The tailor's shop was tucked away on a side street in New Greenwich's fashion district—exclusive enough to be expensive, discreet enough to ask no questions. Sylvia walked in like she owned the place, and the elderly man behind the counter immediately straightened, recognition flashing across his face.
"Miss Weis," he said, his accent refined and European. "I wasn't expecting you this evening."
"Emergency appointment, Maurice. My friend here needs a complete transformation in—" she checked her clock, "—two hours. Can you work your magic?"
Maurice circled Ray like a predator assessing prey, his experienced eyes taking in every detail. "The build is good. Height is excellent. But the posture..." He pressed a finger between Ray's shoulder blades. "You carry yourself like a worker. Shoulders forward, head down. We need to fix that first."
"I am a worker," Ray said.
"Not anymore," Sylvia replied. "Tonight you're someone who's never worked a day in his life. Someone who inherited his time and assumes there will always be more. Maurice, make him look like old money."
For the next hour, Ray was measured, fitted, and critiqued. Maurice moved with the efficiency of someone who'd dressed the wealthy for decades, pulling fabrics from hidden drawers, making marks with chalk, barking instructions to an assistant who appeared from the back room.
The suit that emerged was midnight blue, so dark it was almost black, with subtle patterns that caught the light when Ray moved. The shirt was crisp white, the tie a shade of silver that Maurice insisted "brought out his eyes." Shoes that cost more than Ray used to make in a month. A watch—not for telling time but for showing status—that Maurice fastened to Ray's right wrist, opposite his clock.
"Now the difficult part," Maurice said, steering Ray toward a salon chair. "The hair, the grooming. Miss Weis, if you'll wait outside?"
"I'll get coffee," Sylvia said. "Don't disappoint me, Maurice."
When she was gone, Maurice's demeanor shifted slightly. He began cutting Ray's hair with careful precision, but his voice lowered. "You're not one of Miss Weis's usual companions. You have the look of someone from the lower zones."
Ray stiffened. "Is that a problem?"
"On the contrary. It gives me hope." Maurice met Ray's eyes in the mirror. "I came from Milltown originally. Worked my way up over forty years, built this business, earned enough time to live comfortably in New Greenwich. But I remember where I came from. Remember the friends who didn't make it." He continued cutting. "Miss Weis is a good person trapped in a bad family. If she's brought you here, she sees something in you. Don't waste it."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because tonight you're going into the Weis mansion, surrounded by people who've never known struggle. Who think poverty is a moral failing rather than a systemic design. You'll need to remember who you are, or you'll lose yourself in their world." Maurice stepped back, examining his work. "The disguise is just clothes and hair. The real challenge is keeping your soul intact."
Ray looked at himself in the mirror. The transformation was remarkable. His hair was styled short and sophisticated. His face, freshly shaved, looked younger and sharper. In the expensive suit, with proper posture, he could pass for someone born into New Greenwich privilege.
But his eyes—his eyes still held Dayton. The knowledge of what it meant to count every second. The memory of his mother dying three blocks from home.
"I won't forget where I'm from," Ray said quietly.
"Good." Maurice brushed lint from the jacket. "Now, some advice for the party. Don't drink too much—you need to stay sharp. Don't talk about time or money—it's considered gauche among the truly wealthy. And whatever you do, don't show surprise at anything. The rich hate being impressed. They want to believe everyone lives the way they do."
Sylvia returned twenty minutes later carrying two coffee cups. She stopped in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in Ray's transformation.
"Well," she said slowly. "That's different."
"Will I pass?" Ray asked, standing straighter the way Maurice had taught him.
"You'll more than pass. You look..." Sylvia paused, searching for words. "You look dangerous. Like a wolf in gentleman's clothing."
"Is that good?"
"For where we're going? Perfect." She handed him one of the coffees. "My father's parties are full of predators. At least you'll look like you belong in the pack."
Maurice packaged Ray's stolen clothes in a discreet bag, refusing payment from Sylvia. "Consider it a gift, Miss Weis. For old times' sake."
Outside, the New Greenwich night had deepened. Luxury cars glided past, heading toward the wealthy estates in the hills above the city. Sylvia led Ray to a sleek black vehicle that responded to her touch, doors opening automatically.
"This is yours?" Ray asked, sliding into leather seats that probably cost years.
"Technically it's my father's. But he has a dozen. He won't miss this one." Sylvia started the car, and it moved forward with barely a whisper of sound. "We have thirty minutes before the party starts. I should brief you on who you'll meet."
As they drove through increasingly exclusive neighborhoods, Sylvia ran through the guest list. Philippe Weis, of course—her father, the architect of the modern time banking system. Her mother, Isabelle, who managed the social calendar and image. Weis's business partners—the CEOs of manufacturing, the heads of banking, the politicians who made sure laws favored the wealthy.
"Leon will be there too," Sylvia added. "The Timekeeper. He always attends my father's parties. They're friends, or what passes for friendship among people who only care about power."
Ray's blood ran cold. "The Timekeeper who's hunting me will be at this party?"
"Leon's hunted a thousand people. He won't recognize you in that suit." Sylvia glanced at him. "Just stay calm, stay in character, and don't give him a reason to look twice."
The Weis estate appeared as they crested a hill—a sprawling mansion of glass and stone, lit from within like a jewel box. The grounds stretched for acres, surrounded by walls that made the barriers between time zones look modest. Cars lined the circular driveway, each one worth decades. Uniformed attendants moved between them, directing traffic with practiced efficiency.
"Last chance to back out," Sylvia said as they approached.
Ray thought about his mother. About Marcus, desperate with two hours on his clock. About all the people in Dayton who would die this week, this month, this year, while the people in this mansion lived forever.
"I'm not backing out."
Sylvia smiled. "Good. Then let's show my father's friends what a hundred and five years of stolen time looks like."
They parked and walked toward the entrance. Ray forced himself to breathe normally, to walk with the casual confidence of someone who belonged. Other guests were arriving—couples in formal wear, individuals dripping with jewelry, all of them moving with the unhurried grace that came from having time to spare.
At the entrance, a security checkpoint. Guards in discrete suits, scanners in hand.
"Identification, please," one said to Ray.
Ray's heart hammered. He had no identification. No papers. Nothing that would hold up under scrutiny.
But Sylvia stepped forward smoothly. "He's my guest, Carson. Ray Turner, from the East Greenwich district. First time attending one of Father's events."
The guard—Carson—looked at Ray, then at Sylvia, then back to Ray. "I'll need to scan his arm, Miss Weis. Standard protocol."
"Of course."
Ray had no choice. He held out his left arm, praying that whatever flag Leon had put on his account wouldn't immediately trigger alarms.
The scanner beeped as it read his clock. 105:16:01:47.
Carson's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's... quite a balance for someone so young."
"Inheritance," Sylvia said smoothly. "Family money. You know how it is."
Carson studied the scanner for what felt like an eternity. Then he nodded and waved them through. "Enjoy the party, Miss Weis. Mr. Turner."
They were in.
The mansion's interior was even more spectacular than the exterior. Soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, art that Ray recognized from museums. Waiters circulated with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. A string quartet played in one corner. And everywhere, the wealthy—hundreds of them, all dressed in clothes that cost more than Ray used to make in a year, all carrying decades or centuries on their arms, all completely comfortable in their abundance.
Ray felt rage building in his chest and forced it down. He was here to observe, to learn, to understand the enemy.
"Sylvia!"
A woman approached—elegant, in her apparent forties, with a diamond necklace that probably cost actual centuries. Her clock showed 47:183:09:12. Forty-seven years.
"Mother," Sylvia said, her voice cooling noticeably. "Lovely party."
"It's your father's party, dear, not mine. I just handle the details." Isabelle Weis turned her attention to Ray, her eyes sharp and assessing. "And who is this?"
"Ray Turner. A friend from the East district."
"Turner..." Isabelle's brow furrowed. "I don't recall that family name."
"We're new money," Ray said, summoning every ounce of confidence Maurice had tried to instill. "My grandfather built a manufacturing empire in Milltown. Died last year and left everything to me."
The lie came easily, surprisingly. Maybe because it was close enough to truth—a poor person suddenly coming into wealth—that Ray could sell it.
"How... industrious," Isabelle said, the pause before the adjective suggesting she meant something less flattering. "Well, enjoy the party, Mr. Turner. Sylvia, your father wants to see you. Something about the Amsterdam acquisition."
"I'll find him later, Mother."
"He said now, dear."
The steel in Isabelle's voice was unmistakable. This wasn't a request.
Sylvia's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "I'll be back," she told Ray. "Don't talk to anyone important until I return."
Then she was gone, following her mother toward a group of older men in one corner. Ray was alone, adrift in a sea of wealth, surrounded by people who had everything while Dayton had nothing.
A waiter passed with champagne. Ray took a glass, not to drink but to have something to hold, something to do with his hands.
"First time at a Weis party?"
Ray turned to find a man beside him—handsome, well-dressed, probably in his early thirties physically but with the bearing of someone much older. His clock showed fifteen years.
"That obvious?" Ray asked.
"You're looking around like you're trying to memorize everything. Most people here are bored before they walk through the door." The man extended his hand. "Fortis. James Fortis."
Ray froze. Fortis. Like the two brothers who'd died trying to rob a time lender in Milltown. But this man looked nothing like a desperate Dayton resident. He looked like he'd been born into wealth.
"Ray Turner," Ray said, shaking the offered hand.
"Turner... New money, yes?" Fortis smiled. "I can always tell. The new money people still think this is all impressive. Give it a few decades, you'll be as bored as the rest of us."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"Oh, you will be. Trust me. I've been attending these parties for twelve years, and they're all the same. Same people, same conversations, same pretense that we're doing anything meaningful with our endless lives." Fortis took a long drink of his champagne. "But I suppose that's the price of immortality. When you can live forever, everything becomes mundane."
Ray thought about the woman in Dayton, dead on the street with forty-three minutes on her clock. About his mother, collapsed three blocks from home. About every person who'd died desperate and afraid while people like Fortis complained about being bored.
"Must be terrible," Ray said, keeping his voice neutral.
"You have no idea." Fortis gestured around the room. "Look at them. Hundreds of years among them, and what do they do with it? Business deals. Social climbing. Acquiring more time they don't need. It's obscene, really."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because where else would I be? This is the world we live in. Might as well enjoy what we can." Fortis studied Ray more carefully. "You have that look. Like you're seeing all this for the first time and can't decide whether to be impressed or disgusted."
"Little of both, maybe."
"Honest. I like that. Most people here wouldn't admit to feeling anything." Fortis lowered his voice. "Want to know a secret? Half the people in this room think the system is broken. They know people are dying in Dayton and Milltown while we have centuries. But knowing and caring are different things. And caring enough to do something? That's rarest of all."
Before Ray could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew everyone's attention.
A man had arrived—tall, commanding, with silver hair and a presence that demanded attention. Philippe Weis himself. The architect of the system. The man who, more than anyone, was responsible for the way the world worked.
And beside him, in a grey Timekeeper uniform, was Leon.
Ray's blood turned to ice.
Leon was scanning the room with those patient hunter's eyes, looking for something. Looking for someone.
Looking for Ray.
Their eyes met across the crowded room.
For one horrible second, Ray saw recognition flicker in Leon's expression. The Timekeeper's hand moved toward his weapon.
Then Sylvia was there, materializing at Ray's side, her hand on his arm. "Dance with me," she said urgently. "Now."
Ray let her pull him toward the dance floor, where other couples moved to the quartet's music. Sylvia placed his hand on her waist and took his other hand, leading him into a waltz Ray barely knew how to follow.
"He recognized you," Sylvia whispered.
"I know."
"We need to leave. But we can't run—that would confirm everything."
"Then what do we do?"
Sylvia's eyes were calculating, her mind working through options. "We stay for exactly thirty more minutes. Long enough to be polite but not suspicious. We smile, we dance, we act like we belong. And then we leave through the service entrance."
"He'll follow us."
"Let him. I know this estate better than any Timekeeper." Sylvia pulled Ray closer as they turned. "Just trust me. And whatever happens, don't look at Leon. Don't give him a reason to approach."
They danced in the center of the room, surrounded by wealth and power and centuries of stolen time. And across the floor, Leon watched them with the patient eyes of a hunter who knew his prey was cornered.
Ray's clock read 105:15:57:22.
The countdown continued.
But now Ray wasn't just running from Leon.
He was dancing with the system itself, trying to survive long enough to tear it all down.
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