Night had settled over the city, and Daniel stood in front of a brightly lit building that didn't bother hiding what it was.
A casino.
The kind of place where the rich ca to gamble away ti they could afford to lose, all while pretending it wasn't rigged from the start. The polished exterior, the lights, the quiet security—it all scread control.
Daniel glanced at it for a mont, hands in his coat pockets.
"Well… I've lost enough in places like this already," he muttered, rembering how his luck had never been particularly great when it ca to gambling.
Still—
The mark was pointing here.
So he walked in.
Or at least, he tried to.
A guard stepped forward, blocking his path before he could cross the entrance.
"Sir, this establishnt has a dress code," the man said, his tone polite but firm. "You can't enter wearing that trench coat."
Daniel stopped.
Then slowly looked down at his coat.
Then back at the guard.
"…Seriously?" he said.
The guard didn't move.
"Formal attire only," he added.
Daniel stared at him for a second longer, then let out a quiet sigh.
"Right… because the guy gambling away centuries needs to look presentable while doing it," he muttered.
He adjusted his coat slightly, then looked back at the guard with a faint, tired expression.
"So what's the problem?" Daniel asked, his tone steady. "Does it offend the table?"
The guard remained still, giving no reaction.
Daniel lifted his arm slightly, revealing the clock.
"It's not like wearing a trench coat makes what I pay any less valuable," he said.
The number displayed wasn't small.
It was enough to shift attention.
The guard's eyes flicked to it before returning to his face.
Daniel caught it.
"I don't mind giving you a year to ignore the dress code," Daniel said, his voice steady. "Once I'm inside, no one's going to look at my clothes. They'll look at the ti."
He lowered his hand and waited.
The guard hesitated, then leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.
"Five years," he said.
It wasn't even disguised as negotiation.
Rules mattered—until they didn't. A coat was required, yes, but not more than five years' worth of ti. That amount covered silence, risk, and the simple decision to look the other way. No one inside would question it, and no one at his level would care enough to check.
Daniel didn't argue.
"Done," he said.
He extended his hand.
The guard took it, activating the transfer. A faint glow passed between them, and five years moved instantly from Daniel's clock to his. The guard's grip loosened a fraction, satisfaction replacing caution.
He stepped aside.
"Enjoy your evening, sir."
Daniel walked in.
The difference was imdiate.
The interior was controlled, polished, designed to feel effortless. n in tailored suits moved between tables, their posture relaxed, their ti secure. Won in elegant dresses stood beside them, conversations low and asured, everything paced with quiet confidence.
Daniel took a glass from a passing tray without asking and moved further inside, his eyes scanning the room. The lighting, the arrangent, the flow of people—it was all calculated.
"Looks fancy," Daniel muttered as he took a slow sip, his gaze moving across the polished floor and controlled movents of the crowd. "Still the sa ga underneath."
A sharp intake of breath behind him broke the rhythm.
Daniel turned.
Sylvia Weis stood a few steps away, her eyes fixed on him with clear disbelief, as if she were still trying to confirm that what she was seeing was real. A guard stood just behind her, watching closely, ready to intervene if needed.
Daniel recognized her imdiately.
"Oh… it's you," he said, his tone relaxed. "Fancy eting you here."
Sylvia didn't return the ease. She stepped closer instead, her eyes scanning him carefully, searching for injuries that weren't there, for damage that should have been obvious after what she had witnessed.
"How are you even alive?" she asked, her voice steady but tense.
Daniel tilted his head slightly, as if the question didn't require much thought.
"It's not that easy to kill ," he replied.
His attention shifted briefly past her, landing on the guard behind her. The man stood alert, clearly positioned to step in if anything seed off.
Daniel didn't raise his voice.
"Give us a mont," he said, his tone calm but carrying quiet authority.
Sylvia was about to point out that the guard didn't take orders from her, but he moved first. He gave a short nod, stepped back, and walked away without hesitation, leaving the two of them alone.
That caught her off guard.
Her eyes followed the guard for a second before returning to Daniel, confusion clear now.
"…How did you do that?" she asked.
Daniel gave a faint, almost amused smile.
"I'm persuasive," he said.
She didn't look convinced, but sothing else pulled her attention before she could question it further.
His arm.
Her gaze dropped to it.
The number displayed there was far beyond normal, stretching into centuries, close to a thousand. Even in New Greenwich, where people lived without fear of ti running out, that amount stood out.
Then she noticed sothing else.
Not the clock.
The mark.
On his left hand.
It wasn't like anything she had seen before—black and gold, shaped in a circular pattern, with the golden half moving like a clock while the darker half seed unstable, shifting faintly as if it held sothing more than just numbers.
She leaned in slightly, curiosity overtaking caution.
"What is that?" she asked.
Daniel lifted his hand, looking at it himself for a mont before answering.
"This?" he said, watching the slow movent of the golden needle. "I don't really know."
"It just showed up."
*****
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