The industrial district at night was a different world from the gleaming towers of central New Greenwich. Here, the facade crumbled. Factories stood silent and dark, their windows broken, their machinery long since moved to cheaper zones. Warehouses loomed like concrete monuments to obsolescence. The streets were poorly lit, and the few people they passed moved quickly, eyes down, wanting no part of anyone else's business.
Ray and Sylvia had been walking for forty minutes, keeping to alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads where Timekeeper vehicles patrolled. Ray's feet ached in his expensive shoes—they were made for cocktail parties, not running for your life. His suit was ruined, torn and dirty from climbing walls and diving through hedges.
"How much farther?" Ray asked, his voice low.
"Two more blocks." Sylvia had pulled her hair back and ditched her jewelry somewhere along the way. Without the markers of wealth, she looked younger, more real. "The building has a green door on the south side. There's a code—three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, one knock."
"How do you know about this place?"
"Henry Hamilton took me there once. About a year ago, when I told him I wanted to do something meaningful with my time." Sylvia's voice was soft, remembering. "He said if I was serious about changing things, I needed to meet the people who'd been fighting long before I decided revolution was interesting."
"And? Did you join them?"
"I attended a few meetings. Listened to their plans. Most of it was small-scale—distributing time to the poor, sabotaging collection systems, spreading information about how the banks manipulate scarcity." Sylvia paused at a corner, checking for patrols before crossing. "I wanted to help more, but they didn't trust me. Rich girl playing at rebellion, they called me. Said I'd go running back to Daddy the first time things got real."
"Were they right?"
Sylvia looked at him sharply. "I'm here, aren't I? Running from Timekeepers, helping a fugitive, probably about to be disowned by my family. Does that seem like playing?"
"Fair point."
They reached the warehouse—a massive structure of corrugated steel and concrete, its windows dark, its exterior tagged with faded graffiti. The green door was exactly where Sylvia said it would be, half-hidden behind a dumpster in an alley.
Sylvia knocked: three times, pause, twice, pause, once.
Nothing happened.
She knocked again, same pattern.
Still nothing.
"Maybe they're not here," Ray said, glancing nervously back the way they'd come. "Maybe they abandoned this location."
"They're here. They're just careful." Sylvia leaned close to the door. "My name is Sylvia Weis. Henry Hamilton brought me here last year. I'm with Ray Shivers—the man who received Hamilton's time. We need sanctuary."
More silence. Then, finally, the sound of locks being thrown. The door opened a crack, revealing a slice of a woman's face—dark eyes, suspicious, a scar running through one eyebrow.
"Sylvia Weis," the woman said flatly. "The princess. Hamilton's pet project."
"I prefer 'ally,' but whatever works for you."
The woman's eyes shifted to Ray. "And you're the one from Dayton. The factory worker. Half the Timekeepers in New Greenwich are looking for you."
"I'm aware."
"Why should we let you in? You're not just fugitives—you're hot. Bringing you here endangers everyone."
"Because Ray has a century of time that Hamilton died to give him," Sylvia said. "Because he's angry and he's motivated and he's exactly the kind of person your movement needs. And because if you don't let us in, the Timekeepers will find us, and when they do, they'll make us talk about every safe house we know."
The woman considered this for a long moment. Then the door opened wider.
"Get in. Quickly."
They slipped inside, and the woman locked the door behind them—three different locks, plus a heavy bar that fell into place. The interior of the warehouse was dark, lit only by portable lamps scattered around. As Ray's eyes adjusted, he saw the space had been converted into a makeshift headquarters. Sleeping areas sectioned off with hanging blankets. A communal kitchen with salvaged equipment. Workbenches covered in electronics and tools. And people—maybe twenty of them, all watching the newcomers with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity.
"This way," the woman said, leading them deeper into the warehouse.
They passed through the main space into a sectioned-off area that served as an office of sorts. A man sat at a desk made from an old door laid across filing cabinets, studying maps and documents. He was older-looking—late fifties physically—with grey streaks in his dark hair and the weathered face of someone who'd lived a hard life. His clock, Ray noticed, showed only two years.
The man looked up as they entered, his eyes moving from Sylvia to Ray and back again.
"Greta," he said to the woman who'd let them in, "you brought them to me directly. That means you think they're either very valuable or very dangerous."
"Both, probably." Greta leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "The girl's Sylvia Weis. Philippe's daughter. The boy's Ray Shivers from Dayton. The one who got Hamilton's century."
The man's eyebrows rose. He stood slowly, walking around the desk to study Ray more closely. "Henry Hamilton. I heard he died. Heard the Timekeepers were calling it murder."
"It wasn't murder," Ray said. "He gave me his time willingly. Said the system was broken and someone needed to do something about it. Then he died."
"And you ran."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Probably." The man extended his hand. "My name is Caron. I've been running this resistance cell for eight years. Hamilton was one of our... benefactors, I suppose you'd say. He provided funding, information, access. His death is a significant loss."
Ray shook the offered hand. "He seemed to think I could finish what he started."
"And can you?"
"I don't know. I'm a factory worker from Dayton. I don't know anything about resistance movements or taking down systems. But I know the system is evil, and I know people are dying while the rich live forever. That has to mean something."
Caron studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Greta, get them food and water. They look like they've been running all night." He returned to his desk. "We'll talk more in the morning. For now, you're safe here. But understand—sanctuary comes with expectations. We don't harbor freeloaders."
"What kind of expectations?" Sylvia asked.
"The kind where you contribute to the cause. Whatever skills you have, whatever resources you can access, you share them." Caron looked at Sylvia specifically. "You're Philippe Weis's daughter. That gives you access to information and locations we've never been able to touch. Are you willing to betray your father for the movement?"
Sylvia didn't hesitate. "My father is the architect of a system that murders thousands of people every day through manufactured scarcity. Yes, I'm willing to betray him."
"Good. Because that's exactly what we'll need you to do." Caron turned his attention back to Ray. "And you. You have a century. That's more than all of us in this warehouse combined. What are you willing to do with it?"
Ray thought about his mother dying in the street. About Marcus desperately trying to survive on two hours. About every person in Dayton who'd ever looked at their clock and known they were running out of time.
"Whatever it takes," Ray said. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to burn this system down."
Caron smiled for the first time. "That's what I wanted to hear."
---
Greta led them back to the main area and showed them to a corner where they could rest. Someone brought them bread, cheese, and water—simple food, but after the night they'd had, it tasted incredible.
Ray ate in silence, watching the people around him. They were a mix—some young, some old-looking, all of them carrying the marks of lives lived on the edge. Most had weeks or months on their clocks, a few had only days. These were people who'd chosen to fight rather than accept the system, even knowing it might cost them everything.
"What are you thinking?" Sylvia asked quietly.
"That Hamilton brought me here for a reason. Not just to this warehouse, but to this moment. To these people." Ray looked at his clock: 105:15:21:44. "I have more time than anyone here. Maybe more time than anyone in Dayton has ever had. That has to mean something. That has to be useful somehow."
"Money buys influence. Time is money. You have leverage now."
"It's more than that." Ray struggled to articulate the thought forming in his mind. "Hamilton said the scarcity is manufactured. That there's enough time for everyone. If that's true, then somewhere in the system, there's proof. Documentation. Evidence that would expose the whole thing."
"My father's company would have those records," Sylvia said slowly. "The time banks, the algorithms that set rates and wages, the calculations that determine how much time gets distributed to each zone. It's all proprietary, closely guarded. But if someone could access it..."
"Could you?"
"Me personally? No. My father doesn't trust me with anything important." Sylvia's expression turned thoughtful. "But his systems have weaknesses. Security holes that people like him never notice because they're too confident. The resistance has tried to hack them before, but they don't have the resources or access. With my help, with your time to fund better equipment, better people..."
She trailed off, but Ray understood. They were talking about something bigger than just surviving or hiding. They were talking about actually fighting back.
Greta reappeared, carrying blankets. "You should sleep. Tomorrow, Caron will want to discuss plans, and you'll need clear heads."
"Thank you," Ray said, accepting the blanket.
"Don't thank me yet. You're here because Hamilton vouched for you before he died. But trust is earned, not inherited. Prove you're worth the risk, or we'll put you back on the street." Greta's expression softened slightly. "But for what it's worth, I hope you are. We've been fighting a long time with little to show for it. Maybe you're the catalyst we've been waiting for."
She left them alone. Ray spread his blanket on the concrete floor, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. Forty-eight hours ago, he'd been waking up in his Dayton apartment with twenty-two hours on his clock, facing another day at the factory. Now he was in a resistance hideout in New Greenwich, hunted by Timekeepers, carrying a dead man's century, planning revolution with the daughter of the most powerful man in the time banking system.
Life changed fast when you stopped counting seconds and started counting centuries.
"Ray?" Sylvia's voice was soft in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Do you really think we can change things? Or are we just going to end up like everyone else who tried—dead or imprisoned or broken?"
Ray thought about his mother. About Hamilton dying with a peaceful expression. About all the people in Dayton who would wake up tomorrow and count their hours and wonder if this would be the day their time ran out.
"I don't know if we can change things," Ray said honestly. "But I know we have to try. Because the alternative is accepting that this is how the world works. That some people deserve centuries while others die for hours. And I can't accept that. I won't."
Sylvia was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hamilton chose well. Goodnight, Ray."
"Goodnight."
Ray closed his eyes, but sleep was slow to come. His mind kept circling back to the same questions: What did Hamilton really want him to do? How could one person with a century actually change a system that had been in place for decades? What would happen when Leon inevitably tracked them down?
And underlying all of it: Was he brave enough to do what needed to be done?
Eventually, exhaustion won. Ray slept, and dreamed of clocks counting down, of his mother's face, of Hamilton's last words echoing in a darkness that seemed to stretch forever.
"Don't waste my time."
Ray woke to the sound of voices and the smell of coffee. Morning light filtered through the warehouse's high windows, dusty and grey. Around him, the resistance was waking up, starting another day of survival and small rebellions.
His clock read: 105:15:12:09.
A new day. A new chance to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with all this time.
Caron appeared at the entrance to Ray's sleeping area. "Morning. Sleep well?"
"Well enough."
"Good. Because we have work to do." Caron gestured for Ray to follow. "Come with me. There's someone who wants to meet the man Henry Hamilton died for."
Ray stood, his body stiff from sleeping on concrete, and followed Caron through the warehouse. They passed the communal kitchen where people were preparing breakfast, past the workbenches where others were building or repairing something electronic, to a small room in the back that had been set up as a makeshift war room.
Maps covered one wall—detailed layouts of New Greenwich, Milltown, and Dayton, with notes and markers indicating Timekeeper stations, time bank locations, weak points in the walls between zones. A table in the center held a three-dimensional model of the Weis Building.
And standing beside the table, studying the model with intense focus, was a woman Ray recognized.
Martha. The woman from Milltown who'd bandaged his hands and told him about the shelter.
She looked up as he entered, and her expression was knowing. "Hello again, Ray. Or should I say, Mr. Shivers? I had a feeling we'd meet again under more interesting circumstances."
Ray stared at her in shock. "You're part of the resistance?"
"I'm one of the founders." Martha smiled. "Did you think I helped you out of simple kindness? I was testing you. Seeing if you were who Hamilton thought you were. And based on the fact that you're here, hunted by every Timekeeper in New Greenwich but still fighting, I'd say his faith was well-placed."
Caron moved to the table. "Martha has been working with us for thirty years. She's our strategist, our historian, our connection to the old ways before the system became what it is now."
"And now," Martha said, turning back to the model of the Weis Building, "we're going to plan how to use Hamilton's gift—both the time and the person he gave it to—to strike at the heart of the system itself."
She looked up at Ray with fierce determination.
"We're going to rob Philippe Weis. And you're going to help us do it."
---