New Greenwich at night was unlike anything Ray had ever seen.
The streets gleamed under designer lighting that cast everything in a warm, golden glow. The buildings weren't just maintained—they were architectural masterpieces, all glass and steel and curves that defied gravity. Luxury cars glided silently past, their interiors lit with soft blue light. Even the air smelled different here—clean, with hints of expensive cologne and flowers that couldn't possibly grow naturally in this climate.
And the people.
Ray stood in the shadows of the warehouse district, watching New Greenwich's residents pass by on the main boulevard. They wore clothes that probably cost years—actual designer pieces, tailored perfectly, made from materials that shimmered under the lights. Their jewelry wasn't just decorative; it was time made visible, centuries worn as casual accessories.
A woman walked past talking on her phone, laughing about something trivial. Ray caught a glimpse of her clock: 37:284:16:33.
Thirty-seven years. She had thirty-seven years and was laughing about restaurant reservations.
Ray's hands clenched into fists, then relaxed as the bandages reminded him of his injuries. Getting angry wouldn't help. Hamilton hadn't given him a century so he could stand in alleys seething at inequality. He'd given it to Ray to do something about it.
But what, exactly?
Ray pulled his torn jacket tighter—not for warmth but for cover—and started walking. He needed to find clothes that would let him blend in, needed to look like he belonged here instead of like someone who'd crawled through a fence and hitched a ride on a delivery truck.
The warehouse district gave way to a commercial area—high-end boutiques and restaurants that glowed like jewels in the night. Ray passed a steakhouse where a single meal cost twelve hours. A jewelry store where the cheapest watch in the window was priced at three months. A car dealership displaying vehicles that ran fifty years and up.
Everything here was designed to let the wealthy spend time they had in abundance while the poor died from having too little.
Ray found what he was looking for three blocks later—a men's clothing store that was closed for the night but had a window display showing exactly the kind of outfit he needed. Dark slacks, a crisp shirt, a jacket that looked expensive but understated. The kind of clothes that said "I belong here" without screaming for attention.
He checked the alley beside the store. A service entrance, locked but old-style—physical lock, not digital. Ray had learned to pick locks as a teenager in Dayton, where sometimes the difference between eating and starving was getting into a place you weren't supposed to be.
It took him three minutes to pop the lock. He slipped inside, moving quickly through the back rooms to the main floor. The store was dark except for security lighting, and empty except for the rows of expensive clothes waiting for wealthy customers.
Ray grabbed what he needed—pants that fit, a dark grey shirt, a black jacket, even new shoes to replace his worn-out boots. He changed quickly, stuffing his ruined clothes behind a display case. In a bathroom mirror, he barely recognized himself. Clean him up, put him in good clothes, and he could pass for someone who belonged in New Greenwich.
Almost.
Ray studied his reflection more carefully. His hair was too long, too unkempt. His face showed stress lines that wealthy people didn't develop—the constant worry of time poverty left its mark. And his hands, even bandaged, looked like working hands. Rough. Scarred.
He'd need to be careful. Needed to avoid close scrutiny.
Ray left the store through the same entrance, locking it behind him. By the time the owners discovered the theft tomorrow, he'd be long gone. Or caught by Leon. Either way, shoplifting would be the least of his concerns.
Now dressed appropriately, Ray walked the streets of New Greenwich with more confidence. People still gave him occasional glances, but they were curiosity rather than suspicion. He was just another wealthy young man enjoying the night.
He found himself drawn to the heart of the district, where the buildings reached their highest and the lights their brightest. This was where real power lived—not just individual wealth but institutional power. The banks that controlled time itself. The corporations that set wages and prices. The people who decided how much a life was worth.
At the center of it all stood the Weis Building.
Sixty stories of glass and steel, lit from within like a beacon. The name WEIS was spelled out in glowing letters fifty feet high. This was Philippe Weis's headquarters—the man who controlled the largest time banking operation in the world. The man who, more than anyone else, had designed the system that kept Dayton dying and New Greenwich thriving.
Ray stared up at the building, a cold fury building in his chest. Hamilton had said there was enough time for everyone. That the scarcity was artificial. If that was true, then men like Weis were responsible for every person who'd ever died on the streets of Dayton. Every mother who ran out of time. Every desperate worker who took impossible risks.
Philippe Weis had built an empire on manufactured scarcity, and he lived here in this tower while people with minutes on their clocks died ten miles away.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
Ray spun around to find a young woman standing behind him. She was beautiful—dark hair, striking features, expensive dress that probably cost a decade. But what caught Ray's attention was her eyes. They held the same expression he'd seen in the mirror sometimes. Not quite boredom. More like... searching.
"The Weis Building," she continued, moving to stand beside him, both of them looking up. "My father's monument to himself. Sixty floors of ego and profit."
Ray's breath caught. "Your father?"
The woman turned to him with a slight smile. "Sylvia Weis. And you are?"
Ray's mind raced. He was standing next to Philippe Weis's daughter. The rebellious heiress who, according to gossip Ray had overheard at Haven House, was famous for slumming in lower time zones and horrifying her wealthy family. She was supposed to be difficult, reckless, fascinated by the poor in the way rich people sometimes were—like they were exotic animals rather than people.
But her eyes didn't look like someone playing at rebellion. They looked genuinely angry.
"Ray," he said, keeping his last name to himself. "Ray... Turner." The fake name came easily, surprisingly.
"Well, Ray Turner, what brings you to New Greenwich? You don't have that dead-eyed look most people here develop after a few decades. You still look like you feel things."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends. Are you here to make money or to spend it?"
"Neither. I'm here to understand it."
Sylvia's smile widened. "Understand what?"
"How it works. The system. Time as currency. How we got here, why it stays this way, who benefits." Ray gestured to the building. "All of it."
"Those are dangerous questions in New Greenwich. People here don't like examining the foundation their lives are built on. Turns out most of them are standing on corpses." Sylvia studied him more carefully. "You're not from here, are you? Not originally."
"What makes you say that?"
"The way you look at the building. Not with envy or admiration. With rage." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "I recognize that look because I see it in my own mirror. So let me ask again—what are you really doing here, Ray Turner?"
Ray made a decision. Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid. But something about Sylvia felt... genuine. Like she actually saw the system for what it was instead of what it pretended to be.
"I'm trying to figure out what one person can do when they suddenly have more time than they ever imagined and a dead man's last words in their head telling them not to waste it."
Sylvia's eyes widened slightly. "That's either very poetic or very specific."
"Both."
She was quiet for a moment, studying him with new intensity. "You're him, aren't you? The guy from Dayton who received Henry Hamilton's time. The Timekeepers have been looking for you all day. My father's been on the phone screaming at security directors, demanding they find whoever 'murdered' his old friend."
Ray tensed, ready to run.
But Sylvia just laughed—a sharp, delighted sound. "Don't worry. I'm not turning you in. Henry Hamilton was the only honest person in my father's social circle. If he gave you his time, he had good reasons." She looked back at the Weis Building. "Besides, anyone my father hates automatically has my interest."
"Why?" Ray asked. "You're his daughter. You have everything this system provides."
"I have time, Ray Turner. I don't have everything." Sylvia turned back to him. "Do you know what it's like to live in a world where no one ever dies? Where the same people stay in power forever, making the same decisions, perpetuating the same injustices? Where change is impossible because the people who benefit from the status quo literally have centuries to maintain it?"
"I know what it's like to live in a world where people die every day because they can't afford to live," Ray countered. "Where children watch their parents collapse in the street. Where you calculate whether eating is worth the time it costs."
"Then we both know different sides of the same evil system." Sylvia extended her hand. "Henry Hamilton was trying to change things. Trying to prove that the scarcity is manufactured, that my father and people like him are creating artificial poverty to justify their wealth. He died for it. Are you going to finish what he started?"
Ray stared at her offered hand. This could be a trap. Sylvia could be playing him, gathering information to bring to her father. Could be one of those rich people who liked to dabble in rebellion from the safety of their privilege.
Or she could be exactly what she appeared to be—someone with access, resources, and genuine rage at the system.
Ray shook her hand. "I don't know how to finish what Hamilton started. I'm a factory worker from Dayton. I don't know anything about changing systems or taking down empires."
"But you have time now," Sylvia said. "And anger. And Hamilton's last words. That's more than most people start with." She checked her own clock—Ray caught a glimpse of decades, though he couldn't read the exact number. "I'm going to a party tonight. My father's hosting it, actually. All the most powerful people in New Greenwich will be there, drinking century-old wine and congratulating themselves on their prosperity. Want to come?"
"To your father's party? The man who's trying to find me?"
"Best place to hide is in plain sight." Sylvia's smile turned wicked. "Besides, if you want to understand the system, you should meet the people who run it. See how they live, how they think. Know your enemy."
It was insane. Walking into Philippe Weis's territory while the Timekeepers hunted for him. But Sylvia was right—if Ray wanted to figure out how to use Hamilton's gift, he needed to understand exactly what he was up against.
And he had to admit, there was something appealing about the audacity of it. Attending a party thrown by the man whose system had killed Ray's mother, wearing that man's own privilege as a disguise.
"I'm not exactly dressed for a party," Ray said, looking down at his stolen clothes.
"You're dressed fine for where we're going first." Sylvia linked her arm through his. "I know a tailor who owes me a favor. We'll get you a proper suit, do something about your hair, and by the time we're done, you'll look like you were born with a century on your arm."
Ray checked his clock: 105:16:14:22.
"One question," he said as they started walking. "Why are you helping me?"
Sylvia was quiet for a moment. "Because Henry Hamilton once told me that change was possible. That the system could be different, fairer. I didn't believe him—I thought he was just another rich idealist playing at revolution. But then he gave away his entire life to a stranger, and I realized he was serious." She looked at Ray. "If he trusted you with his time, then maybe you're the person who can actually do something with it. Or maybe we'll both end up dead. Either way, it beats another century of cocktail parties and watching people pretend the world isn't burning."
They walked through New Greenwich together—the daughter of the system's architect and the factory worker who'd inherited a dead man's fortune. Behind them, the Weis Building loomed like a monument to inequality.
And Ray thought about Hamilton's last words: "Don't waste my time."
He was beginning to understand what that meant.
It meant burning it all down.
-