4.2 Years Remaining.
The number blinked red on Elian's wrist like a threat.
The reader embedded in his forearm pulsed with the beat of his heart, syncing his mortality with every breath. He held his arm up to the clinic kiosk, but the screen flashed the same response he'd seen too many times this year:
TIME INSUFFICIENT – SERVICE DENIED.
He let his arm drop.
The receptionist didn't even look up. She was young, maybe nineteen, with glassy eyes and a gold-chipped smile that probably cost more than a full year. "Next," she droned.
Elian didn't move.
"It's just a respiratory scan," he said, voice rasping from the dust-choked walkways of the Grey Wards. "I've got a persistent wheeze, maybe fluid in my lungs—"
"Sir, your balance is below the treatment threshold."
"I can pay."
She arched a sculpted brow. "With what?"
He hesitated. Reached into his coat. Pulled out the slim black wallet with the metallic trim. Inside it, a desperate answer:
Time Credit IOU – 1.5 Years – Verified Bonded
His future, again. Sold in advance.
The receptionist gave it a glance, then a shrug. "Fine. Basic scan. You'll have to sign a risk waiver. If you don't have enough time left to recover from sedation, we're not liable."
Elian nodded. "Understood."
She printed a waiver. He pressed his palm to it. The chip in his wrist buzzed as the clinic's system verified the transaction. Somewhere in the sterile air, another piece of his life ticked away.
In the sterile exam room, a nurse scanned his chest.
"Your lungs are stressed. Microlesions. Probably particulate buildup."
Elian coughed hard enough to taste blood. "Can you treat it?"
She looked at his wrist. "You've got 2.7 years left now. We can clean out the worst of it, but anything deeper… not without long-term regen therapy."
"How much time?"
"Seven years."
Elian laughed. It was dry and bitter, like everything in the Wards. "Just the cleaning, then."
As the nurse left, he leaned back against the cold chair and stared at the cracked ceiling. The lighting panels above him flickered slightly—cheap, decaying, even here. The tech was aging. So was the city. So was he.
Somewhere down the hallway, he heard the sound of a child screaming.
Then silence.
Maybe sedation.
Maybe something else.
He closed his eyes. Tried not to count the time.
Outside, the smog had turned golden in the dying light, catching on the metal bones of collapsed towers. He walked with his coat pulled tight, the tiny mask over his mouth filtering out most of the street dust.
A message pinged on his HUD: Job Offer – Tech Repair / High Pay / Unverified.
He usually avoided black-market gigs—they paid well but often cost more in years than they were worth. But he was down to 2.5 now. He needed time. Any way he could get it.
Elian tapped the notification and opened the request.
One line of text.
"Need tech fixed. Urgent. Time rewarded on success. No questions."
He stared at the message for a moment, then replied: Send address.