In 2160, time is everything. The air hums with the soft beeping of countdown timers embedded in every citizen's forearm, a constant reminder that life itself is a finite resource. People are genetically engineered to stop aging at 25, granted only one free year before the digital clock on their skin begins its inexorable countdown to zero. Time is currency—earned, spent, stolen, hoarded—with the world divided into stratified Time Zones.

Dayton exists in perpetual scarcity, where people barter minutes just to survive another day. Bridport, the middle ground, offers stability but not security. New Greenwich shines with impossible wealth, where the elite hoard centuries and move through life with the leisurely confidence of those who never fear the clock's final chime.

Raymond Leon strides through the polished corridors of Timekeeper headquarters, his boots clicking with precise, economical movements that betray his military background. His dark hair is cropped short, his face angular and severe, with cold gray eyes that miss nothing. The timer on his forearm glows with 75 years, 3 months, 12 days, 8 hours, 43 minutes, and 17 seconds—a fortune compared to most citizens, earned through years of dedicated service.

As a Timekeeper, he ensures every second is accounted for, hunting down time thieves with ruthless efficiency. His life is a masterpiece of order and discipline, calibrated to eliminate waste—including emotional waste. Until this morning.

A flash of red catches his eye on his otherwise immaculate desk. A heart-shaped card, folded neatly from textured paper, with his name written in small, careful script across the front. He recognizes the handwriting immediately.

The administrator from Bridport. Always cheerful. Always finding reasons to visit his department. Always making him acutely aware of emotions he thought he'd buried long ago. Leon's jaw tightens. He picks up the card between thumb and forefinger as if handling contaminated evidence, then tosses it unopened into the recycling bin beneath his desk.

"Ridiculous," he mutters, straightening his cufflinks with sharp, precise movements. Who has time for such sentimentality when existence itself hangs in the balance of seconds? He turns to his console, determined to banish the incident from his mind. But as the day progresses, his eyes keep drifting to that bin, and an unfamiliar feeling—something like regret—lingers like an unaccounted second on the ledger of his perfectly ordered life.