"Mr. Cross, your mother has 180 days left. Also, your credit card is overdue, and if you don't pay within twenty-four hours—"
**BOOM!**
The debt collector's voice vanished in a symphony of screaming metal and fire.
The subway car became a tomb. Ethan Cross slammed against the twisted wall like a rag doll, his ribs cracking on impact. Blood filled his mouth—copper and desperation.
Something was wrong with his vision. The world had drained of color, leaving only stark black and white. Every passenger sat frozen like mannequins in a horror display.
Except for the numbers.
Floating above each head were crimson LED digits, counting down like digital death sentences.
The businessman beside him: **[00:00:00]**. Dead.
The screaming woman under debris: **[00:00:15]**. Fifteen seconds to join him.
Ethan looked down. A steel rod had punched through his abdomen, pinning him to the floor like an insect in a collection. His father's old pocket watch—the only thing left of the man—was soaked in his blood.
*Bzzt!*
Electric agony tore through his skull as a mechanical voice invaded his mind:
**[DETECTING HOST NEAR-DEATH. KARMA BALANCE SYSTEM FORCE ACTIVATING...]**
**[DEATH SIGHT ENABLED.]**
Ethan's trembling gaze found his own countdown.
**[00:00:03]**
Three seconds.
Twenty-two years of scraping by, working three jobs to afford his mother's treatments, and this was his reward? Dying in a subway bombing without even a chance to say goodbye?
"This... this is art..."
The voice came from his left—a man in military fatigues and a gas mask, clutching a detonator. The bomber. One leg was twisted at an impossible angle, but he was crawling toward the exit, laughing through his pain.
Ethan stared at the terrorist's countdown: **[00:05:00]**
Five minutes. The bastard who'd murdered dozens of innocent people got five minutes while Ethan—who'd never hurt anyone—got three seconds.
Where was the justice in that?
**[DETECTING VIABLE TRADE TARGET: CRITICAL CONDITION, WEAKENED WILL.]**
**[ASSESSMENT: FORCED EXTRACTION POSSIBLE.]**
The system wanted permission?
Screw permission.
**[00:00:01]**
With his last breath, Ethan lunged forward and grabbed the bomber's wrist.
The terrorist spun around, and through his gas mask, his eyes met something hungrier than death itself.
"Your time," Ethan rasped, his voice like grinding glass. "I'm taking it."
**[TRANSACTION CONFIRMED.]**
No golden light. No divine intervention. Just brutal, mechanical theft.
The bomber's scream died in his throat as his body collapsed inward like a deflating balloon. Muscle withered, skin grayed, eyes sank into hollow sockets. Streams of golden particles poured from his mouth, nose, and ears, flowing into Ethan like liquid starlight.
**[00:04:59]... [00:00:00]**
The terrorist crumbled to ash. The steel rod clattered to the floor as Ethan's wound sealed itself with wet, organic sounds.
He was alive.
**[00:05:00]**
For exactly five minutes.
The euphoria lasted three seconds before reality crushed it. The system was burning through his stolen time just to keep his heart beating. He'd traded immediate death for a slightly delayed execution.
"This is Cleaner Team Alpha. Confirming target zone."
Two figures in black trench coats emerged from the smoke—tall, professional, armed with suppressed pistols. Not rescue workers.
Executioners.
"Any survivors?"
"Doesn't matter. Clean sweep. Can't let the 'anomaly' leak."
*Thup. Thup.*
Muffled gunshots. They moved through the wreckage like exterminators, putting bullets in anyone still breathing.
Ethan pressed himself behind a twisted seat, his countdown ticking away: **[00:04:10]**
Even healed, he was just a broke college student. How could he fight trained killers?
**[SYSTEM WARNING: LETHAL THREAT DETECTED.]**
**[RECOMMENDED PURCHASE: SPECIAL TRAIT [NIGHT HUNTER (PURPLE)], COST: 10 YEARS LIFESPAN.]**
Ten years? He didn't have ten minutes, let alone ten years.
Footsteps crunched on broken glass, circling his hiding spot. In seconds, they'd find him. Game over.
A cold hand touched his shoulder.
Ethan spun around, expecting death, but found something heavier than a gun pressed into his palm—a Glock 17, safety off, ready to kill.
The girl who'd given it to him sat in the shadows, her leg bent at a wrong angle, blood streaking her face. She looked like any other victim.
Until Ethan saw her countdown: **[???]**
Question marks. The system couldn't read her.
Her eyes were winter-cold, fearless. Her lips moved silently: "Kill them first."
The cleaner's barrel appeared around the corner.
Ethan raised the gun, adrenaline turning his vision crystal-sharp. His countdown accelerated as the system burned his remaining life to superhuman levels.
**[00:00:10]**
Ten seconds left in his entire existence.
One shot. If he missed, there wouldn't be an eleventh second.
The cleaner's face came into view—professional, emotionless, already squeezing the trigger.
Ethan's finger found the Glock's trigger. Time slowed to a crawl.
**[00:00:09]**
His mother's face flashed in his mind. 180 days. She was counting down too, and if he died here, she'd die alone.
**[00:00:08]**
The mysterious girl's eyes met his. Something ancient and terrible lurked behind them—something that had been waiting for this exact moment.
**[00:00:07]**
The cleaner's gun swung toward him.
**[00:00:06]**
Ethan pulled the trigger.