Timothy rubbed both of his hands and then looked at the pen resting on his table. It's a suitable object to be reconstructed into a neuralyzer as it has the same appearance as the one in the movie.

He grabbed the pen and then activated his reconstructed system. And without hesitation, he spoke the words.

"Reconstruct this pen into a Neuralyzer similar to the movie Men in Black."

After uttering those words, his hand glowed and the pen dematerialized into an atomic level and then rematerialized into a new form. Sleek, metallic, perfectly polished, and unmistakably resembling the iconic device from the movie.

A cold, silver cylinder settled gently into his palm.

Timothy blinked once.

Then twice.

"…No way."

He turned it slowly between his fingers. Smooth surface. Seamless joints. Lightweight but sturdy—like titanium alloy fused with something more advanced. The top portion contained a ridged switch similar to the one Agent K flicked with casual flair.

But this wasn't a prop.

This was real.

Timothy lifted the device closer to his face, eyes narrowing as he examined every line, every seam, every microscopic detail the Reconstruction System had woven into reality.

"So how does it work…?"

He muttered the question under his breath.

Unfortunately, he didn't think to add an instruction manual to the reconstruction command. But if it worked anything like the movie, then the first rule was obvious:

Don't flash yourself.

He held the neuralyzer at arm's length, angling the cylindrical body away from his face. The device had no visible labels or instructions—just a small, recessed switch and two thin slider-like mechanisms that looked suspiciously similar to the "exposure duration" controls from the films.

Okay… don't be stupid, he thought.

He pointed it toward the far wall, away from him.

Then, carefully, he rotated the top ridge.

Click.

The device hummed.

A soft, rising whine—like circuitry powering up, but smoother, more refined than anything modern engineering could produce. His phone on the desk vibrated once in response, its sensors clearly confused by whatever energy signature the neuralyzer was emitting.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

He wasn't sure what was about to happen, so he set the duration slider to the lowest setting—barely a millimeter of movement.

"Alright," he murmured. "Test fire."

He aimed at the corner of the room.

And pressed the activation button.

FWOOO—OSH!

A soundless flash—pure white, instantaneous, expanding like ripples of light before fading just as quickly.

Timothy flinched despite pointing it away from himself.

The lights in the office flickered for exactly half a second.

The OLED screen on the wall rebooted.

Even the smart glass briefly turned opaque before clearing again.

"…Damn."

He lowered the device slowly.

The neuralyzer hadn't just emitted light—it released some kind of electromagnetic wave. Not harmful, but potent enough to disrupt nearby electronics.

"Memory disruption…?" he muttered. "Or… short-range neural interference?"

Either way, it worked.

Just not on him.

He checked himself—no dizziness, no gaps, no weird mental fuzziness.

Good. Safety protocols intact. Now for a test subject.

Timothy pressed the intercom, calling Hana in her office.

"Hana, I'm done eating. Send the housekeeping staff to my office."

"Yes, sir," her voice replied through the intercom. "I'll notify them now."

The line clicked off.

Timothy glanced at the neuralyzer resting in his palm.

He slid the duration control a bit higher this time—still on the low end. No point wiping someone's entire week by accident.

A few minutes later, a soft knock came from the door.

"Sir? Housekeeping."

"Come in," Timothy said, quickly setting the neuralyzer down beside his keyboard, half-hidden by a stack of documents.

The door opened.

A young woman stepped in, maybe mid-twenties, wearing the TG Tower housekeeping uniform—neatly pressed light gray blouse, black slacks, ID badge clipped to her chest. Her hair was tied back in a clean ponytail, and she pushed a small trolley cart ahead of her.

"Good morning po, Mr. Guerrero," she greeted politely, eyes dropping for a second out of instinctive shyness. "I was told to collect your dishes."

He nodded. "Go ahead."

She moved toward the low table by the sofa, carefully stacking the empty fish-and-chips basket, the used dipping bowls, and the glass with remaining ice. She worked quickly, efficient but clearly aware of whose office she was in—her movements just a little too careful, shoulders just a little too stiff.

Timothy watched her quietly.

Perfect test subject profile: not security, not management, not someone who would interpret things with too much suspicion.

Just a regular employee, doing her job.

As she reached for the last plate, Timothy spoke.

"Do you believe in impossible things?"

She paused, fingers hovering above the ceramic.

"Sir?" she asked, confused.

He stood from his chair, moving a bit closer—not enough to crowd, just enough that his voice carried clearly.

"I'm going to tell you something," Timothy said calmly. "And you're going to think I'm joking. But I want you to look closely."

Her eyes darted nervously from the plate to him.

"Y-Yes, sir?"

"I have a power," he said simply. "I can reconstruct any object I touch. Change its structure. Rewrite what it is."

She gave a small, uncertain laugh—the polite kind employees used when executives said something weird.

"What is it po, sir?" she asked, forcing a smile. "Like… magic?"

"Something like that," Timothy replied.

He reached for the ceramic mug sitting beside his keyboard.

He held it up between them.

"Watch."

His hand tightened around it.

"Reconstruct this mug into an airsoft pistol," he said in a low voice.

His palm glowed faintly.

The mug broke apart without shattering—blossoming into glowing fragments, particles, dust that shouldn't exist, then reforming in a smooth, fluid motion. Ceramic became matte polymer and metal. The handle reshaped into a grip. The rim flattened into a barrel.

In less than a second, the mug was gone.

In its place was a compact black airsoft pistol, complete with slide, trigger, and orange safety tip.

The housekeeper froze.

Her eyes widened.

Her hands went slack around the plate.

She stared at the gun. Then at Timothy. Then at his hand.

"Sir…" she choked out. "Ho—how did you do that..?"

She took an involuntary step back, not out of fear of the weapon—it was clearly an airsoft pistol—but out of sheer confusion. Her brain struggled to process what she'd just seen.

"That's what I mean," Timothy said evenly. "I can change things. Rewrite them. That mug became this." He lifted the pistol slightly, then set it down on the table. "You saw it, right?"

Her mouth opened and closed.

"I… I don't understand," she whispered. "Was that… special effects? Hologram? Sir, what was—"

Timothy had seen enough.

He picked up the neuralyzer with his other hand.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "You won't have to."

The girl blinked, still trying to make sense of his words.

"Sir?"

He raised the neuralyzer, careful to keep the flash end pointed away from his own eyes.

"Look here for a moment."

Her gaze flicked to the tip of the device, confusion written plain on her face.

"What is tha—"

CLICK. FWASH.

A burst of white flooded her vision, bright but not painful—just overwhelming. Her pupils contracted instinctively. Her body stiffened for a heartbeat, then slumped slightly, still upright but loose, as if someone had unplugged her thoughts for a second.

Her eyes stared ahead, unfocused.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the tower's ventilation system.

Timothy lowered the neuralyzer.

Her breathing was normal.

No panic. No screaming. Just emptiness in her gaze.

He stepped closer.

"Listen carefully," Timothy said in a calm, level tone. "You will forget what I just said about having a power. You will forget seeing this mug turn into anything else. You will forget the strange device in my hand."

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

"You cleaned my office," he continued. "You collected my plates. There was nothing unusual. No strange conversation. No magic. No technology you couldn't explain. Just a normal visit."

He watched her face.

No resistance. No tension.

"Repeat it," Timothy instructed quietly. "What happened when you entered my office?"

Her eyes refocused slightly, though still hazy.

"I… I cleaned your office," she murmured. "Collected your plates. Nothing unusual happened. Just work, sir."

"Good," Timothy said. "In a moment, you'll blink, feel a bit distracted, and then continue as normal. You won't think about this again. It will feel like any other day."

She gave a slow, uncertain nod.

Timothy stepped back.

He counted silently in his head.

Three.

Two.

One.

The housekeeper blinked rapidly, then frowned faintly as if she'd just snapped out of a brief daydream.

She looked down at the table.

"Oh, sorry po, sir," she said quickly, refocusing on the plates. "I was spacing out."

"It's fine," Timothy replied smoothly, neuralyzer now tucked casually beside his monitor like an ordinary pen. The airsoft pistol had already been reconstructed back into the white mug with a silent thought. "You done?"

"Almost po," she said, stacking the last dish on her trolley. "I'll take these down now."

She gave a quick bow.

"Thank you po, Mr. Guerrero. Have a nice day."

"You too."

She exited the room, the door closing softly behind her.

Timothy stood there for a moment, listening to the fading sound of the trolley wheels rolling down the corridor.

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