[00 : 00 : 00]

Death is a necessity. It is not a thief, nor is it a mistake in the design. It is the frame that holds the picture; without the borders, the colors would simply spill out into nothingness.

Deep down, all creatures understand this. There is a quiet instinct in the marrow of every living thing that knows when the contract is up. The wounded deer eventually stops running. The old dog finds a dark, quiet place under the porch. Eventually, they accept it.

And yet, they don't.

That is the great cruelty of existence. Even when the mind is ready to leave, the lungs still gasp for air. Even when the soul makes peace, the heart hammers against the ribs, terrified of the silence. We are trapped in a violent contradiction: we are born to accept the end, yet programmed to deny it with every last ounce of strength.

Most people are lucky. They can ignore this war. They can pretend the clock isn't ticking.

I don't have that luxury.

I walk through the crowded station, and I don’t see faces. I don’t see fashion, or expressions, or the color of their eyes.

I see the debt they owe.

[ 14,902 : 11 : 04 ] floating above a businessman checking his watch.

[ 00 : 00 : 15 ] hovering over a woman stepping too close to the platform edge.

Everyone is walking around with a price tag of time on their heads, pretending they have forever. I am the only one who knows exactly how much change they have left in their pockets.

The screech of metal grinding against metal pierces the air, a high-pitched scream that makes everyone else flinch. The woman doesn't blink. She stands perfectly still, a statue amidst the swaying crowd, her eyes fixed on the void where the tracks disappear into the tunnel.

[ 00 : 00 : 06 ]

A gust of wind pushes ahead of the engine, whipping her hair across her face. The businessman adjusts his tie, irritated by the noise, oblivious to the fact that he is standing next to a vanishing point. He has fourteen thousand hours. She has a handful of heartbeats.

[ 00 : 00 : 05 ]

Her muscles tense. It is subtle—a shifting of weight, a locking of the knees. The biological contradiction kicks in. I see her hand tremble, her survival instinct screaming at her to step back, to retreat to the safety of the yellow line. But the number hovering above her is absolute. It does not negotiate.

[ 00 : 00 : 04 ]

The headlights flood the station, turning the dust motes into swirling galaxies. The light washes out her features, erasing the color of her coat, the weariness in her posture. For a moment, she is just a silhouette against the blinding white.

[ 00 : 00 : 03 ]

She drops her bag. It hits the concrete with a soft thud that nobody hears over the roar of the approaching engine. She isn’t falling; she is preparing. The hesitation is gone. The war inside her is over.

[ 00 : 00 : 02 ]

She steps forward.

[ 00 : 00 : 01 ]

She leans into the empty air, gravity taking her with the gentle insistence of an old friend. Her feet leave the platform. For a split second, she is suspended—caught between the safety of the concrete and the violence of the machine. The red digits above her head flicker, burning brighter than the train's headlights.

[ 00 : 00 : 00 ]

The collision is not a sound; it is a vibration that rattles the teeth. The number shatters into red dust, dissolving instantly into the nothingness. The frame is broken. The picture spills out.

The brakes scream, too late, and the world descends into chaos.

The station screams. It is a collective, jagged sound—a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity. People rush forward; others recoil, covering their eyes. The businessman drops his briefcase, his fourteen thousand hours forgotten in the face of zero.

I remain still. I am an anchor in the riptide of panic.

I know what you’re thinking. I can feel the judgment radiating off the page, heavier than the humidity in the air. You’re looking at my hands, hanging limp at my sides, and you’re asking: Why?

Why didn't you reach out? Why didn't you grab her coat? You saw the time. You knew. You could have saved her.

Do you think I haven't asked myself that? Do you think I haven't screamed that question at the ceiling of my bedroom until my throat was raw?

I tried that. In the beginning, when the numbers first appeared, I thought they were a warning. I thought I was a savior, chosen by some divine providence to cheat the reaper. I thought I could edit the script.

I once tackled a man seconds before a speeding taxi claimed him.

His timer was at [ 00 : 00 : 02 ]. I knocked him onto the sidewalk, bruised and bloody, but alive. I felt like a god. I looked up, expecting to see years added to his life, a reward for my heroism.

Instead, the numbers keep going.

He stood up, stumbled backward in shock, and tripped over the curb, cracking his skull against the pavement. He was dead before he hit the ground.

I tried again. And again. I pulled a child back from a riverbank, only for her to choke on a piece of candy an hour later. I snatched a woman's car keys to keep her from driving, only for her to suffer an aneurysm in her kitchen.

The method changes, but the result? The result is absolute.

You cannot add water to a cup that is already full. You cannot negotiate with the laws of thermodynamics. When the energy is spent, the machine stops.

If I had pulled that woman back from the edge today, the train would have missed her. But maybe she would have had a heart attack from the adrenaline. Maybe she would have stumbled into the businessman, pushing him onto the tracks instead, trading a zero for fourteen thousand hours. The universe demands balance. It does not tolerate a deficit.

So, do I need to stop her? Do I need to intervene?

No. To intervene is to exhibit the arrogance of a human trying to outsmart gravity.

Death is a necessity. I don't write the ending; I just read the expiration date.