The Chronos Market

In Chronopolis, time was the only currency that mattered. Not seconds or minutes, but years—sliced from lifespans, traded like stocks, and worn as glittering chrono-bands around the wrists of the elite. The city thrived under this economy, its skyscrapers crowned with gardens that never wilted, its streets humming with hover-limos ferrying the ageless to parties that never ended. But in the shadows, the Hourless coughed their way through smog-filled slums, selling their futures for a single breath of clean air.

Liran was one of them. At 27, he’d already pawned five years to pay for his sister Mira’s lung transplant. Now, he delivered chrono-packages to the Timeless, his motorcycle weaving through neon-lit alleys, his own chrono-band blinking red: 2 years, 3 months, 14 days remaining.

Mira’s band had turned red last week.

“You did what?!” Liran slammed his fist on the clinic’s counter, rattling vials of chrono-extract.

Mira sat wheezing in her wheelchair, her once-vibrant curls now thin and gray. At 19, she looked 60. “The Timeless offered ten years for my lungs,” she said, her voice a frayed thread. “Enough to get you out of the slums.”

Liran stared at the contract glowing on her wristpad. Mira Voss transfers remaining lifespan (8 months) to buyer in exchange for 10 years (non-refundable).

“They tricked you!” He gripped her skeletal shoulders. “They can’t give you ten years if you’re dead in eight months!”

Mira smiled, her lips cracked. “The years are for you, dummy. They’ll transfer to your band after I…”

“No.” He tore the wristpad off, hurling it against the wall. “I’m getting your time back.”

The Chronos Market loomed at the city’s heart, a spire of black glass where time was harvested and hoarded. Liran bribed a guard with his last remaining month, slipping into the sublevels where the Hourless weren’t allowed.

The vault door hissed open, revealing a cavernous chamber lined with crystalline tanks. Inside each floated a humanoid figure—dormant, ageless, their stolen time siphoned into glowing chrono-cells. Liran’s breath caught. The Timeless weren’t just buying time. They were stealing bodies.

A hand clamped over his mouth. “Quiet, idiot,” hissed a woman in a guard uniform, her chrono-band thick with centuries. “You want to die before you save her?”

She dragged him into a service duct, her eyes narrow. “Name’s Vey. I’ve been waiting for someone stupid enough to break in here.”

“Why help me?”

She tapped her band. “I’m Timeless. Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to bleed.”

Vey led him to a terminal, its screen flickering with data. “Your sister’s time is here,” she said, pulling up Mira’s file. A hologram showed Mira’s chrono-cells, already labeled for auction. Buyer: Councilman Rykel. Use: Personal collection.

Liran’s stomach churned. “How do I get it back?”

“Steal Rykel’s master key at the Eclipse Gala tonight. But hurry—your sister’s got six days left.”

“And you?”

Vey’s face hardened. “I want Rykel’s time. All of it.”

Liran infiltrated the gala disguised as a server, his borrowed tuxedo itching like a lie. Timeless guests floated in, their laughter ringing hollow, their chrono-bands dripping with millennia. Councilman Rykel held court at the center, his youth curated to perfection—smooth skin, raven hair, eyes as cold as the vault.

Liran slipped a chrono-disruptor from his tray, a weapon Vey had smuggled him. One touch to Rykel’s band would freeze his stolen time, rendering him mortal.

But as he approached, Rykel turned, smiling. “Ah, the Hourless hero. How’s your sister?”

Liran froze.

“Did you think we wouldn’t monitor her?” Rykel sipped champagne. “Her time is already mine. But I’ll trade it back—for yours.”

The disruptor trembled in Liran’s hand. “Why?”

“Because martyrs are tedious. I prefer my prey willing.”

Liran found Mira in the clinic, her breath shallow, her band now reading 6 days.

“Take my time,” he said, pressing his wrist to hers.

She batted him away. “No! You’ll die!”

“You’re all I have.” He triggered the transfer, his band draining as hers refilled. 1 year. 6 months. 3 days.

Mira’s cheeks flushed pink. “Stop!”

“Tell the slums what they’re doing to us,” he whispered, his voice fading. “Burn it all down.”

Liran died at dawn.

Vey found Mira at his grave, clutching the disruptor. Together, they unleashed chaos.

The vaults exploded first, chrono-cells rupturing, stolen time flooding the streets. Timeless screamed as their bands cracked, their borrowed years evaporating. Councilman Rykel aged centuries in seconds, crumbling to dust mid-sentence.

Mira stood atop the Market’s ruins, Liran’s chrono-band fused to hers. “We’re taking our time back,” she broadcast to the city. “Every second.”

Chronopolis still stands, but its gardens wilt now. Seasons return. The Hourless rebuild, their bands empty but their hearts full.

Mira tends a clocktower planted where the Market once thrived, its hands frozen at the hour Liran died. Some say she whispers to it. Some say it whispers back.

And in the slums, a new trade thrives: stories. Of a brother who traded his tomorrows. Of a sister who turned time into a weapon.

Of a city that learned to live again.