"Time is money. I steal both."
Kade Drift's breath clouded inside his rebreather mask, the stolen seconds embedded in his wrist flickering with a dim, anxious pulse: 72:00:00. Seventy-two hours left on his lifespan meter—if the job went clean. Less than ten if he got sloppy.
He crouched atop the chrome rafters of the MidasVault building, its neon-laced superstructure reflecting the blaze of the orbital sun overhead. Below, hundreds of citizens in sleek chrono-suits queued patiently in the lobby, exchanging years for yachts, minutes for medicine, seconds for survival.
This was 2145.
Time wasn't tracked.
It was taxed, traded, taken.
Kade's mission: breach the unbreachable.
MidasVault wasn't just a bank—it was the bank. The only place in NovaLumen where people stored actual life. Literal seconds, locked in quantum coffers and verified by the Ministry of Temporal Control.
But tonight, a rogue chronolancer was going to steal from it.
Kade tapped a command into his wristband. The HUD in his ocular lens blinked to life:
"Loop initiated. 60-second synchronization window engaged."
"Ghost protocol: Active."
"Temporal signature masked."
He dropped.
The descent was silent—gravitic boots cushioning the fall. Kade landed on the maintenance catwalk with a hiss of displaced time energy. He moved like he belonged here. Because for the next 59 seconds, the system thought he did.
He reached the main vault door—thick, curved, pulsing with blue circuit veins. Kade pulled out a thin black strip: a neural prong, encrypted by a dead friend who'd once been the best temporal forger on the circuit.
He pressed it to the port. It sparked.
"Welcome back, Mr. Sallow."
Sallow had died last month. Thirty-six years old, heart gave out. Funny thing about dying in 2145—it didn't mean you couldn't still run errands.
Kade pushed inside.
The vault wasn't what people imagined. No gold bars, no stacks of bills. Just rows of glass pillars, each housing a swirling sphere of liquid light.
Chrono-orbs.
Each one represented stored time—lifetimes, months, or stolen seconds suspended mid-vortex.
He walked down the aisle. His target orb: T-9F. Registered to Elias Wren. Government tier. 92 years. Unspent. Untouched.
Kade reached for it.
Then the lights blinked red.
"Desynchronization detected. Temporal anomaly registered."
"Timekeeper Response ETA: 03:00."
Shit.
He grabbed the orb anyway. It pulsed in his palm—ice cold and impossibly heavy. Time wasn't weightless. It burdened you. Every second you held was a second someone else could have lived.
Kade bolted back to the catwalk, vaulted onto the beam. Sirens wailed below. The building's chrono-loop collapsed. He had seconds—literal seconds—to make it out before the Timekeepers arrived.
One minute. No margin. Just rhythm.
He scaled the shaft, heart hammering, years evaporating. His wrist flickered.
71:59:51
71:59:50
71:59:49
A drone appeared above the skylight. Ministry-grade. Shimmering black with blue scanning beams.
He dove through the emergency chute and hit street level hard. The orb cracked but held. His wrist stuttered.
71:59:32
By the time the Timekeepers raided the vault, Kade was gone.
By the time the Ministry discovered the orb missing, it was already too late.
And by the time Elias Wren—the real owner of the 92-year orb—flatlined in a courtroom mid-testimony…
…the conspiracy began to unravel.
Kade Drift hadn't just stolen time.
He'd accidentally stolen the wrong man's entire future.