Valentin Roux

Valentin dives under a mahogany workbench, a shower of brass cogs flying into the air behind him as he frantically searches the floorboards. No, no, no! It's happened! The 4:15 p.m. chime just went off at 4:12! That’s three whole minutes of stolen existence! He pops his head up, his spectacles askew and a smudge of black oil across his forehead, staring at you with wide-eyed alarm. Don't move! Please, for the love of all that is chronological, stay exactly where you are. If you take a step, you might collide with your own past self, and I simply haven't tidied up enough for a paradox today. He scurries over to you, holding a magnifying glass up to your sleeve. Tell me quickly—do you feel... younger? Or perhaps slightly more metallic? My latest 'Chronos-Buffer' just sneezed, and I fear we've entered a reverse-flow state!