Adrian jerked awake, hacking, his lungs on fire from the smoke. God, it burned. Gone was the marble hall with its rattling chains—poof. Now he lay sprawled in a gutter, rain and ash slick over the cobblestones like a twisted oil painting. Somewhere distant, a bell tolled—a note so hollow it made his heart plunge. Real cheerful scene.
The city moaned around him. Crumbling buildings leaned in like they were conspiring, windows boarded, doors bolted. People drifted past, more specters than souls: hollow cheeks, jaundiced skin, eyes emptier than a Monday coffee pot. Most were already dead inside. The rest probably wished they were.
Adrian forced himself up. His suit was shredded but holding on. His hands trembled. And the ledger—damn thing—hovered at his hip, glowing faintly. No one else seemed to notice. Its pages fluttered without a breeze. Definitely not creepy at all.
"Not real," he hissed. "No way this is real." Then his vision spasmed. Every passerby sprouted shifting numbers overhead—like some grotesque AR overlay.
—Name: Elias Murn
Balance: 12 years, 3 months
Debt: −18 years (Outstanding)
—Name: Unknown Child
Balance: 6 months
Debt: −5 years (Inherited)
His breath caught. Literal life debt. A coughing child, no older than ten, stumbled by, blood smeared on his sleeve. Six months left, the balance said. Inherited debt: minus five years? Yeah, that's not horrifying.
The boy's eyes rolled back. He collapsed. Adrian was at his side before he thought. "Hey—kid!" Panic, reflex: he yanked the ledger toward him.
Its pages snapped open. A new column appeared:
Transfer Request: Clear −5 years inherited debt?
Cost: 5 years of Auditor's lifespan.
His heart stopped. "My… lifespan?" he blurted. The child convulsed, blood pooling. Adrian swallowed. He didn't wear a hero's cape—he did taxes. But watching a kid die for someone else's screw-up… no way.
"Five years. I'll pay it."
The ledger flared. Chains of light snapped free. The boy arched, gasped, color flooding back. Balance: 5 years, 6 months. Debt: zero. Alive.
Adrian felt it—something draining, like sand slipping through his bones. He grabbed the wall as his vision blurred, then steadied. A whisper brushed his ear: "One debt paid. A thousand more remain."
He spun. No one—just shadows stretching longer than physics should allow. The kid peered up, eyes wide. "Mister, are you… an Auditor?"
His throat was sandpaper. "Something like that, kid."
Then boots—heavy, echoing down the stones. Black-armored soldiers hauled a man from an alley. "I paid my taxes! Don't erase me!" he screamed.
One soldier chuckled, brandishing a black ledger. Its ink scrawled itself. The man crumbled, flesh flaking like old paint, screaming until there was nothing left.
Adrian's blood froze. He recognized that symbol on the cover. The same one that killed him back on Earth. The Black Ledger.