The message did not disappear.
It stayed there, floating above his vision like an unpaid receipt.
[Payment Initiated]
[Amount: 3 days]
[Status: Pending Confirmation]
Ethan stared at it in silence.
Three days.
Not money.
Not points.
Not effort.
Time.
He felt no pain. No dizziness. His body did not weaken. The clock on the wall continued ticking normally, indifferent to the transaction happening inside him.
That was the most terrifying part.
"Confirm," Ethan whispered.
The word was barely audible, but the system reacted instantly.
[Payment Confirmed]
[Lifespan Deducted]
[Remaining Time: Classified]
The message vanished.
For a brief moment, Ethan felt… lighter. As if something invisible had been removed from his chest. Not relief—more like emptiness.
Then his phone vibrated.
A notification from an unknown app.
[Balance Update]
Eligibility Score: +1
"So that's how it works," he muttered.
Pay first.
Survive later.
The next morning, the city felt different.
Nothing obvious had changed. People still rushed to work. Screens still flashed ads and news. But Ethan noticed something he hadn't before.
Above a man arguing on the phone—
A faint number flickered, then disappeared.
Above a woman waiting at the bus stop—
A symbol, briefly visible, then gone.
Not everyone.
Only some.
"Eligibility…" Ethan whispered.
He walked faster, heart pounding. The system wasn't just inside him. It was active, embedded into reality itself—selective, invisible, precise.
At the subway entrance, a security checkpoint blocked his way. The scanner flashed red when he stepped forward.
"Identification issue," the guard said flatly. "Step aside."
Ethan frowned. "That's impossible. I used this pass yesterday."
The guard didn't respond.
Then, without thinking, Ethan focused.
[Request: Transit Clearance]
[Cost: 6 hours]
His breath caught.
Six hours this time.
He hesitated for half a second.
Then he paid.
The scanner turned green.
The guard stepped back. "You're clear."
No apology. No explanation.
Ethan walked through, hands shaking.
The system didn't argue.
It didn't negotiate.
It charged.
Later that day, a message appeared unprompted.
[Notice]
First Payment Completed Successfully
You are now a Registered Participant
Below it, smaller text appeared—almost like a warning.
Participation is irreversible.
Refusal will result in automatic settlement.
Ethan closed his eyes.
He had crossed the line.
This wasn't a power.
It wasn't a gift.
It was a contract—one he never signed, but was already bound by.
And somewhere, unseen and untouchable, something was counting down.
Not on a clock.
On him.