14 Hundred Hours Novels & Stories

he said, his voice low, “Sarah has had 72 hours. That’s the maximum amount of time the conscious mind can remain tethered before the anchor… cements. After that, the connection severs for good. She will never wake up.” The room went utterly still. Seventy-two hours. He looked down at his watch, then back up at us. “And I’m afraid,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of it, “we’ve already wasted so much time.” He looked from his watch to Raiden, his words landing like a death sentence. “I’m saying we have 48 hours tops left.”

There's a pause with kissing-adjacent potential in it, so I hang up before I hear something I can't unhear. I send the photos. Every page, flash on, edges in frame. Then I sit on Dad's desk for about ninety seconds, being reasonable. It doesn't take. I didn’t spend years sweating in that barn just to burn off steam. Ten thousand hours of drills for a night that was never going to be allowed to come, and now it's here. I'm the one who cracked it, and I'm supposed to spend it in my room like the family houseplant? Nope.

And the reason is very clear. Elara behind that closed door of the labor room. Christ do we have to do this every time? “Minutes,” Luca corrects beside me. “Forty-five minutes.” I side-glance at him, my jaw tight. “That long? How long is it going to fucking take?” “Some take hours. Even days,” he says calmly. Days. The word feels like a death sentence.

But Daniel didn't seem to ask for an answer, so he quickly added, "Yes. You'll get more practice and there will be more training. You will get to practice again and there will be another elimination this time." Warren Clay, who felt that his body was still in a lot of pain, could only gape in disbelief when he heard this. But it wasn't just Warren who felt that way, almost all of the future soldiers there had turned deathly pale. Daniel noticed the horrible expression and suddenly smiled again, "4 hours. You have 4 hours to recover completely. Use it well. Don't come to the main field looking sluggish!" With that, Daniel moved forward and joined the others.

“How many hours do you train every day?” Ryan leaned against his stick. “It depends.” “On what?” “The season.” He thought for a moment.“Before championships, usually five or six hours.” I tried to sound casual. “Every day?” “Almost.” I nodded slowly. Five or six hours. The number burned itself into my memory before I could stop it. I hated myself for remembering. Ryan noticed the thoughtful look on my face. “What?” I quickly shook my head.“Nothing.” He smiled. “You’ve become very curious today.”

“Technically, I can, Kent. I am your grad instructor. For every time you fail to show up in my discussion session, I deduct five points from your attendance score. Your grades will be doomed if you missed the class for more than 8 times. Simple rule, easy math.” “That’s not fair! I have a medical condition, I have, emmm, AGHD.” “You mean ADHD? No, you don’t. Before disease-guilt me, you should at least try to get your excuse straight.” “Yeah, ADHD, whatever. Listen, Miss Irwin, you don’t get it: I MUST have an impeccable GPA. My life is perfect, always have been and always will be. The Hurons won’t tolerate any imperfectness in their lives!”

When he shakes his head no, it aches for my mate. “Our flight today is about ten hours.” Our pilot Mitch says before he tells us before he goes into the cockpit. “I’m sure you’re all in a hurry to get home. I need to get back to my mate and our new pup too, so I’ll make it as fast as possible.” “How many minutes is that?” Ghost asks. “Six hundred.” “Oh.” He sits and thinks for a moment. “How many seconds is that?” “Umm, thirty-six thousand.” “I can count that high. I’ve counted higher.”

I said. The burner buzzed again new message. TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. I locked eyes with Adrian. “Good,” I said. “I only need twelve.” He almost smiled.

POV: Ryder Ryder had twelve hours, two hundred and fourteen people approaching, and a plan that required everyone in the sanctuary to be where they needed to be at the right moment. The next eleven hours were the distance between the plan existing and the plan working. He started with the non-combatants.

Everything in this city connects back to him somehow. "Part-time means what? Ten hours a week? Twenty?" I need specifics. "Twenty hours," Lucien says. "Maximum. And nothing that requires evening hours or weekend travel." "Fifteen hours," I counter. "But I choose my projects and clients." "Seventeen. And nothing that creates a conflict of interest with Cross Holdings." "Done." I extend my hand across the space between us. He stares at it for a long moment. Then he reaches out, his large hand engulfing mine. His palm is warm. The handshake is firm, professional, and somehow more intimate than our wedding kiss.