The sky above Ecliptica's Outer Slums was the color of dying embers — orange smoke and drifting ash.
Every breath tasted like rust and rain.
The air shimmered faintly with the glow of ChronoMarks — the numbers on people's wrists flickering through the fog like fireflies.
Eryndor Valein sat on a half-collapsed bridge, swinging his legs above the canal of black water below.
The numbers on his wrist ticked softly: [18:04:52:12] — eighteen years, four days, fifty-two hours, twelve minutes.
He traced the digits with his thumb like he always did, watching the glow fade and return with each heartbeat.
"Don't stare at it too long," a voice rasped behind him.
It was Old Mira, the scrap vendor who lived under the bridge. Her ChronoMark pulsed weakly — [00:00:19:45].
Nineteen minutes left. She said it didn't hurt anymore.
It just got quiet.
"I'm counting," Eryndor said. "Makes me feel like I still have something."
She laughed, a dry sound. "We all do that. Till it runs out."
A few streets away, the Life Bank's bell tolled — slow, metallic, endless. Every toll meant another life traded, another hour sold.
The sound rolled through the slums like thunder.
Eryndor watched the crowds moving toward the silver tower that rose from the center of the district.
Lines of people stood outside the Bank of Hours, clutching their wrists, waiting to bargain.
He saw a man argue with a clerk through the glass gate — begging for just a few more minutes for his daughter.
The clerk only tapped the counter.
Trade refused.
Time was law here.
No time, no life.
---
Eryndor's mother had once told him the world wasn't always like this.
She said people used to trade words, not hours.
That love and trust were currencies too.
Now she lay coughing on a mattress in their rusted tin home, her ChronoMark dimming by the hour.
[00:02:14:37] — two hours left when he last checked.
He didn't go home yet. He couldn't.
Not until he found a way.
---
He slipped through the alleys, where neon pipes dripped glowing condensation. Children huddled near vents, trading broken watches for stolen minutes.
A boy his age waved a glass vial at him. Inside, blue sand swirled faintly — fifteen seconds, maybe twenty.
"Fresh pull," the boy said. "Corpse time. You want?"
Eryndor looked away. "I'm not stealing from the dead."
The boy shrugged. "Dead don't care, do they?"
He tossed the vial in the air; it shimmered, then burst, scattering light like dust.
The crowd hissed — wasted seconds were sin in the Outer Slums.
---
By sunset, the sky turned copper and the city's Central Clockspire began to hum.
Massive gears turned miles above, adjusting the Flow Zones — the invisible fields that decided how fast time passed in each district.
In the Slums, the hum always meant trouble.
The air thickened.
People gasped. Their digits flickered faster.
Every minute stretched — then snapped — twice as fast as before.
The Flow had shifted again.
The Slums would now age double-speed to keep the Core City stable.
Eryndor's ChronoMark began to drain faster:
[18:04:52:12] → [18:04:51:58] → [18:04:51:30]
He clenched his fist.
Somewhere high above, the rich were laughing — buying extra years while the poor were being burned out like candles.
---
By the time he reached home, night had swallowed the streets.
Their house stood in the shadow of a dead clock tower, walls patched with metal plates, air filled with the faint tick of dying machinery.
His mother lay on the bed, thin and trembling, her wrist glowing faintly.
[00:00:58:09]
"Eryn," she whispered, eyes half-open. "You were out again."
He forced a smile. "Just looking for work."
"You shouldn't. You're—" She coughed violently, the sound echoing off the tin walls. "You're burning time."
"I've got enough." He sat beside her, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face.
The ChronoMark on her wrist flickered again.
[00:00:52:01]
It hurt to look at.
Not because of the number — but because she smiled anyway.
"You look just like your father," she said softly. "He used to talk about the Core City. Said one day we'd see the sun without smoke."
"Maybe one day," he murmured.
But he didn't believe it.
---
The floor vibrated — heavy boots.
A moment later, the door hissed open.
Two Ecliptic Enforcers entered, their black armor glowing with golden ChronoSeals.
"Resident Valein," one said. "Your household's time debt has exceeded authorized threshold. Standard collection required."
Eryndor's chest tightened. "Wait—she's sick. She just needs—"
"Silence."
The Enforcer raised a device — a silver rod crowned with rotating glass rings. The Time Extractor.
He pressed it to his mother's wrist. The digits dimmed as a thin thread of light flowed into the device.
"No!" Eryndor lunged, but the second Enforcer struck him to the ground.
His vision blurred. Through it, he saw his mother's face — calm, resigned, the way people look when they've already accepted the end.
When they left, the room was quiet again.
Her ChronoMark read [00:00:03:07] — three minutes, seven seconds.
---
Eryndor sat beside her, shaking.
His own mark glowed brighter than ever, mocking him.
[18:04:50:44]
He pressed his wrist against hers. "Take mine. Take it all."
She smiled weakly. "It doesn't work like that."
"Then I'll make it work."
He ran through the rain to the Life Bank.
---
The Bank of Hours towered like a cathedral, its glass walls filled with liquid light — the collective lifespan of the city, swirling like stars in a bottle.
The priests inside wore white masks shaped like sundials.
When Eryndor entered, they didn't look surprised. Desperate faces came every hour.
He slammed his wrist onto the altar.
"I want to transfer," he said. "All of it. To my mother — Lira Valein, Outer Slum registry 43-B."
The priest tilted his head. "Transfer cost is thirty percent tax. Are you aware?"
"Yes."
"Recipient illness?"
"Chrono Decay."
"Success rate: zero point eight percent."
"I don't care."
The priest touched the altar. Light rippled through the floor.
Eryndor's digits began to burn away, one by one.
[18:04:50:44] → [00:00:00:00]
He felt it — like his heartbeat was being pulled through his skin. His body went cold, lightheaded, almost weightless.
The altar glowed brighter.
"Transfer complete," the priest said calmly. "May the Flow favor you."
Eryndor staggered outside into the rain, clutching his dead wrist — smooth now, the digits gone.
He ran home, bare feet splashing through puddles that shimmered like broken glass.
He burst into the house, breathless.
"Mom! I—"
She was still.
Eyes half-open.
ChronoMark blank.
The rain stopped.
The world went quiet.
---
That night, Eryndor sat beside her, holding her hand until the glow in her veins faded.
The last of her time bled into the dark.
When dawn came, he whispered to no one,
"I gave everything."
The city answered with the same sound it always made.
Tick. Tick. Tick.