Chapter 2: Shadows of Time

"Stay low, Voss," Lena hissed, her dagger glinting as she peeked over the dumpster.

I crouched there, heart slamming against my ribs, trying to piece together who I was—or used to be. The alley stank of rot and wet stone, and that Time Reaper was closing in, its cloak ticking like a bomb about to blow. I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't want to end up like Jaks—dust in the wind.

"Who are you?" I whispered, glancing at Lena. "Why're you helping me?"

She shot me a look, sharp and annoyed. "I'm a Gambler, idiot. Traded my future years ago, so I'm stuck in this mess. You? You're just fresh meat who didn't know better." She paused, softening a bit. "But I've seen too many Fades get chewed up by the Syndicate. Call it a soft spot."

Before I could ask more, the Reaper's voice cut through the air. "Time debt unpaid. Surrender now." Its boots clacked on the pavement, each step a countdown.

Lena gripped my arm. "On three—run left. I'll distract it. One, two—three!" She bolted right, slashing at the Reaper's cloak. I stumbled left, legs shaky, and sprinted down a side street. The slums stretched out ahead—crumbling shacks, flickering lanterns, people too tired to look up. I didn't know where I was going, just that stopping wasn't an option.

My head throbbed, flashes of nothing where memories should've been. I kept seeing a girl—dark hair, fading away—but I couldn't hold onto her. Was she real? The ticking in my skull grew louder, syncing with my footsteps. Behind me, I heard Lena shout, then a metallic clang. I risked a glance—she was dodging the Reaper's scythe, barely keeping ahead.

I ducked into a boarded-up shack, panting, and slumped against the wall. The air tasted like mold, and a rat scurried past my boots. What had I done? Traded my past, sure, but why was a Reaper after me? Lena said it was clean—five years for coin. Something didn't add up.

Footsteps outside snapped me alert. Not the Reaper's clack, but softer—human. The door creaked open, and an old man shuffled in, his face a map of wrinkles. "Hiding don't work, kid," he said, voice rough as gravel. "They always find you."

"Who're you?" I asked, standing up too fast. My knees wobbled.

"Markus," he said, leaning on a cane. "Used to trade, back when the Syndicate cared about rules. Saw you with that Gambler girl. You're in deep, ain't you?"

I nodded, still catching my breath. "Traded my past. Now I've got a Reaper on me."

He chuckled, but it wasn't kind. "Past trades are tricky. Syndicate hates 'em—messes with their ledger. You didn't just trade five years, did you? Felt bigger."

I frowned, thinking back. The jolt, the emptiness—it wasn't just five years. "I don't know," I admitted. "I can't remember."

Markus limped closer, squinting at me. "That's the problem with time. You give it up, and it takes more than you bargained for. Check your hand."

I looked down. Faint lines crisscrossed my palm, glowing dimly—like a clock etched into my skin. "What the hell is this?"

"Paradox mark," he said, grim. "Means you broke something. Time's unraveling, and you're the loose thread."

Before I could ask more, the shack shuddered. The air warped, bending like heat off pavement, and a scream echoed outside—too close. I bolted to the window. The street was chaos—people aging in seconds, buildings cracking as if years hit them at once. A paradox. My paradox.

Lena burst in, blood on her cheek. "Reaper's gone, but we've got bigger problems," she said, grabbing my arm. "Whatever you traded, it's tearing this place apart. Move!"

I followed her out, Markus hobbling behind. The slums were collapsing, and that ticking in my head wouldn't stop. I'd traded my past to survive, but now I wondered if I'd doomed us all.

"Keep moving, Kai, or we're screwed!" Lena yelled, her voice cutting through the chaos like a knife through butter.

I stumbled over a broken crate, my boots slipping on wet stone as the slums fell apart around us. Buildings groaned, splitting open like overripe fruit, and people—Fades like me—screamed as time hit 'em hard. One second they were running, the next they were gray-haired, hunched, then dust blowing in the wind. My lungs burned, and that damn ticking in my head wouldn't shut up—louder now, like a clock about to explode. The glowing mark on my hand pulsed with it, hot and angry, and I couldn't shake the feeling I'd done this.

Lena grabbed my arm, yanking me down a narrow street. Markus hobbled behind, his cane tapping a beat against the madness. "Where the hell are we going?" I shouted, dodging a chunk of wall that crashed where I'd been standing.

"Somewhere they won't find us," she snapped, her scar twisting as she scowled. "Reapers don't mess with Gambler dens—not usually." Her hood was down now, dark hair plastered to her face from the rain, and her eyes had that wild spark you get when you're running on fumes.

The slums were a maze—crooked alleys, shacks leaning on each other like drunks, lanterns flickering out one by one. I'd lived here my whole life, or so I figured, but with my past gone, it was all just noise and shadows. That trade with Lena—five years of memories for a month's worth of coin—had wiped me clean. No family, no home, just a blank slate and a Reaper on my tail. And now this mark, whatever it meant.

We turned a corner, and there it was—a squat building with boarded windows, smoke curling out a cracked chimney. A faded sign swung above the door: The Hourglass. Lena didn't slow down, shoving through the entrance with me and Markus right behind. The air hit me like a punch—thick with sweat, booze, and something metallic I couldn't place. Inside, it was a mess of noise: shouts, laughter, the clink of relics on tables. Time Gamblers sprawled everywhere, some hunched over bets, others trading years like they were tossing dice.

"Sit," Lena said, shoving me onto a bench in the corner. Markus dropped beside me, breathing hard, his wrinkly face glistening with sweat. "Keep your head down," she added, scanning the room. "We're safe here—for now."

I rubbed my hand, the mark still glowing faint under the grime. "Safe? You saw what's happening out there. Buildings collapsing, people dying—because of me?"

She glared at me, leaning in close. "Don't flatter yourself, Voss. You didn't break time. You just… stirred it up." Her voice softened a bit, but her eyes stayed hard. "That mark's trouble, though. Never seen one like it."

Markus coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and leaned his cane against the table. "She's right," he said, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. "That's a paradox mark. Means you traded something you shouldn't have—or someone else did for you."

I stared at him, my stomach twisting. "What're you talking about? I gave up five years. That's it."

He chuckled, but it was grim, like he'd heard this story too many times. "Five years don't do that, kid. Someone's been messing with your ledger—Syndicate's got records deeper than you'd believe. I should know. Ran with 'em, back when I had more years to trade."

"You worked for the Syndicate?" I asked, voice sharper than I meant. The Syndicate—those bastards who'd taken everything from us Fades, hoarding time while we rotted. "Why the hell should I trust you?"

"'Cause I'm still breathing," he shot back, eyes narrowing. "Traded half my life to get out. They don't let you go easy. Whoever tied you to this debt, they paid big—maybe their whole damn clock—to wipe your slate. But time don't forget."

Before I could press him, a shadow loomed over the table. I looked up, and my gut sank. A guy—big, broad as a barn, with a shaved head and a scar running ear to jaw—stood there, arms crossed. His coat was patched, but the relic hanging from his belt gleamed, ticking loud enough to hear over the din. "Well, well," he said, voice like gravel. "Lena's brought fresh meat."

"Back off, Viktor," she said, standing up fast, hand on her dagger. "He's with me."

Viktor smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Heard about trouble in the slums. Paradox ripping shit apart. Then you waltz in with this marked runt?" He grabbed my wrist, twisting it to show the glowing lines. "This ain't no regular trade. Syndicate's gonna want him—or what's left after I'm done."

I yanked my hand back, heart pounding. "I don't even know what I did!"

"Don't play dumb," he snarled, leaning in so close I could smell the sour on his breath. "Ten years back, a stash of stolen time went missing—Syndicate job gone bad. Word is, someone traded it to save a kid. You've got that stink on you."

Ten years ago. I'd have been twelve—too young to remember, even if I hadn't traded my past. But Markus's words stuck—someone paid big for me. "Who?" I demanded, shoving up from the bench. "Who did it?"

Viktor laughed, a nasty bark. "You'll find out when the Reapers carve it outta you." He swung a fist, and I ducked, crashing into the table. The den erupted—Gamblers shouting, chairs flying, bets forgotten. Lena tackled Viktor, her dagger slashing at his arm, but he threw her off like she was nothing.

Markus grabbed my shoulder, pulling me back. "Run, kid—now!" But I couldn't—not yet. That mark was burning hotter, and the ticking drowned out the fight. I clutched my head, and then it hit—a flash, sharp and blurry. A girl, dark hair, eyes like mine, reaching for me. "Kai, don't let them take me," she said, voice fading as her skin wrinkled, her hair grayed, her body crumpled. Mara. My sister. Gone.

I snapped back, gasping, just as Viktor loomed over me. "Time's up, runt," he growled, raising a fist. But the mark flared—bright, blinding—and time slowed. His punch crawled, Lena's shout stretched, and the whole damn den froze. I stumbled back, staring at the chaos, the ticking so loud it shook the walls.

Then it snapped. The floor cracked, tables splintered, and Gamblers screamed as paradoxes ripped through—some aging, some turning to dust. Lena grabbed me, dragging me toward the door. "What the hell did you do?" she yelled, blood trickling from her cheek.

"I don't know!" I shouted, voice breaking. Markus limped after us, muttering about Syndicate secrets. We burst outside, the den collapsing behind us, and that vision—Mara fading—burned in my skull. Whoever she was, she'd traded for me, and now time was coming to collect. The mark pulsed, the ticking louder than my heartbeat, and I knew I'd started something I couldn't stop.

📢 Author's Note

Hey everyone!

You've just finished Chapter 1—thank you for giving The Man Who Sold His Future a chance! This story is just getting started, and trust me, things are about to get a lot more intense. Mystery, danger, and high-stakes time trading await, so stick around!

If you're enjoying it so far, I have one request: please read at least 10 chapters before leaving a review. A story takes time to unfold, and I want you to fully experience this world before making a judgment.

— [Kirito_Kazuha]