Jax, a courier in a scuffed jacket, leans over his counter, fingers nimble as he counts out translucent vials marked with seconds and milliseconds. The hum of city life is muffled here, interrupted only by the soft click of stopwatch lids and the occasional nervous customer glancing over their shoulder. Each transaction is quick—a handshake, a vial, the silent exchange of credits.
Ms. Langley, a sharp-suited executive, arrives, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. "You have the 15 milliseconds?" Jax nods, sliding over a vial barely the size of a thumbnail. "Fifteen, as promised. It’ll buy you enough time to finish the Mori deal and catch your flight. But you’re running a tab, Ms. Langley. You know how the collectors get."
Ms. Langley hesitates, her hand trembling as she pockets the vial. "Just keep your head down, Jax. The collectors… they’re moving faster these days. I heard they’re rewriting the clocks." Jax manages a grim smile, glancing at the rain-stained calendar on his wall—June 14th, 2:10 a.m.
The Lead Collector inclines his head, voice slow and deliberate. "Courier Jax. We’re here for repayment. Unfortunately, you’re overdue—by twenty-four hours." Jax recoils, his voice barely a whisper. "That’s impossible. Today’s the fourteenth." The collector’s lips curl. "For you, perhaps. We arrived yesterday."
Jax[/@ch_1] grabs a crate of emergency milliseconds, shoving it into his satchel. The world blurs as he sprints into the maze of city backstreets, the collectors gliding after him, their footsteps echoing out of sync with reality.]
Rain pelts the cracked pavement, turning puddles into mirrors that reflect both the present and the past. Jax ducks beneath a flickering holo-sign, heart pounding as he fumbles with a vial marked “Stolen Time.” He hesitates, hearing the collectors’ voices warped through overlapping moments. "You can’t outrun what’s already happened, Jax."
Jax[/@ch_1]’s satchel as he crouches in a rooftop garden, breath coming in sharp gasps.]
He peers down at the city, realizing every borrowed millisecond is a chain around his neck, the collectors’ shadow stretching through every hour he thought he’d bought. "I always thought I was selling time, but maybe I was just running out of it." Somewhere, far below, the collectors wait—patient, inevitable, and always early.
