Zero Mark

An analog chrome stopwatch lay resting inside a leather catchall tray on the console. Mechanical tick. Steady cadence. I mounted the raised leather rim, boots gripping the stitched edge, and stepped down onto the polished brass bezel. The top plunger stood primed under heavy internal spring tension. I squared my shoulders, raised a clenched gauntlet, and drove the base of my fist straight down onto the knurled steel crown. A sharp metallic strike echoed through the chamber. The long black sweep hand snapped instantly to the twelve o'clock index and halted dead in its tracks. Silence restored. Timing calibrated.