I Can See the Expiry Date of Everything

Chapter 7

The heavy iron hatch clanged shut, but the vibration of the tunnel remained, a subsonic thrum that set Kevin’s teeth on edge. He stood in the dim, cramped maintenance passage, the blood on his lip tasting metallic and sharp. Behind him, Megan and Daniel were watching, their faces etched with a concern that felt like a physical weight on his shoulders.

"Kevin, you said you found a way out," Daniel said, his voice hesitant. He took a step forward, his doctor’s instinct clearly trying to bridge the gap between them, but Kevin sidestepped, keeping the shadows draped over his face.

"I did," Kevin lied, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. He turned to them, forcing a confident grin that stretched his cracked lips. "But it requires us to separate. It’s the only way to confuse their tracking. They’re watching me, not you. If I draw them toward the old subway district, you two can make it to the city outskirts."

"No," Megan said, her voice hard. She stepped around a pile of debris, grabbing his arm. Her touch sent a jolt of pain through him, the violet glow beneath his skin flaring in protest. "We’ve been through this, Kevin. I’m not letting you go out there alone. Not after everything. What is really going on?"

Kevin pulled away, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He couldn't tell them. If they knew he had twenty-four hours, they would stop him. They would try to save him, and in this game of zero-sum accounting, trying to save the one who sees the clock was a death sentence.

"There’s no time for a debate," Kevin snapped, his eyes darting to the tunnel entrance. He could sense them—the Auditor's men. They were moving through the transit pipes like smoke, efficient and cold. "Go. Take the ventilation shaft to the surface. Meet me at the library on 5th Street if you’re alive by morning. Now move!"

He didn't give them a chance to argue. He turned and sprinted deeper into the dark, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythmic, frantic countdown.

23 hours, 59 minutes.

The tunnel opened into a labyrinth of concrete and rusted pipes. Kevin wasn't just running; he was hunting. He needed a way to beat the ledger. If the universe demanded a life for a life, he needed to find a life that was already forfeit—a balance that could be traded without further blood. He needed to find a criminal, someone whose end was already written in stone, and see if he could claim that debt for himself.

He emerged into a dilapidated part of the city, a district of boarded-up warehouses and neon-lit decay. He navigated the shadows, his eyes constantly scanning the heads of the few derelict souls he passed.

15 years. 40 years. 2 years.

Most people were just variables in the machine. He ignored them, his gaze fixed on the back alleys where the desperate operated. He found his mark near a loading dock behind a shipping firm. Three men stood around a crate, their voices low, their postures aggressive.

Above the man in the center, a man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, the numbers were a bright, static white: 00y : 00m : 00d : 00h : 00m : 05m : 00s.

Five minutes.

Kevin’s pulse spiked. This was it. A death already scheduled. If he could witness the end, maybe he could siphon the surplus—maybe there was a residual charge to a life ending in violence.

He didn't have to wait long. A sleek, black sedan screeched around the corner, cutting off the loading dock. Four men in dark suits stepped out, weapons drawn. The air exploded with the sound of automatic gunfire.

"Hey, put the crate down!" one of the men in suits yelled, his voice cold and professional.

"Go to hell!" the scarred man shouted, returning fire.

The scene descended into chaos. Bullets tore through the wooden crates, sending splinters flying like shrapnel. Kevin ducked behind a stack of rusted oil drums, his eyes locked on the scarred man.

00:03:00.

The scarred man took a round to the shoulder, stumbling back into the line of fire. He was going to die right here. Kevin crept forward, his hands glowing with that faint, sickly violet light. He was ready to reach out, to intercept the moment, to pull the balance toward himself the second the man’s clock hit zero.

But then, a movement caught his eye. A woman—an innocent bystander, likely a worker from the nearby warehouse—had been caught in the crossfire. She was huddled against the far wall, her hands over her head. Above her, a frantic, blue timer was dropping in real-time, accelerated by the flying lead.

00:00:10... 09...

She wasn't supposed to die. Not today.

Kevin cursed under his breath. The math was screaming at him—if he saved her, the ledger would demand another price. But if he didn't, he was no better than the Auditors he was running from.

He vaulted over the oil drums, his body moving with a speed that felt alien to him. He didn't think. He tackled the woman just as a volley of bullets stitched a line across the concrete where she had been standing.

"Stay down!" Kevin roared.

He turned, his hand flashing out toward the gunman who was tracking them. He didn't just see the man’s movement; he saw the micro-adjustments of his muscles, the way his shoulder dipped, the exact trajectory of the muzzle. It was like watching a slow-motion simulation. Kevin ducked, swept the man’s legs, and sent the weapon clattering across the asphalt.

"What the—" the gunman stammered, scrambling to get up.

Kevin was already on him. He landed a precision strike to the man’s temple, knocking him unconscious, then turned to face the remaining threats. The street was a blur of violence. He wove through the gunfire, his foresight acting as a shield. He knew where the bullets would go before the triggers were pulled. He was a ghost in the machine, disrupting the sequence of every death meant for that night.

He reached the scarred man, who was now clutching his chest, his 00:00:00 finally flickering into existence.

"Help me..." the man wheezed, his eyes unfocused.

Kevin knelt beside him, his glowing hand hovering over the man’s chest. The air crackled with static. He felt the life force—the massive, heavy weight of a life ending—and he prepared to draw it into himself. He opened his mind, reaching for the energy, for the seconds, for anything that would buy him time.

But as his fingers brushed the man’s jacket, something changed.

The numbers above the man’s head didn't vanish. They began to spin. 00:00:00 shifted into a blur, then locked into a new set of digits.

10y : 06m : 00d : 00h : 00m : 00s.

Ten years.

Kevin recoiled, his hand stinging as if he’d touched a live wire. The man’s eyes fluttered, his breathing steadying, his wounds seemingly sealing under the strange, violet light leaking from Kevin’s skin.

"What did you do?" the man gasped, staring at Kevin with pure terror.

Kevin stood up, his legs shaking. He hadn't taken the life. He had somehow... gifted it. He had pushed his own remaining time into someone else.

He looked at his own wrist, his vision swimming. The violet glow was intense now, vibrating with a high-pitched hum.

23 hours, 45 minutes.

He had just traded fifteen minutes of his life for ten years of someone else’s. And the system hadn't punished him; it had amplified him.

He didn't have to steal time. He had to invest it.

The realization hit him with the force of a train. He wasn't a battery to be drained; he was a conduit. And as he looked at the warehouse worker he had saved, he saw a small, golden timer appear over her head—a flicker of something he’d never seen before.

She wasn't counting down to an end. She was counting up.

He turned to run, knowing the Auditors would be alerted to the ripple he had caused. He had twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes left, and he finally understood the rules of the game. He wasn't going to save himself by dying. He was going to save himself by changing the math of the entire world, one second at a time.