The number didn't change all day.
I checked it in every reflective surface I could find—elevator mirrors, shop windows, my phone screen turned black.
72:14:09:33.
It hovered above my head like a quiet verdict.
By evening, the news was everywhere.
A man collapsed at Central Station during rush hour. Cardiac arrest. No pulse when paramedics arrived. Declared dead on the scene.
The video clip was shaky, filmed from someone's phone, but I recognized the scene instantly. The tiled floor. The vending machine in the background.
I was there.
I remembered it clearly now—the moment my number flickered.
Just for a split second, as the man fell, the digits above my head trembled. Like a buffering symbol in reality itself.
I hadn't noticed at the time. I'd been too busy panicking.
That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The number hovered above me even in the dark, softly glowing.
If it was a hallucination, it was a very persistent one.
If it wasn't…
I swallowed.
What if it wasn't counting time left to live?
What if it was counting something else?
The next morning, I went back to Central Station.
Not because I wanted to relive the moment.
But because I needed answers.
The station was crowded as usual. Commuters flowed like water, rushing past without a second glance. Life went on effortlessly for everyone else.
Then I saw it.
Above a woman's head near the ticket gates.
00:00:42:11
My breath caught.
I looked around frantically.
Another man—
01:12:03:58.
A teenager—
15:06:21:09.
They were everywhere.
Not above everyone. But above some.
And all of them were counting down.
My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears.
I followed the woman with forty-two minutes left.
She looked completely normal. Mid-thirties. Office clothes. Tired eyes. She was scrolling through her phone while walking.
The number ticked down relentlessly.
00:00:41:50
00:00:41:49
I told myself to stop. To turn around. This was none of my business.
Then she stumbled.
Someone bumped into her from behind. She lost her balance and fell forward—right toward the edge of the platform.
The train lights appeared in the tunnel.
Time slowed.
00:00:03:21
I didn't think.
I ran.
I grabbed her arm and yanked her back with all my strength. She screamed as we both hit the ground, skidding across the concrete.
The train roared past a second later, wind blasting my face.
Silence followed.
People shouted. Someone cursed. A security guard ran over.
"Are you crazy?!" the woman yelled, shaking. "You could've killed us!"
I didn't answer.
I was staring above her head.
The number was gone.
Instead, something else appeared.
—48:00:00:00
And above my own head, my number changed.
72:14:09:33
↓
72:12:09:33
Two hours.
Gone.
I sat on my bed again that night, hands shaking.
It wasn't random.
I finally understood.
When someone was about to die, the number showed their remaining time.
And when I saved them—
I paid the cost.
Two days added to her life.
Two hours taken from mine.
A clean exchange.
Cold. Precise. Fair in the cruelest way possible.
I laughed softly.
"So that's how it works," I whispered.
The room stayed silent.
No voice explained the rules. No system window popped up. No confirmation message.
Reality didn't care if I understood or not.
It would keep counting either way.
The next test came sooner than I expected.
Three days later, on my way home, I saw a number I couldn't ignore.
00:00:05:12
A little boy stood at a crosswalk, holding a balloon. His mother was distracted, arguing on the phone.
A truck sped down the street, its brakes screaming too late.
I froze.
Five seconds.
If I moved, I knew what would happen.
If I didn't—
The number above the boy's head hit zero.
I moved.
I lunged forward, grabbing the child and rolling onto the sidewalk just as the truck slammed into the pole behind us.
Screams erupted.
The balloon slipped from the boy's hand and floated away.
He was crying, but alive.
His number vanished.
Mine updated.
72:12:09:33
↓
71:22:09:33
Ten hours.
I felt it this time.
Not physically—but mentally.
A heaviness settled into my chest, like a warning.
I could save people.
But I couldn't save everyone.
And every time I played hero, the clock above my head ticked faster.
That night, I made my first real decision.
I wouldn't save people blindly.
I would choose.
Who was worth the time.
And how much of myself I was willing to spend.
Above my head, the number glowed quietly.
71:22:09:33
For the first time, it felt terrifyingly finite.