Ethan stared at Leon, his whole body rigid.
The world around them was still trapped inside that impossible slowness. Steam hung above the kitchen pass without rising. A waitress stood near the counter with one foot half-lifted, as if frozen between steps. On the television in the corner, the host's smile remained almost perfectly still.
The sight made Ethan's scalp prickle.
His breathing had gone shallow.
"Who are you?" he asked again, his voice tight.
Leon looked at him calmly.
Then he lifted a hand and released the field.
In an instant, the diner returned to normal.
The television resumed. Steam rose. Dishes clattered in the kitchen. Somewhere near the back, someone laughed. The waitress finished her step as if nothing at all had happened.
To everyone else, no time seemed to have passed.
Ethan jerked his head around, eyes wide, looking from one side of the room to the other. His expression was one of disbelief so pure it was almost childlike.
Then he turned back to Leon.
"What the hell was that?"
Leon folded his hands on the table.
"As I said," he replied, "you can call me the Time Merchant."
"Time Merchant?"
Ethan repeated the words under his breath.
He looked at Leon, then at the restaurant around them, then back again. Shock slowly gave way to something heavier. His mind was no longer trying to deny what he had seen. It was trying, unwillingly, to accept it.
Leon spoke in the same even tone as before.
"For longer than you might imagine, I have traveled through this world making the same kind of trade."
His expression remained calm, almost detached.
"I purchase time from those willing to sell it. Lifespan, to be exact."
He paused, then added:
"And I can sell that time again to people who need it."
Ethan said nothing.
His fingers were still pressed against the edge of the table.
Leon looked at him directly.
"So, Ethan Cole, do you have one year of your life you would be willing to sell me?"
The moment Leon spoke his full name, Ethan's pupils contracted.
"You know my name?"
"I know more than that."
Leon's gaze did not shift.
He recited the information above Ethan's head as naturally as if he were reading from a file.
Name: Ethan ColeAge: 21Remaining lifespan: 65 years, 126 days, 13 hours, 49 minutes, 17 seconds
Ethan froze.
For a second, he forgot to breathe.
He had not introduced himself. He had shown no identification. Leon should not have known any of it.
And yet he did.
Not only that, he knew the exact number.
Fear remained on Ethan's face, but another emotion had entered it now.
Calculation.
Leon noticed it immediately.
Good.
That meant Ethan had not walked away because some part of him was already weighing the offer.
Ethan swallowed.
"You mean this literally?" he asked. "You're saying I can sell you a year of my life?"
"Yes."
"And you'll pay for it?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
There it was.
Leon reached into his folder, took out the prepared contract, and placed it on the table between them.
"The purchase rules are simple."
He turned the first page slightly so Ethan could see it more clearly.
If annual income is below 100,000,Ipurchaseoneyearoflifespanfor100,000, I purchase one year of lifespan for 100,000,Ipurchaseoneyearoflifespanfor100,000.If annual income is above $100,000, I purchase one year of lifespan for an amount equal to one full year of annual income.For a first transaction, I purchase no more than one year.
Ethan's eyes flickered.
"Then for me?"
Leon answered without hesitation.
"For you, it is $100,000."
Ethan lowered his eyes to the contract again.
"$100,000..." he repeated softly.
For a young man spending his day in a mascot suit and hurrying from one low-paying shift to another, that number was not abstract.
It was enormous.
Leon remained silent and let him think.
He did not need to guess very hard what was happening inside Ethan's mind. A person like Ethan did not live this way because life was comfortable. Money mattered to him, and not in some distant, theoretical way.
Rent was immediate.
Food was immediate.
Debt was immediate.
Exhaustion was immediate.
A year of life, on the other hand, felt distant. Invisible. Easy to underestimate.
Finally Ethan looked up.
"If I sell you a year, what happens to me?"
Leon answered plainly.
"You lose one year from your remaining lifespan."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
"That's it?"
Leon held his gaze.
"That is not a small thing."
The bluntness of the reply made Ethan fall silent again.
After a moment, Leon continued.
"You are 21. Right now, you still have more than 65 years ahead of you. If you sell one year, you will still have more than 64."
Ethan did not answer.
His eyes remained on the contract.
Leon could almost see the argument unfolding behind them.
Most people his age had never held $100,000 in their hands.
A year was intangible.
Cash was real.
At last, Ethan asked the most predictable question.
"How do I know this isn't some kind of trick?"
Leon bent down, took the black bag from beside his chair, and placed it on the table.
Then he unzipped it.
Bundles of cash sat neatly inside.
Ethan stared at it.
"One hundred thousand dollars," Leon said. "In cash."
The young man's breathing changed.
Leon zipped the bag halfway shut again and kept one hand resting on it.
"If you refuse, I leave with it."
Then he tapped the contract with one finger.
"If you agree, it becomes yours."
Ethan said nothing.
He picked up the contract at last and read through it slowly.
The terms were cold.
Clear.
Formal.
There was no trace of a joke in them, no looseness, no improvisation. It read like something prepared long in advance for a business that should not exist and yet somehow did.
Leon did not rush him.
The noodle shop around them remained noisy and ordinary, but the small square of space at their table felt strangely sealed off from the rest of the world.
After a long silence, Ethan let out a breath, picked up the pen, and signed his name.
Leon took the contract back.
He read it once, then signed beneath Ethan's name.
** Leon Li **
The moment the final stroke was completed, Leon felt a subtle shift pass through him.
The contract had taken effect.
There was no flash of light. No visible sign. Nothing in the restaurant changed.
But he knew.
The deal was real.
Leon opened the bag again and pushed it across the table.
"This is yours."
Ethan took it with both hands.
He opened it almost immediately. When he saw the cash inside, he went completely still.
It was real.
Not a promise.
Not a number on a screen.
Real money.
Then Leon raised his hand.
Ethan looked up sharply.
"What are you doing?"
Leon did not answer.
He made a slight pulling motion toward Ethan, as if grasping something invisible in the air.
Ethan shuddered.
A sudden chill ran through his body. His shoulders jerked. The hairs on his arms stood up. At his temple, one dark strand of hair quietly turned white.
His hand flew up at once.
When his fingers touched the white strand, his eyes widened.
Leon lowered his hand.
Inside himself, he felt the change with perfect clarity.
His remaining lifespan had increased by exactly one year.
Precise.
Absolute.
Ethan was still staring at him, one hand on the cash, the other at his temple, his face pale with delayed understanding.
Something had truly been taken from him.
Leon reached into his pocket, took out a slip of paper, and wrote down the number of the prepaid SIM card he had prepared earlier.
He placed it on the table.
If you ever want to make another deal, call this number.
Ethan looked down at the paper but did not pick it up right away.
He looked dazed, conflicted, and faintly frightened, as if he had stepped across a line and could no longer see the world in quite the same way.
Leon rose from his seat.
"I'll be going."
Ethan looked up.
Leon gave him a slight nod, then turned and walked toward the door.
He did not move quickly.
He did not need to.
Behind him, the noodle shop remained just as it had been: noisy, warm, ordinary, alive with the small motions of a city afternoon.
But to Ethan, the man leaving through that door no longer looked ordinary at all.
He looked like someone who had stepped out of the human current and learned to walk above it, someone moving not merely through the city, but along the surface of time itself, gradually disappearing into the distance.