No one cried when people died in the Lower District.
Death was normal there.
Expected.
Sometimes even… scheduled.
The boy learned that when he was seven.
A man collapsed in the street one afternoon — not from hunger, not from sickness, but from expiration.
The glowing numbers above his wrist flickered:
00:00:03
People didn't rush to help.
They didn't scream.
They didn't pray.
They just watched.
Because everyone knew what happened next.
00:00:02
The man gasped, clutching his chest.
00:00:01
His daughter shook him, crying his name.
And then —
00:00:00
Silence.
The numbers vanished.
So did he.
No body.
No blood.
No remains.
Just empty clothes falling onto the stone pavement.
Time had been reclaimed.
The girl kept shaking the air where her father used to be.
No one moved to comfort her.
Because everyone knew…
Sooner or later,
they would be next.
Years later, the boy would still remember the sound of those empty clothes hitting the ground.
A soft, meaningless sound.
Like the world itself didn't care.
His name was Cael.
And he had exactly:
03:12:44:09
left to live.
Three years.
Twelve days.
Forty-four minutes.
Nine seconds.
He checked the glowing numbers above his wrist again as he stood in line.
Everyone did.
It was instinct.
Like breathing.
Or fearing.
Ahead of him, an old woman traded away a week of her life for a small loaf of bread.
The merchant barely looked at her.
"Hold still."
A metal ring clamped around her wrist.
Light flickered.
Her timer dropped.
She smiled in relief when the bread touched her hands.
Seven days of life…
for something that would be gone in minutes.
Cael looked away.
He wasn't here for bread.
He was here for something worse.
"Next."
He stepped forward.
The merchant finally looked at him.
Young.
Too thin.
Eyes too calm for someone with so little time left.
"What do you want?"
Cael swallowed.
"Ten hours."
The merchant raised an eyebrow.
"Payment?"
Cael hesitated.
Then placed something on the counter.
A small metal gear.
Old.
Rusty.
But marked with an Imperial insignia.
The merchant's expression changed.
"Where did you get this?"
"Does it matter?"
A pause.
Then a sigh.
"Hold out your wrist."
The ring snapped shut around Cael's arm.
Cold.
Hungry.
The merchant activated the transfer.
Light surged.
Pain followed.
It always did.
Time entering the body wasn't gentle.
It burned.
Like swallowing lightning.
The numbers above his wrist flickered.
Then changed.
03:12:44:09
became
03:13:06:09
Ten hours.
Bought.
Stolen from someone else.
Cael exhaled slowly.
He didn't feel relief.
He never did.
Because ten hours meant nothing.
Not really.
Not in a world where the rich lived for centuries.
Above the Lower District, beyond the fog and rusted towers, the Upper City floated in golden light.
There, no one sold time.
They owned it.
The nobles had thousands of years.
Generations stacked inside a single life.
They called it inheritance.
Down here, they called it theft.
"Careful, boy," the merchant muttered. "Running low like that… you'll start getting offers."
Cael frowned.
"What offers?"
The merchant didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned closer.
"There are people who buy more than time."
A chill ran down Cael's spine.
"Borrowers," the man whispered.
Cael stiffened.
The word was dangerous.
Illegal.
Forbidden.
Borrowers didn't trade time.
They took it from the future.
From themselves.
From others.
From the world.
"Rumors," Cael said quietly.
The merchant only smiled.
"Rumors don't get entire bloodlines erased."
Silence stretched between them.
Then —
A scream echoed from the street.
Both turned.
A boy — younger than Cael — lay on the ground, convulsing.
His timer was glitching.
Numbers flickering wildly.
Jumping.
Dropping.
Rising.
Impossible.
People backed away in fear.
"Borrower…" someone whispered.
The child's hand reached out —
And the world stuttered.
For just a second.
Everything slowed.
The dust in the air.
The flicker of lanterns.
Even sound bent.
Like reality itself hesitated.
Cael felt it.
A pull.
Deep inside his chest.
Something answering.
Something waking.
Then —
The boy's timer shattered into fragments of light.
And he vanished.
Not reclaimed.
Not expired.
Erased.
Like he had never existed.
People began murmuring prayers.
Others ran.
The merchant quietly shut his stall.
"Go home," he muttered.
But Cael didn't move.
Because his wrist…
was changing.
The numbers trembled.
Glitched.
Shifted.
For a brief moment —
Just one —
They showed something impossible.
Not years.
Not days.
Not hours.
But a number that shouldn't exist.
A negative.
-00:00:01
Cael's breath caught.
The world around him felt suddenly… thinner.
Like paper.
Like something that could be torn.
Then the number snapped back.
Normal again.
03:13:05:12
No one else seemed to notice.
But Cael knew.
Something had just looked back at him.
And it wasn't time.