Viktor Krause woke to the smell of antiseptic and the taste of failure.

  The hospital room materialized slowly—white walls, fluorescent lights, the steady beep of monitors that confirmed he was, unfortunately, still alive. His head felt like someone had filled it with wet concrete. His ribs ached with every breath.

  He'd jumped off Charles Bridge three days ago. The Vltava River was supposed to fix everything. Debt. Loneliness. The crushing weight of watching his mother die while he stood by, useless, drowning in bills he couldn't pay and a degree he couldn't finish.

  The river hadn't cooperated.

  Viktor tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his chest—broken ribs, probably. His left arm felt heavy, like he'd slept on it wrong. He lifted it.

  And froze.

  A glowing countdown hovered above his wrist.

  23:47:12

  Twenty-three hours. Forty-seven minutes. Twelve seconds.

  The numbers shifted. Eleven seconds. Ten. Nine.

  "What the fuck?" Viktor grabbed at the light with his right hand. His fingers passed through it like smoke. The countdown didn't flicker. Didn't fade.

  23:47:01

  The door opened. A nurse entered—late forties, tired eyes, white coat over blue scrubs. She carried a syringe filled with something clear.

  "Mr. Krause. You're awake." Her voice was flat. Professional. She moved to his IV stand without looking at him.

  "What is this?" Viktor held up his wrist. "What did you do to me?"

  She glanced at the countdown. Her expression didn't change. "I see you've Awakened. Earlier than expected, but the trauma likely accelerated the process."

  "Awakened? What are you—"

  "Unfortunate, really. You had such potential." She uncapped the syringe. "But the System doesn't negotiate. Twenty-three hours is barely enough to learn the rules, let alone survive them."

  Viktor's heart slammed against his broken ribs. "What are you talking about?"

  The nurse smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

  "You're going to die tomorrow, Viktor. Unless you kill someone first."

  She grabbed his left wrist.

  The moment her skin touched his, Viktor saw her timer. It appeared above her wrist, identical to his but different numbers:

  2,847:19:08

  Two thousand, eight hundred forty-seven days. Almost eight years.

  "Don't struggle," she said softly. "This will only take a moment."

  Cold flooded Viktor's arm. Not physical cold—something deeper. Like ice water in his veins, flowing backward. The sensation spread from his wrist up through his shoulder, and he watched in horror as his countdown flickered:

  23:47:01 → 23:46:44 → 23:46:22

  Seventeen seconds. Gone.

  Twenty seconds.

  Thirty.

  The nurse's timer climbed as his fell. 2,847:19:21. 2,847:19:38.

  "Stop!" Viktor jerked his arm back. The connection broke.

  His timer read 23:34:12. He'd lost thirteen minutes.

  The nurse tsked. "Disappointing. I was hoping for at least thirty. Still—" She moved toward him again. "Let's try once more."

  Something inside Viktor snapped.

  He didn't think. Didn't plan. His body moved on instinct—grabbed her wrist with both hands, felt the cold sensation reverse, felt something warm and electric flow the opposite direction.

  The nurse's eyes widened. "What are you—"

  Her timer plummeted.

  2,847:19:08 → 2,847:18:14 → 2,847:16:53

  "Stop," she gasped. "You don't know what you're doing—"

  But Viktor's body knew. His hands tightened. The flow continued.

  Stolen story; please report.

  2,847:14:22 → 2,847:10:08

  Nine minutes drained in seconds. The nurse tried to pull away. Viktor held on, terror and fury and some dark instinct he didn't understand driving his grip.

  2,847:05:14

  "Please—"

  2,847:00:08

  She stopped struggling. Just stared at him with something between pity and recognition.

  "You'll regret this," she whispered. "Every second you steal."

  Viktor let go.

  The nurse stumbled back, clutching her wrist. Her timer had stabilized at 2,846:16:42. He'd taken thirteen minutes—exactly what she'd stolen from him.

  "The Collectors will find you," she said. She was already moving toward the door. "And when they do, you'll wish you'd let me finish."

  She ran.

  Viktor sat in the empty room, staring at his hands.

  His timer glowed: 23:47:12

  The same time he'd started with. Balanced. Even.

  But everything had changed.

  The hospital discharged him two hours later. No police. No questions. Just a clipboard shoved in his hands and a nurse (different nurse, normal nurse who couldn't see the countdown) telling him he was lucky to be alive.

  Lucky.

  Viktor walked into Prague's evening streets wearing donated clothes—his originals had been cut off in the ER. Jeans. Gray hoodie. Canvas shoes. His phone was dead. His wallet was gone. His apartment keys were somewhere at the bottom of the Vltava.

  And he had twenty-one hours to live.

  The countdown was always visible now. Even when he closed his eyes, he could see the numbers burning against his eyelids:

  21:38:47

  Thirty-seven seconds.

  Thirty-six.

  Thirty-five.

  People walked past him on Wenceslas Square. Tourists. Locals. Students heading to bars. None of them could see what he saw—the countdowns hovering above their wrists. Every single person had one.

  28,847:14:22 (an old woman, almost seventy-nine years)

  18,394:08:14 (a young man, maybe fifty years)

  412:19:08 (a woman his age, just over a year)

  Some timers were green-tinted. Healthy. Others flickered red—disease, injury, approaching death.

  Viktor stumbled into an alley and vomited. Nothing came up but bile. He hadn't eaten in three days.

  Twenty-one hours. The nurse's words echoed: Unless you kill someone first.

  This couldn't be real. Hallucination. Brain damage from the fall. He'd hit his head, and now his dying neurons were firing random signals that looked like floating numbers.

  Except the nurse had seen them too. Had drained him. Had called it "Awakening."

  "You lost, friend?"

  Viktor looked up.

  A man stood at the alley entrance. Thirties, maybe. Leather jacket. Stubble. His timer read 96:14:08—four days, almost exactly.

  And the timer was red. Desperate red.

  "I'm fine," Viktor said. He tried to stand. His legs didn't cooperate.

  The man walked closer. "You don't look fine. You look fresh." He smiled. It wasn't friendly. "Let me guess. Awakened today? Yesterday? Timer's low. You're scared. Confused."

  Viktor backed against the wall. "Stay away from me."

  "Can't do that." The man pulled a knife—small, folding blade, the kind you'd use for camping. "See, I've got four days. You've probably got... what? A day? Maybe less?" He grabbed Viktor's wrist. "Let me see—"

  Viktor's timer appeared to the man: 21:27:14

  The man's eyes went wide. Then he laughed. "Twenty-one hours. Kurva. You're deader than I am."

  "Please—" Viktor tried to pull away.

  "Nothing personal." The man's grip tightened. "But four days plus twenty-one hours means I get almost five. That's enough to find someone bigger. Build up. You understand."

  The knife came up.

  Viktor didn't think.

  His hand shot out—grabbed the man's wrist, the one holding the blade. The cold sensation flooded his arm again, but this time Viktor didn't stop it. He pulled.

  Time flowed.

  The man's timer dropped like a stone.

  96:14:08 → 96:10:22 → 96:04:14 → 95:18:08

  "What the—get off—" The man tried to stab him. Viktor twisted, felt the blade slice his shoulder (pain, distant, unimportant), and held on.

  94:08:14 → 92:14:08 → 88:22:14

  The man's struggles weakened. His timer plummeted faster now, like water down a drain.

  72:14:08 → 48:08:14 → 24:14:08

  One day left. Then hours.

  08:14:08 → 00:47:22 → 00:14:08

  "Stop," the man wheezed. "Please—"

  00:01:14 → 00:00:47 → 00:00:22

  Viktor let go.

  The man collapsed. His timer hit zero.

  00:00:00

  For three seconds, nothing happened.

  Then the man's skin began to shimmer. Translucent. Viktor could see through his hand to the cobblestones beneath.

  "No," the man whispered. "No no no—"

  His fingers dissolved. Not blood. Not gore. Just... gone. Skin became mist became nothing. The dissolution spread—hand to wrist to arm to shoulder. He was still conscious. Still aware. His eyes met Viktor's.

  "It hurts," he said.

  Then his chest dissolved, and the words stopped.

  Thirty seconds after hitting zero, there was no body. No blood. Just a pile of gray ash and a leather jacket that smelled like cigarettes.

  And Viktor's timer:

  119:48:20

  Almost five days.

  He'd killed a man.

  Stolen his time.

  And his body had known exactly how to do it.

  Viktor vomited again. This time, everything came up—bile, horror, the last shreds of whatever humanity he'd had before jumping off that bridge.

  When he finished, someone was watching.

  A woman leaned against the alley wall, smoking a cigarette. Late twenties. Dark hair in a braid over her left shoulder. Leather jacket. Her timer read 2,920:14:08—eight years, almost exactly.

  She took a long drag, exhaled smoke into the cold air.

  "Congratulations," she said. "You just survived your first day as one of the Awakened."

  Viktor stared at her. At the ash. At his hands.

  "Who are you?"

  "Mira Kova?. Information broker. Survival consultant. And apparently, your new best friend." She dropped the cigarette, crushed it under her boot. "Because you just killed Tomá? Novak. And Tomá? worked for Dominik Ková?."

  "I don't know who that is."

  "Keeper-level. Thirteen years on his timer. Controls half the Grey Market in Prague." She smiled without warmth. "And you just killed his scout. Dominik's going to put a blood debt on you by morning. Three days to prepare. Then you duel him in the Arena."

  Viktor's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the cobblestones.

  "I can't fight someone with thirteen years. I don't even know what I'm doing—"

  "No," Mira agreed. "You can't. Not alone." She walked over, extended a hand. "But I can teach you. Train you. Give you a chance."

  "Why would you help me?"

  "Because you remind me of my sister. She died scared and alone. You don't have to." Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Old pain. "And because if you die, Dominik gets your five days. If you live, you owe me twenty percent of everything you kill."

  Viktor looked at her hand. At the ash. At his timer:

  119:47:14

  Almost five days.

  Seventy-two hours until a man with thirteen years tried to kill him.

  He took her hand.

  Mira pulled him up. "Good choice. Now come on. We have a lot of work to do, and your countdown isn't stopping."

  She walked toward the alley exit.

  Viktor followed.

  Behind them, the ash scattered in the wind. In three hours, there'd be no evidence Tomá? Novak had ever existed.

  Just time stolen.

  And a killer learning to survive.