Ray stood frozen in the alley, staring at Hamilton's body. The man's eyes were still open, fixed on nothing, his face peaceful in a way Ray had never seen on a corpse in Dayton. Most people who died here died in panic, scrambling until their last second. Hamilton had died like he was falling asleep.
105:17:07:54.
Ray's arm felt different now. Heavier, somehow, like the weight of all that time had physical mass. A century. He had a century. The numbers didn't even seem real—they were so far beyond his comprehension that his brain couldn't process them properly.
He needed to move. Standing here with a dead body was suicide, even in Dayton where bodies were common. The Timekeepers would come eventually, and when they did—
Ray's blood went cold.
The transfer. It would be in the system logs. Every time transaction was recorded, tracked, monitored. Hamilton had just transferred over a century to a factory worker from Dayton, and then died immediately after. That wasn't suspicious—that was a murder investigation waiting to happen.
Ray looked down at Hamilton one last time. "What the hell did you do to me?"
The dead man offered no answers.
Ray turned and ran.
He moved through the industrial district quickly, keeping to shadows and back alleys, his mind racing faster than his feet. He needed to think. Needed a plan. Hamilton had said not to waste his time—but what did that even mean? What was he supposed to do with a century?
First priority: survival. The Timekeepers would be looking for him soon, if they weren't already. They'd check the logs, see the transfer, track him down. Ray couldn't go back to his apartment. Couldn't go anywhere he was known.
He needed to disappear.
Ray emerged from the industrial district onto a main street and immediately slowed to a casual walk. Running attracted attention. He pulled his jacket sleeve down to cover his clock—in Dayton, that was considered rude, almost suspicious, but it was better than having people see a century glowing on his arm.
Around him, life continued as normal. People rushed to their jobs, checked their clocks, counted their seconds. Everyone locked in the same desperate struggle Ray had been in just an hour ago. They had no idea that one of them was now carrying enough time to buy a house in New Greenwich.
New Greenwich. The wealthy time zone, where people like Hamilton lived. Where Sylvia Weis lived—the daughter of Philippe Weis, the man who controlled the entire time banking system.
Ray shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He couldn't think about New Greenwich or revolution or making the system pay. Right now, he just needed to survive the next few hours.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Ray's heart jumped into his throat. He forced himself to keep walking at the same pace, forced his breathing to stay even. The siren grew louder, and then a Timekeeper vehicle screamed past him, heading toward the industrial district.
They'd found the body.
Ray ducked into the nearest building—a grimy convenience store with flickering lights and empty shelves. The clerk, an older man with two days on his clock, barely glanced at him. Ray pretended to browse while his mind worked through options.
He couldn't stay in Dayton. That much was clear. The Timekeepers would lock down the time zone, check every resident, find him within hours. He needed to cross into Milltown, maybe further. Needed to get somewhere he could blend in, where a century on your arm wasn't unheard of.
But crossing required going through checkpoints. And checkpoints meant showing your arm, having your information logged, being tracked.
Unless he found another way.
Ray left the store and headed east, back toward the wall. Not to the hole he'd found earlier—that would be the first place they'd check—but to a different section. Dayton had twenty miles of wall, and he knew there had to be other weak points.
The streets were getting more chaotic. Word of the factory shutdown was spreading, and with it, a rising sense of panic. Ray passed a time lender's office where a fight had broken out—three men grappling in the street while Timekeepers moved in to break it up. He passed a woman sitting on the curb, sobbing, her clock showing minutes. He passed a group of teenagers who couldn't have been more than a year past activation, their eyes hard and calculating as they scoped out potential robbery targets.
Dayton was always desperate. Today it was approaching a breaking point.
Ray kept moving, kept his head down, kept one hand on his covered clock. Every person he passed was a potential threat—not because they were bad people, but because desperation made everyone dangerous. If someone saw his century, they'd try to take it. They'd have to. Survival demanded it.
He was two blocks from the eastern wall when he heard the voice behind him.
"Ray Shivers."
Ray didn't run. Running would confirm guilt. Instead, he turned slowly, his face carefully neutral.
The man standing behind him was tall and lean, with dark skin and a Timekeeper's badge on his chest. His grey uniform was immaculate, his posture relaxed but ready. His eyes were intelligent and patient—the eyes of a hunter who knew his prey had nowhere to go.
"Timekeeper Leon," Ray said, recognizing him. Everyone in Dayton knew Leon. He was the chief Timekeeper for the district, famous for never letting a case go unsolved, never letting a suspect escape.
Leon smiled slightly. "You know who I am. Good. That saves time." He took a step closer. "Henry Hamilton was found dead thirty minutes ago. One hundred and five years, gone. Transferred to someone in the moments before his death. The logs say that someone was you."
"I didn't kill him."
"I didn't say you did." Leon's voice was calm, almost friendly. "But you were there. You received the time. And now Hamilton's family—very wealthy, very influential people—want to know what happened. So I need you to come with me, answer some questions, help me understand what occurred."
It sounded reasonable. It sounded like procedure. But Ray had grown up in Dayton—he knew how this worked. Once the Timekeepers had you, they could hold you indefinitely while investigating. They could drain your time as "evidence." They could keep you in a cell until you had nothing left.
"Am I under arrest?" Ray asked.
"Not yet. But you will be if you run." Leon's hand drifted toward his weapon—a device that could drain time from a distance, stop a person's clock in seconds. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Ray. You've got nowhere to go. Every checkpoint, every crossing, every public space has your face in the system now. You can't hide. Not with that much time on your arm."
Ray's mind raced. Leon was right—running was pointless. But going with him was suicide.
"Hamilton gave me his time," Ray said. "It was a gift. He wanted to die."
"Maybe. That's what we need to determine." Leon took another step forward. "But that's a conversation for the station. Come quietly, and this goes easy. We verify your story, everything checks out, you walk away. Maybe you even get to keep some of that time."
The lie was obvious. Ray would never walk away from this. Hamilton's family would want someone to blame, someone to punish. A factory worker from Dayton was the perfect scapegoat.
Ray looked at his covered arm. 105:17:01:33. Hamilton had died to give him this time. Had told him not to waste it. Had said someone needed to break the cycle.
"Don't waste my time," Ray whispered.
"What?" Leon asked.
Ray turned and ran.
He heard Leon shout behind him, heard the crackle of the time-draining weapon being activated, heard footsteps pounding in pursuit. Ray sprinted down the street, dodging pedestrians, knocking over a vendor's cart, creating chaos in his wake.
The wall was ahead. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty.
Ray spotted a loading dock, a warehouse with its bay door open. He veered toward it, racing up the ramp and into the building. Workers shouted in surprise as he tore past them, heading for the far side where he could see daylight.
Behind him, Leon was still coming. The man moved like a machine, tireless and precise, closing the distance.
Ray burst out the far side of the warehouse and found himself in a junkyard—mountains of scrap metal and broken machinery stretching in every direction. He scrambled over a pile of rusted car parts, his hands slicing on sharp edges, his breath coming in gasps.
A pulse of energy whistled past his head. Leon's weapon. If it hit him, it would start draining his time, slowing him down until Leon could catch up.
Ray dove behind a stack of old shipping containers as another pulse struck the metal, leaving a scorch mark. He needed to get to the wall. Needed to cross. Once he was in Milltown, Leon's jurisdiction would be limited. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he had.
He spotted the fence line through the junk—chain-link here, older and more damaged than other sections. Ray sprinted toward it, his legs burning, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst.
Leon emerged from behind the containers, his weapon raised. "Stop!"
Ray hit the fence and started climbing. The wire cut into his hands, but he didn't slow down. Up and over. Just had to get over.
Another energy pulse struck the fence inches from his leg. Ray pulled himself up, reached the top, swung his leg over—
His jacket caught on the razor wire.
For one horrible second, Ray hung there, trapped, watching Leon sprint across the junkyard toward him. Then the fabric tore and Ray tumbled over the other side, landing hard in Milltown territory.
He scrambled to his feet, his body screaming in protest, and looked back.
Leon stood on the other side of the fence, his weapon lowered, his expression unreadable.
"This isn't over, Ray Shivers," Leon called across the barrier. "You can run to Milltown, even to New Greenwich. But I'll find you. I always do."
Ray didn't waste breath on a response. He turned and ran deeper into Milltown, leaving Dayton—and his old life—behind.
His clock read 105:16:58:47.
The hunt had begun.
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