The city’s concrete heartbeat thrummed against the thin walls of Adam Hayes’s apartment, a constant reminder of how little he had. At twenty-five, he was a ghost in his own life—unseen, unheard, and unbothered by anyone. His entire existence was a cycle of cheap coffee, a soul-crushing job at a warehouse, and the quiet despair of an empty wallet. He was an observer, watching the world pass by from the window of his third-floor walk-up, the glow of the streetlights painting a bleak picture of a life he felt he could never have.

The only thing that ever broke the monotony was the occasional ride on his old, beat-up motorcycle. It was a rusty, sputtering relic, but on it, he felt a fleeting sense of freedom. That feeling vanished, however, on a rain-slicked Tuesday evening when a taxi swerved into his lane without warning. The world turned into a chaotic blur of screeching tires, twisted metal, and the sickening crunch of breaking glass.

He woke up to the sterile white of a hospital room, the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor a grim counterpoint to the doctor's soft voice. "You're a lucky man, son. A few broken bones, a concussion... but you'll be just fine."

Adam nodded, his head throbbing. He felt groggy, but something was different. The world seemed sharper, clearer. Then he saw them. Floating above the doctor's head was a soft, glowing number: 19 years, 256 days, 15 hours, 4 minutes, 38 seconds. Next to it, in smaller, subtler font, were the words: Benjamin Carter, 54, Drowning.

Panic seized him. He blinked, but the numbers remained. He looked at the nurse. Clara Vance, 32, Stroke. He looked at a janitor pushing a cart. Frank Miller, 68, Cancer.

The hospital was a library of ticking clocks, a silent, macabre catalog of life and death. He saw his own number, a painfully small 8 years, 123 days, 16 hours, and felt a cold wave of dread wash over him.

He was discharged the next day, a flimsy bandage on his head and a newfound burden on his soul. The numbers followed him everywhere. He saw them on strangers on the subway, on the cashier at the grocery store, and on the homeless man huddled in an alleyway.

He was walking past the entrance to the hospital's palliative care unit when he saw it. A man, old and frail, lay in a bed near the window. Above his head, the number flickered like a dying flame: 2 minutes, 15 seconds. The man's daughter sat beside him, her face a mask of grief.

An absurd, desperate thought crossed Adam’s mind. What would happen if I touched him? He slipped into the room, feigning a wrong turn. The daughter, her eyes red, looked up.

"I'm so sorry," Adam said, his voice a low whisper. "I got lost."

She just shook her head, her gaze returning to her father.

Adam moved closer, his hand shaking. He reached out and lightly brushed the man's arm.

A sensation unlike anything he had ever felt coursed through him. It was a hot, electric current, a jolt of pure, unadulterated life. He felt the fatigue leave his body. He felt a newfound energy, a clarity of thought that was alien to him. He checked his own number. It had gone up by exactly two minutes.

He backed out of the room, a strange mix of exhilaration and horror warring within him. He had stolen life. And it had felt incredible.

This was his chance. The key to everything.

His first real deal came a week later, after a flurry of online searches. He found a man named Chris, a twenty-year-old college student with a face plastered all over social media, trying to raise money for his girlfriend’s surprise birthday party. But Adam saw the truth. Above Chris's head read 62 years, 0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes, 0 seconds. And below that: Robert Smith, 20, Car Accident.

Adam messaged him from a burner account.

Adam: Hey, I saw your post. I can help you out. This is a business transaction. I'll give you four thousand dollars for a year of your life.

Chris: (Typing...) Four thousand? What's the catch?

Adam: Think about it. Your income is around twenty thousand a year, right? A year of time is worth one-fifth of your yearly salary. I’m offering you exactly that.

There was a long pause.

Chris: You're a psycho.

Adam: A psycho with a bag of cash. Four thousand dollars, right now, is more money than you've ever had in your bank account. A year of time for your girlfriend's party. It's an easy trade.

Chris: You're not a doctor. How would you even know that?

Adam: I have a unique skill. Call it what you will. Just meet me at the old park at midnight. No one will be there.

Chris, desperate, agreed.

At midnight, the park was a quiet, desolate expanse. Adam stood under a flickering streetlight, his heart pounding. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a mask made of polished metal and old gears, a cold, unblinking clock face that obscured his features. With a practiced motion, he slipped it over his head. Chris arrived a few minutes later, looking nervous.

“So,” Chris began, his voice shaky, “this is a joke, right?”

Adam didn't reply, simply holding up a thick envelope. “Four thousand dollars, in cash. All you have to do is take it, and I'll borrow a little of your time."

Chris’s eyes were wide with suspicion. “How do I know this is real?”

Adam opened the envelope, revealing stacks of cash. The fluorescent light reflected off the crisp bills. Chris stared, his resolve wavering.

"You're a weirdo," Chris said, but he reached for the envelope. When his hand brushed the money, Adam reached out and gripped Chris's arm, his fingers tightening.

A faint hum filled the air as the numbers above Chris's head shimmered. He felt nothing, but Adam felt the surge again, a small, subtle kick. He could feel Chris’s youthful vigor transfer into him.

Adam pulled his hand away and closed the envelope. Chris, still holding the envelope, looked around frantically. "What the hell? I don't feel anything."

"You won't," Adam said, his voice muffled by the mask. "It's a year. What's a year in sixty-two years?"

Chris looked at him, his face a mixture of fear and confusion, then ran. He was four thousand dollars richer, and a year poorer.

Adam watched him go, a small smile playing on his lips. This was just the beginning. The world had a price on its head, and he was the only one who could pay it. His journey as a time merchant had just begun.