2026-01-25 18:08:50Arthur was a big man, but he looked small now. He was curled up on his side. A ceramic mug lay broken near his hand. Coffee, black, cold, was spilled across the linoleum tiles like an ink stain.
“Dad!”
Evan rushed forward. He dropped to his knees. The hard floor hurt his knees, but he didn't feel it. He grabbed his father’s shoulder.
“Dad! Wake up!”
Arthur rolled onto his back. His eyes were open, but they were not looking at Evan. They were looking at the ceiling, unseeing. They were milky and gray. His breathing was shallow. It sounded like a rattle in a dry box. Hhhhrrr... hhhhrrr...
“No, no, no,” Evan stammered.
He grabbed his father’s wrist. He looked at Arthur’s Life-Clock.
14 Years, 2 Months, 1 Day.
“You have time,” Evan said, panic rising in his chest. “You have plenty of time. Why are you falling?”
In this world, people usually died when their clock hit zero. The heart stopped. The lights went out. But Arthur had fourteen years. This was something else.
Evan tapped his own wrist-comp. “Emergency! Medical! Sector 4, Unit 404!”
A robotic voice answered instantly. “Service requires an upfront payment of one month. Do you accept?”
“Yes! Take it!” Evan screamed. “Just get here!”
“Transaction complete. Unit dispatched. ETA: Four minutes.”
Four minutes. It felt like four years.
Evan pulled his father’s head onto his lap. He brushed the gray hair away from Arthur’s forehead. Arthur’s skin was burning hot, but he was shivering.
“Evan...” Arthur whispered. It was barely a sound.
“I’m here, Dad. I’m here.”
“The numbers...” Arthur mumbled. His eyes darted back and forth. “They’re falling... all the numbers...”
“Shh. Don’t talk. The medic is coming.”
Evan rocked back and forth. He held his father tight. He looked around the small, shabby apartment. This was all they had. They didn't gamble. They lived safe. They lived quiet. This wasn't supposed to happen to them. This happened to people like Marco, or the people who bet their organs in the back alleys. Not Arthur. Arthur was a history teacher before the schools went digital. He was careful.
A loud knock shook the door. “Medical!”
Evan scrambled up and threw the door open.
A man in a white uniform walked in. He didn't look like a doctor. He looked like a mechanic. He carried a large black case. Behind him floated a small drone with a green scanning light.
The man didn't introduce himself. He looked at the floor. “That the patient?”
“Yes! He just collapsed,” Evan said.
The man knelt down. He snapped his fingers. The drone hovered over Arthur. A beam of green light swept up and down Arthur’s body. It hummed.
The man pulled a tablet from his case. He watched the data scroll by. He chewed gum loudly. Smack. Smack.
“Clock is active,” the man said, bored. “He’s got fourteen years. So it’s not a time-out.”
“I know that,” Evan snapped. “What’s wrong with him?”
The man tapped the screen. He frowned. He stopped chewing his gum.
“Oh,” the man said. “That’s nasty.”
“What?” Evan demanded. He knelt beside the man. “What is it?”
“Neural Degradation. Type 4,” the man said. He stood up and dusted off his knees. “It’s a glitch in the interface between his brain and the Life-Clock.”
Evan felt the blood drain from his face. He had heard of this. It was rare. It happened when the biological brain rejected the digital time-keeping implant.
“Is... is it fatal?” Evan asked. His voice trembled.
“Without treatment? Yeah,” the man said. “Fast, too. The brain fries itself trying to process the time data. He’s stuck in a loop. He’ll be a vegetable by tomorrow morning. Dead by tomorrow night.”
The room spun. Evan put a hand on the counter to steady himself. Dead by tomorrow.
“But you can fix it?” Evan asked. “You have to fix it.”
The man sighed. He looked around the apartment. He saw the peeling paint. He saw Evan’s wet delivery uniform.
“Look, kid,” the man said, his voice softer now, but still cold. “I can’t fix it. I’m just a paramedic. This requires surgery. Neuro-recalibration. It’s complex stuff. You need a specialist. A Risk-Clinic.”
“Where?” Evan asked. “Take him there. Now.”
“I can take him,” the man said. “But you need to understand the cost. The Risk-Clinics aren’t state-funded. They are private. They don’t take promises.”
“I have time,” Evan said quickly. He held up his wrist. “I have twenty-two years. Take it. Take whatever you need.”
The man looked at Evan’s wrist. Then he looked back at his tablet. He typed in a code.
“Neural recalibration... emergency status... overnight care...” The man muttered.
He turned the tablet around so Evan could see the screen.
A number blinked in red.
COST: 50 Thousand Credits (50 YEARS.)
Evan stared at the number. The silence in the room was deafening.
Fifty years.
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