Minh Truong woke up at 3:17 a.m.
Not because of a nightmare.
Not because of a sound.
But because the air felt… thinner.
His eyes opened slowly. The ceiling above him was the same cracked white, the same faint stain near the corner. Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
He sat up.
The phone on the bedside table vibrated once.
Just once.
No notification sound. No light. Just a short, dull tremor—as if it had been nudged by an invisible finger.
Minh reached for it.
The screen was already on.
A black interface. No logo. No app name.
Only one line of text:
"Daily balance updated."
Below it, a number:
Lifespan Remaining: 42 years, 11 months, 3 days
Minh stared at it.
Yesterday, it had been 42 years, 11 months, 6 days.
Three days.
He hadn't felt sick.
He hadn't been injured.
He hadn't done anything reckless.
Yet three days were gone.
"Bullshit…" he muttered.
He rubbed his face and checked the time again. 3:17 a.m. Same as always. The city outside was silent, drowned in the distant hum of traffic and neon lights.
He tried to close the app.
It didn't respond.
Instead, a second line appeared.
"Transaction history available."
Minh's finger hovered.
Every instinct told him not to tap it.
He tapped it anyway.
The screen shifted.
A list appeared. Clean. Precise. Cold.
Transaction Log – Recent
• 3 days deducted
Reason: Unregistered observation
• 1 day deducted
Reason: Delay in response
• 7 days deducted
Reason: Unauthorized interference
Minh's heartbeat slowed—not sped up.
That scared him more than panic ever could.
"Observation?" he whispered. "By who?"
The screen didn't answer.
But something else did.
A soft sound.
Footsteps.
Outside his apartment door.
Minh froze.
His apartment was on the sixth floor of an old building. No elevator. Nobody came up here unless they meant to.
The footsteps stopped.
A shadow slid under the doorframe.
Then—three knocks.
Slow. Even. Polite.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Minh didn't move.
The phone vibrated again.
"Visitor detected."
"Warning: Interaction may result in adjustment."
Adjustment.
That word again.
Minh stood silently and moved toward the door, every muscle tense. He didn't look through the peephole.
He already knew.
The knocks came again.
This time, only two.
Knock.
Knock.
"Mr. Minh Truong," a voice said calmly from the other side.
Male. Young. No accent he could place.
"We need to talk about your balance."
Minh's hand clenched into a fist.
"Wrong apartment," he said.
A pause.
Then the voice replied, still calm.
"You checked the log at 3:18 a.m."
"You lost three days without permission."
"You're wondering who's watching."
Silence.
Then—
"You're wondering how much it will cost next time."
Minh unlocked the door.
The man outside looked ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Black jacket. White shirt. No tie. Clean shoes. No weapon in sight. He could have been a delivery worker, an office clerk, or a stranger you'd forget five seconds after passing on the street.
Except for his eyes.
They weren't cold.
They were… measuring.
"You shouldn't open doors so easily," the man said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Minh closed the door behind him.
"Who are you?" Minh asked.
The man glanced around the small apartment, then looked back at him.
"A reminder," he said. "And sometimes, a collector."
Minh raised the phone. "This thing. You did this?"
The man smiled faintly.
"No. You did."
Minh laughed once, sharp and humorless. "I didn't sign up for anything."
"No one ever does," the man replied. "You just reached the threshold."
"Threshold of what?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out a small tablet and tapped it once.
Minh's phone buzzed violently.
A new line appeared.
"Pending charge detected."
"Amount: 12 days."
Minh's breath caught. "For what?"
The man finally looked him straight in the eyes.
"For surviving something you shouldn't have."
Minh's mind raced.
The accident.
The near miss months ago.
The moment the car should have hit him—but didn't.
"You're saying… I already paid?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Now," the man said softly, "the system is recalculating."
Minh swallowed. "What happens if I don't pay?"
The man's smile faded.
"Then the debt collects itself."
The lights flickered.
Just once.
Minh felt a sharp pressure in his chest, like time itself had pressed a finger against his heart.
The phone vibrated again.
"Final notice."
"Balance adjustment in progress."
Minh looked up.
The man was already stepping back toward the door.
"This isn't a warning," he said. "It's a receipt."
The door opened.
Before Minh could speak, the man added one last thing:
"Oh—and next time?"
"There won't be a knock."
The door closed.
The room fell silent.
Minh looked down at his phone.
The number changed.
Lifespan Remaining: 42 years, 10 months, 21 days
Twelve days gone.
Just like that.
At the bottom of the screen, a new line blinked slowly:
"Next observation scheduled."
"Time: Unknown."
Minh Truong sat down heavily on the bed.
For the first time since this began, he understood one thing clearly:
This wasn't a gift.
It wasn't luck.
It was a bill.
And it always came early.