I repair watches late at night, and I never break the three iron rules.
That is, until I discover that my grandfather's disappearance, the shadow outside the door, and the pocket watches that seep bloodstains are all connected to my family's inherited craft.
On the first day I inherit the century-old shop, I find the iron rules on a wooden plaque left by my grandfather:
1. After nine at night, never repair a pocket watch stained with blood.
2. When an antique watch's hands reach twelve, stop working for ten minutes.
3. Never put a customer's watch in the third compartment to the left of the counter.
I intend to obey the rules and keep my head down while paying off my debts. But after I turn away my first customer, every old watch in the shop starts spinning backward at once in the dead of night. Then blood-red, hairline marks begin appearing on my wrist, creeping along like watch hands.
Only then do I understand: I've never been repairing watches.
I've been mending the lingering obsessions of the dead, the time stolen from the living, and the laws of time that are slowly collapsing deep within this old alley.
Worse still, my grandfather's final message comes through the clock used for setting watches: he has become a "time anchor," and I am the only one who can repair the cracks in time.
When the time hunters smash through the shop door, when the balancers reveal their hypocritical smiles, and when every rule begins to reverse
This time, with the screwdriver and gears in my hands, I will recalibrate this broken world once and for all.
