinking how differently they'd react if they knew the real innovation I was hiding. Still, things were good on the work front. I got that promotion – officially this time – to a lead developer role, with a nice pay bump. I celebrated by taking Maya out to a fancy dinner, which in truth was just as much a celebration of surviving Trevor's inquisition as it was about the promotion.
Maya and I... we grew closer with each passing day. What amazed me was how effortless it felt. Without secrets between us (at least none that mattered – I could tell her anything now, even the troubling or strange parts of my day), our relationship bloomed naturally. She started spending more nights at my apartment, until her toothbrush and a stash of her favorite tea lived permanently on my kitchen shelf. I, in turn, left a spare jacket and some overnight clothes at her place. It wasn't a formal move-in situation – not yet – but we joked that our commutes were getting inefficient with two apartments. More than once we playfully debated whose landlord would be easier to break up with if we ever decided to consolidate. Those conversations always left us both a little giddy, knowing we were even considering it.
One Friday evening, a month or so after the Genesis project saga, we took a stroll through the city park near my place. It had been Maya's idea: "Let's just enjoy the evening, no work talk, no heavy stuff." Under a canopy of rustling trees, lights from the surrounding high-rises peeking through, we wandered hand in hand. The air was warm, summer fading into a gentle autumn. At one point, we found a bench by the duck pond and sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the water ripple. I remember the city noises – car horns, distant music from a busker – all blending into a hum that seemed far away. She leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed contentedly. I felt a deep peace.
In that moment, I admit, I was tempted to freeze time. Not out of fear or necessity, but purely to savor the perfection of it: the golden glow of the lamps reflecting on the pond, the feel of Maya's hair against my neck, the contentment welling in my chest. I wanted to bottle it, explore it, extend it. And I could have. But I didn't – partly because I'd promised not to use my power frivolously, and partly because, as she had once urged me, I didn't need to hide in frozen moments now that I had her by my side. So time flowed on, unimpeded, and perhaps that made it even more precious. We shared soft kisses on that bench, fully present in each second.
That's not to say I never used my ability during this calm period. I did, occasionally, in small joyful ways that left no trace. A few times, caught in a sudden rainstorm while walking together, I'd freeze the world for a heartbeat to hold an umbrella over us before the first drop hit, just to see her surprised delight when time resumed and she stayed dry. Or when she was running late to meet me for a movie, I might sneak a minute or two of freeze to buy her time so we wouldn't miss the opening scene – she'd roll her eyes but grin when I admitted it. These little "quality of life" uses felt almost innocuous, like minor perks. And always with her knowledge and participation if it involved her. We treated the power playfully in those moments, a secret between us that added a layer of magic to otherwise ordinary life.
But I remained vigilant. In quieter moments, my mind would drift back to all the ripples I'd created before I wised up. I hadn't forgotten the weird anomalies, like the CCTV oddity or the potential hints that someone out there might have noticed time misbehaving. During lunch breaks, I found myself idly searching the web for any talk of strange occurrences – especially ones that might be tied to my past exploits.
One day, I stumbled upon a niche forum thread that made my stomach tighten: users were discussing an "urban legend" about a gambler who'd struck it big and vanished. The details were hazy and sensationalized – claims of a man who walked into an underground casino and seemed to predict cards and roulette outcomes with eerie precision, walking away with a small fortune. Some said he cheated with microcameras or devices, others joked he was a time traveler. The timeline and description were uncomfortably close to my own ill-conceived attempt weeks ago to quickly multiply some cash.
Yes, in a moment of weakness and hubris not long after I first mastered longer time stops, I'd visited a shady private poker game (one I'd learned about through a friend of a friend). Using my ability, I observed hands and even rewound a few bad calls, walking out with triple the money I'd brought. I told myself it was harmless – the game runners were rich crooks themselves. But afterward, I felt so guilty (and frankly scared at how easily I'd done it) that I vowed never to do it again. I anonymously donated a chunk of the winnings to cover some of Trevor's debt after I discovered his issue, thinking that balanced the scales a bit. The rest I quietly invested in safer, legitimate places. I thought that chapter closed, but apparently whispers of that night had spread in certain circles. Luckily, the forum dwellers mostly dismissed it as a tall tale. Still, one comment stood out: "There's a powerful guy looking for whoever pulled that stunt. Word is, he hates being swindled and he's got resources to hunt people down." The user claimed no firsthand knowledge, but the warning sent a chill through me. Could that "powerful guy" be real? And could he truly connect the incident to me?
I remember leaning back in my chair after reading that, mind whirling. It might have just been internet bravado or a story to scare would-be cheaters. But combined with my earlier fears – the camera glitch, the odd deja vu comments people had made – it painted a concerning picture. Maybe somewhere out there, someone was piecing together that time manipulation wasn't just science fiction.
I decided not to mention the forum post to Maya just yet. She knew about the casino incident (I'd come clean about that during one of our long nightly conversations – she gave me a stern "bad Alex" and a pass since I used it to help Trevor). I didn't want to worry her with what might just be rumor. But I did quietly step up my precautions. I set up a few Google alerts and dark web keyword monitors for terms like "time freeze", "time anomaly", and yes, "Damien" (the name had come up in a reply as the pissed-off big shot possibly seeking the mystery gambler). It was probably nothing... but if something did start to bubble up, I wanted to know early.
Meanwhile, the rest of life rolled on peacefully. Ryan was thriving too – he ended up dating a new hire from marketing and was in high spirits. He joked that my "good luck" was rubbing off on him. We hung out like old times, shooting pool or playing VR games on weekends. I had to be careful not to inadvertently use powers during those games; freezing time to sink a perfect shot or dodge an enemy in VR would've been unfair (though the temptation for bragging rights was there). Sometimes I even handicapped myself by intentionally not using the power in any competitive context – a self-imposed rule born from wanting to stay honest, at least in the ways that mattered.
Every now and then, I'd catch myself in a quiet moment marveling at how normal and happy I felt. It was like I'd finally found a balance: using my gift in measured ways that didn't strain my conscience, having someone to confide in, and doing well in my career by largely legitimate means. The memory of nights spent anxiously scribbling rules and pondering ethical dilemmas alone in my apartment was starting to fade. I even wrote in my journal (now co-opted into what I jokingly called the "Chronos Journal") that perhaps the worst was behind me. That perhaps I'd transitioned out of the chaotic early chapters of this journey into something steadier and sustainable.
In retrospect, that optimism was, if not naive, then at least premature. Because even as I reveled in the ordinary joys of life, there were subtle undercurrents swirling beyond my awareness. A stray comment I overheard in the lobby one day, for instance: two security guards were chatting about an external consultant who'd been asking about upgrading the building's surveillance system to "close time gaps in footage." When I casually inquired (heart suddenly pounding) if there had been issues, they laughed it off – "Nah, some egghead from corporate security just being paranoid. We had like one or two glitchy cameras last month, but nothing major." I nodded and walked on, forcing myself not to break stride. But inside, alarms were ringing. Close time gaps in footage. It could have been totally unrelated to me... or it could be exactly related to me.
I shared that tidbit with Maya that evening, as we cooked dinner together in her apartment. (Well, I chopped veggies at normal speed while she insisted I wasn't allowed to time-cheat for perfect slices. She'd caught me doing that once and gave me endless teasing for my "Julienne superpower.") When I told her about the surveillance talk, she grew pensive. "It might be nothing," she said, brow furrowed, "but keep an eye on it. Maybe ease up on any power use near the office altogether."
I agreed wholeheartedly. I'd already become very sparing at work. Now I was verging on paranoid – avoiding every camera like the plague, timing any necessary freezes for when I was absolutely out of sight. It was manageable; after all, I didn't need to use my power constantly. I had it when truly needed. And lately, things were going so well I hardly needed it at all.
Little signs of foreshadowed trouble continued here and there: a wrong number call late at night with silence on the other end, an out-of-place car idling on our street multiple evenings in a row (maybe a neighbor's friend, I told myself – though one night I quietly froze time and walked out to inspect it, finding it empty, engine running, with nothing but a fast-food wrapper on the passenger seat; still, it left me uneasy). Maya tried to reassure me that we might be overthinking things. And she was right that none of these things were definite evidence of anything sinister.
But as I lay in bed at night, listening to her soft breathing beside me, I couldn't entirely shake the feeling that our little pocket of happiness existed on borrowed time – no pun intended. It was as if the universe was giving me a breather, a chance to shore up my foundations, before the next trial.
So I trained myself in subtle ways. I kept up some physical exercise (jogging during frozen mornings – an odd experience, seeing the world still while I huffed and puffed through empty streets; it was effective training in navigating static obstacles and building stamina for being active in stopped time). I practiced quick, small time-stop bursts to hone precision: like catching a falling coffee mug without making it obvious, or freezing just long enough to pause an embarrassing sneeze in a meeting (yes, I did that once just for fun). These felt like innocuous uses, but they were building my control and reflexes. Part of me knew, despite hoping otherwise, that I might need to rely on this power more intensely again, and when I did, I wanted to be ready.
Thus, life in that calm chapter was good – wonderfully so on the surface – yet beneath it, I stayed vigilant. In my journal I wrote: 'Happiness is here, but keep your eyes open.' Perhaps it was pessimistic, but it made me cherish the peace all the more. Because if the other shoe was going to drop, I wanted no regrets about not enjoying this lull.
And enjoy it I did. On a particularly lovely Saturday, Maya and I took a day trip to the coast. We wandered along the beach, toes in the sand, and I actually showed her how I could pick up a seashell during a time-stop and let the waves crash around us without getting us wet – a neat trick that left her laughing and kissing me in the salty spray. It was a perfect day. Driving back, sun-kissed and content, with her dozing off in the passenger seat while I hummed along to an old song on the radio, I dared to think that maybe, just maybe, I could have it all: a normal life with an extraordinary side, balanced and secret and safe.
Of course, narratives have a way of stirring up conflict just when things seem resolved. My story was no different. The signs were there that the calm would not last indefinitely. But for now, as we ended that day in each other's arms, watching a late-night sci-fi movie on my couch (which had become our couch for all intents and purposes), I let myself believe we had earned this peace.
Maya fell asleep halfway through the movie, her head on my lap. I muted the screen and just watched her for a while, the gentle rise and fall of her breath soothing my own. Moments like this – unspectacular, human, real – were what gave meaning to every insane thing I'd been through. I brushed a finger lightly through her hair and whispered, even though she couldn't hear, "I'll keep us safe. I promise."
If it was the calm before the storm, then I intended to do everything in my power to weather whatever came next. Because now I had something precious to fight for, and I wasn't about to let time – or anyone – tear it away from me.
Chapter 15: Under the Radar
The first real tremors of the coming quake began subtly. It was early October when I noticed my custom time-anomaly alerts pinging with increased frequency. Up until then, they'd been mostly quiet – occasional irrelevant hits or sci-fi fan discussions. But one morning, as I sipped coffee at my desk, my tablet buzzed with a cluster of notifications. Several were garbage (one was an article about a glitch in a popular video game amusingly titled "Time Freeze"), but one caught my eye: a darknet forum thread updated overnight, discussing something called "Project Chronos" in hushed tones. My heart skipped – Chronos was what I privately called my journal of time findings, but surely this was coincidence.
I dove into the thread, scanning quickly. It was mostly speculation from anonymous posters claiming insider knowledge of a secret research initiative to "capture time anomalies." The details were a mix of technical jargon and conspiracy flair: references to high-speed quantum cameras, rumors of a laboratory analyzing footage from around the world, and a name – Damien King. The context suggested he was the money behind this so-called project. One post read: "King's obsessed with finding whoever (or whatever) can mess with time. Word is, he's been buying up tech and talent to do it." My throat went dry. That matched the hints I'd seen and heard: the camera upgrades, the forum gossip about a powerful guy seeking a cheating gambler. Suddenly, a fuzzy image came into focus – of an adversary I hadn't truly acknowledged until now.
Damien King. The name pinged some distant memory. I minimized the forum (taking screenshots for later – old habit) and did a quick search on the regular web. It didn't take long to find him; he wasn't exactly hiding. Damien King was a well-known venture capitalist and tech magnate. The news articles painted him as a charismatic, albeit aggressive, entrepreneur who had fingers in all sorts of pies: AI companies, cybersecurity firms, even some defense contracts. He was the kind of figure people in the industry whispered about with equal parts awe and wariness. Rich, connected, and reputed to be ruthless. One headline from a business magazine called him "The Kingmaker with a Dark Streak." There were mentions of philanthropy too – a foundation in his name – but also lawsuits alleging heavy-handed business tactics. Nothing illegal pinned on him, but plenty of smoke.
None of that directly screamed "time hunter," but through my lens, patterns emerged. I noticed a blip in his investment history: a year ago, he'd acquired a stake in a casino chain and a high-end surveillance equipment manufacturer. Interesting combination. Perhaps that casino chain had been the site of unusual incidents? Maybe not coincidentally, the underground poker game I'd meddled with was rumored to be run under the table at one of that chain's properties. My hair prickled at the thought that my small field test might have put me squarely on a very rich man's radar.
I decided to do something bold (or foolish): to look inward, at my own company's records, for any sign of Damien's reach. My mind went back to the "consultant" the security guards mentioned. If corporate security had been approached by an external party about our building's footage glitches, it would leave a paper trail, maybe an NDA or a request for info. It was after hours, nearly everyone had left except cleaning staff, so I seized the chance.
In a silent, dim office, I froze time and strode into the security office down in the lobby. I'd befriended the head of IT security, Mark, months back (he was an AI geek and we'd talked shop after I demoed Chronicle – ironically, he admired my "ingenuity"). That friendship gave me a plausible reason to be around his office sometimes, which meant I knew his workstation login was often left logged in during coffee breaks. Sure enough, Mark's terminal was asleep but unlocked. I woke it and searched for recent communications about camera footage or external audits. It didn't take long to find an email thread with corporate HQ from two weeks ago: Subject: Inquiry from King Technologies. My pulse quickened as I opened it.
The email was short and formal. King Technologies (a name that felt obviously tied to Damien) had politely requested cooperation in testing a new surveillance analysis software, offering to review our building's CCTV for any anomalies as a proof of concept. They specifically cited an example of a "skipped frame" incident in our parking garage camera on a date I recognized – the night I'd practiced a brief time-stop to pick up a dropped keycard by the elevators. My gut clenched. They had noticed.
Mark's response was agreeable, passing along some sample footage at their request. Another email from a week ago indicated King Tech had followed up, thanking for the data and suggesting a live demonstration in the coming month. It all sounded benign, wrapped in corporate speak, but I read between the lines: Damien's people were testing their detection tools on my stomping grounds. Perhaps under the guise of a business partnership, they were combing for evidence of time manipulation. And they'd found a hint in that parking garage footage. The "skipped frame" – likely me jumping a few feet in no time to the camera's eyes – was now data in Damien's hands.
I felt simultaneously exposed and angry. This person – whom I'd never met – was quietly invading my life, sniffing around like a predator around the periphery of my safe zone. It made my skin crawl. I gathered copies of all these emails (discreetly saving them to a flash drive I carried). Then, on a hunch, I searched Mark's files for the sample footage sent. I found it tucked in a temp folder. I opened the video. It was a grayscale security feed of our parking garage, timestamped late one evening. I watched, heart in throat, as a tiny figure – me – walked across the frame, then blinked ahead ten feet instantaneously. Even knowing what it was, it startled me to see it on screen.
They hadn't enhanced or edited it; it was raw. To a casual observer, it might seem like a glitch or a jump cut. But someone looking for exactly that kind of anomaly would seize on it, as they did. I stood motionless in the frozen security office for a long moment, the weight of realization heavy on my shoulders. Damien King had resources in my workplace. He had evidence – small, but real – that something strange was afoot. And he wasn't letting it go.
I quietly closed everything, returned Mark's computer to how it was, and slipped out, resuming time as I emerged back into the hallway. I felt a bit sick, like I'd swallowed something rotten. That night, I told Maya everything – the forum posts, the King research, the corporate emails and the footage. We sat at my kitchen table long past midnight, documents and screenshots spread between us like we were detectives in a crime drama.
Maya was equal parts fascinated and alarmed. "So it's all connected," she murmured, tracing a finger over a printout of Damien's company portfolio I'd made. "The casino win, the camera glitches... he's gathering breadcrumbs. And now he's actively testing for you? Or for anomalies, at least."
I nodded and rubbed my eyes. "Seems that way. Maybe he doesn't know what he's chasing – could be looking for a phenomenon rather than a person. But if I keep leaving bits of evidence, eventually he'll figure out it's one individual, and narrow it down to me."
She reached across and took my hand. "We won't let it get that far. What's our move? Do we lay low entirely? Or try to throw him off?"
Good questions. My instincts were warring. Part of me wanted to run – pick up and disappear off the grid for a while. But that was panic talking, and I knew it wasn't truly viable. I had a life here, people I cared about. Another part of me considered going on the offensive: find out more about Damien, maybe feed him false data or set a trap. That was risky on a whole other level. In the end, caution won out. "For now, I think we lay as low as possible," I said. "No time stops unless absolutely necessary, especially in any public or recorded space. I should become as boring as possible to any watchers."
Maya squeezed my hand. "That we can do. Boring, normal couple, coming right up." She smiled, but I could see the worry behind it. "What about these?" She nodded to the evidence on the table. "If he has corporate clearance to review more footage, he might come back."
I had considered that. "Maybe I can gently influence our security friend, Mark, to pump the brakes. I could... I don't know, mention that I heard King Tech's software has privacy issues, sow a little doubt. Not sure it'll do much, but it might slow cooperation." I sighed. "Ultimately, if corporate higher-ups think it's beneficial, they'll go ahead, and Mark will follow orders."
Maya pursed her lips. "And if they catch another glitch, King will double down." She looked at me with a firm resolve. "Then we make sure they catch nothing. You've been careful, but now you'll be extra, extra careful."
"Agreed," I said. We shared a determined nod. It was almost easy to forget, in our little strategy session, the gulf of power between us and Damien. Here we were, two people in a kitchen, planning how to outsmart a man with presumably an army of experts and tech at his disposal. But I'd take cleverness and caution over brute resources any day. At least, that's what I told myself.
As an added measure, I decided to do something that made my stomach twist but felt necessary: cut all gambling ties entirely and cover my tracks. I transferred the remainder of the funds I'd won (and not yet given away) into an untraceable cryptocurrency and tumbled it through countless wallets, basically making it vanish. If Damien had any leads in the financial world on that, they'd go cold. It wasn't much – I hadn't dared to use those ill-gotten gains anyway – but eliminating the trail felt cathartic. I was telling fate: I won't be making that mistake again.
In the ensuing days, I also stepped up digital defenses. I scrubbed what I could of my online mentions. Thankfully I was a relatively private person to begin with – no active social media beyond a professional network. Still, I archived and then deleted some old code forum posts that a savvy investigator might use to profile my skills or habits. I even considered whether to stop journaling about my powers on my computer – what if somehow that got hacked? Paranoia, maybe, but earned. I ended up moving my chronicle to an encrypted drive and erasing any plain text copies. Only Maya and I knew that password, and we decided to keep it that way.
All of this stealth mode behavior sometimes made me feel absurd. I'd catch myself peering out my apartment window at night, scanning the street below for unfamiliar cars (the idling car with fast-food wrappers never returned, for now). I took indirect routes home from work if I felt uneasy, just in case anyone was tailing me. Never in my life had I imagined I'd have to live like a character from a spy thriller, all due to an ability I didn't ask for. But at least I wasn't alone. Maya was with me every step, offering perspective when I spiraled into worst-case scenarios.
One evening, as we double-checked that our devices' cameras were covered and that no smart assistants were potentially eavesdropping (I'd actually smashed my old voice assistant to pieces and thrown it out, just in case), we curled up on the couch in relative silence. She traced patterns on my arm and finally spoke the thought we'd both been chewing on silently: "What will he do if he finds you?"
I stared at the blank TV screen, our reflections dimly visible. It was the key question. "If he's willing to put this much effort," I said slowly, "he likely wants to exploit it. Use me, study me – or whatever phenomenon I represent. Could be anything from forcing me to benefit his businesses to locking me in a lab to slice my brain open." I tried to say it lightly, but it came out grim.
Maya tightened her hold around my waist. "That's not going to happen," she whispered fiercely. "We won't let it."
I placed a hand over hers. I could feel her heart pounding against my back as she hugged me. "No, we won't," I echoed. But internally, I was calculating the odds, making contingency plans. If cornered, could I stop time and escape? Likely, unless they somehow anticipated it. If caught off guard or asleep – vulnerabilities I had to consider. I started sketching an idea in my head of some kind of early warning system. Perhaps cameras of my own, motion sensors that could alert me if someone came into my home. Not that I expected a full-on black bag kidnapping, but I didn't know how far Damien would go. He seemed to operate just on the edge of legality, but obsession can drive people past edges.
Ultimately, we concluded that knowledge and preparation were our best defenses for now. The more I knew about my pursuer, the better I could anticipate his moves. So I kept researching in safe ways. I found out that Damien King's empire was vast, but he had a pattern of employing ex-military and intelligence types in his private security detail and "special projects." That implied resources beyond just nerds at computers – he could field boots on the ground if he chose. I discovered he owned properties in our city, including a penthouse and an office tower not far from my workplace. That sent a shiver through me; he could be closer than I thought at any given time.
One night, through a stroke of luck and a bit of hackery, I managed to slip into a private Zoom webinar where a King Technologies engineer was giving a talk on their new "time-series analysis AI." It sounded innocuous to the average listener, but I recognized the terminology and some phrasing from the forum posts – it was their anomaly detector. The engineer bragged (in carefully chosen words) about how their system could detect continuity errors in video streams and flag microsecond discrepancies. He claimed it had applications for video compression and security. I wasn't fooled; I knew what they were really after. If I ever tried a large-scale time stop in view of any camera their tech monitored, I'd light up their dashboard like a flare.
That revelation put a further lid on my use of powers. The city was littered with cameras: traffic cams, store security, smartphones in every pocket. I had to assume that at any time, something could be watching. So I moved like I was under surveillance constantly – which, ironically, is exactly how normal non-powered people live now anyway, albeit they don't think about it. I just had to be extra mindful not to do anything... impossible.
If Damien's goal was to flush me out by casting a wide net of tech, he was partially succeeding – I felt cornered into hiding my gift almost entirely. But I took solace in the flipside: he still didn't know who or where I was. And if I played it right, he'd get frustrated by the lack of results. Perhaps he'd even start doubting if there was anything to find at all. That was my hope: that I could outlast his interest, make him chase shadows until he gave up.
However, a man like him, with that kind of obsession, likely wouldn't give up easily. He'd sink money and time into this for years if need be. That thought haunted me. I didn't share it with Maya, but I think she sensed it in my quiet moments. We both pretended that if we just kept our heads down, this would blow over. But deep down, I think we knew: a confrontation was inevitable, someday. People like Damien don't just quit.
Before bed one evening, I found myself updating the list of personal rules I'd once written – the ones about using my power safely and ethically. I added new ones: Rule 8: Assume you are being watched. Rule 9: Do not leave evidence; be aware of cameras, sensors, witnesses at all times. Looking at that list made me wistful. I remembered when my rules were about not using time freeze to snoop on girls or steal trivial things. Life had gotten a lot more complicated.
Maya noticed the melancholy in my eyes as I set the list aside. She pulled me into bed and under the covers, where we lay face to face in the darkness. "Hey," she whispered, "we're going to get through this. You and me."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "Yeah." I tried to inject confidence into my voice. "We will. Together."
Outside, a siren blared briefly and faded. Probably just a normal emergency in the city that night. But to me it sounded like a warning cry. Stay ready, it seemed to say. Because the quiet war between me and Damien had begun, even if neither of us had seen the other's face yet.
I tightened my arm around Maya, drawing strength from her warmth. Under the radar I would stay, as much as humanly – or superhumanly – possible. But if the time came that I had to face this threat in the open, I'd be ready for that too.