Time is Money 💰

In the city of Chronovale, time wasn’t just measured—it was currency. Every citizen wore a sleek, silver wristband that ticked down their life’s seconds, each tick a coin spent on survival. Rent, food, love—everything cost time. The wealthy hoarded years, their wristbands glowing with surplus, while the poor scrambled, their bands dimming toward zero. Elias Kane was one of the latter, a street artist whose wristband flickered at 3 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes.

Elias painted murals on Chronovale’s crumbling walls, splashes of color in a gray world. His art was free, a rebellion against the city’s obsession with time. But rebellion didn’t pay the bills. At the market, he’d barter a sketch for a loaf of bread, costing him an hour. A cup of coffee? Thirty minutes. Every transaction stung, his wristband’s red digits mocking him.

One evening, as Elias painted a phoenix rising from a clock’s gears, a woman approached. She was sharp-edged, her suit pristine, her wristband blazing with decades. “You’re wasting time,” she said, voice like polished steel. “Your art’s beautiful, but it’s not profitable.”

“Art’s not about profit,” Elias replied, brushing crimson across the wall. “It’s about meaning.”She smirked, handing him a card. “If you change your mind, come to Tempus Tower. Ask for Mira.”Curiosity gnawed at him. Tempus Tower was where the Timekeepers worked, the elite who controlled Chronovale’s time economy. Elias had heard rumors: they could loan time, extend lives—for a price. With his wristband at 2 days, 19 hours, he couldn’t resist.The tower gleamed, all glass and ticking clocks. Mira’s office was sterile, her desk a slab of obsidian. “You want more time?” she asked, not looking up from her tablet.“Who doesn’t?” Elias said, wary.“It’s simple. Work for us. Recruit others to trade their time.

For every hour you bring in, you get thirty minutes.” She slid a contract across the desk. “Sign, and I’ll advance you a week.”Elias hesitated. The contract’s fine print was dense, but the ticking of his wristband was louder. He signed. His band glowed, jumping to 9 days, 19 hours. It felt like freedom.The job was soul-crushing. Elias roamed the slums, convincing desperate people to sell their time. A mother gave an hour for her child’s medicine.

A student traded a day for tuition. Each deal fattened Elias’s wristband but hollowed his heart. His murals faded, unpainted, as he chased quotas.One night, he met Lila, a girl with a laugh like wind chimes and a wristband at 12 hours. She sold trinkets, her fingers deft with wire and beads. “Why do you do it?” she asked, watching him pitch the Timekeepers’ deal. “You’re not like them.”“I need to live,” Elias said, ashamed.“Living’s not just surviving,” she replied, her eyes fierce. “It’s creating, loving, being. You’re spending your soul to buy seconds.”Her words haunted him.

The next day, Elias stopped recruiting. He painted again, a mural of Lila’s trinkets spiraling into a starry sky. His wristband dipped to 1 day, 4 hours. Mira summoned him.“You’re in breach,” she snapped. “Return the advance, or we’ll take it back—plus interest.”“I can’t,” Elias said. “I’m done stealing time.”Mira’s smile was cold. “Then we’ll collect.” She pressed a button, and Elias’s wristband burned. Seconds drained—hours, days. He stumbled out, his band at 6 hours.In a panic, he found Lila. “Run with me,” he said. “We’ll hide, start over.”She shook her head. “Running’s just another cage. Paint something real. Make your time matter.”With 3 hours left, Elias painted his final mural: Chronovale’s people, their wristbands shattered, hands joined under a timeless sky. Crowds gathered, whispering. Some smashed their bands, choosing freedom over ticking seconds. The Timekeepers arrived, but the tide had turned. Chronovale began to change.Elias’s wristband hit zero as he finished. He smiled, feeling lighter than ever. Time was money, but meaning was priceless.