The Price Of A Year

“Then put down medical settlement.”

The woman’s gaze moved to Nara’s coat, her worn shoes, the hand that had begun shaking only after she entered. “You understand the clinic does not assess need?”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Nara looked past her, through the glass. A man sat in a reclined chair with a transfer disc pressed to his temple. Thin silver threads ran from the disc into a machine that pulsed softly beside him. His eyes were closed. A nurse watched the numbers climb.

Nara imagined Ivo there, trying not to apologize.

“Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

The woman printed a narrow strip and pushed it across the counter. “Proceed to biometric intake. No jewellery, no active medication patches, no food or drink beyond this point.”

Nara took the strip. The paper was warm from the printer.

At the next door, a scanner read her palm. It rejected her once.

“Hold still,” said the attendant.

“I am holding still.”

“Your pulse is irregular.”

“My brother is in a ward.”

The attendant did not look at her. “The scanner cannot record distress as consent.”

Nara placed her palm flat again. Cold glass pressed into the lines of her skin. The machine gave a low tone, and the door unlocked.

The intake corridor smelled of disinfectant and heated plastic. Every few steps, a panel displayed a sentence in white text.

TEN YEARS IS NOT A LOAN. AGE-OFFSET CANNOT BE REVERSED. PAYMENT DOES NOT CREATE OWNERSHIP.

At the end of the corridor, a counsellor waited behind a curved desk. She was older than Nara had expected, with close-cropped hair and a small metal badge bearing the clinic seal.

“Sit,” she said.

Nara sat.

The counsellor brought up Nara’s file. “You have been approved for a ten-year transfer.”

“I know.”

“You are twenty-nine.”

“I know that too.”

“Your biological age will be adjusted permanently. The transfer does not remove memories, reduce your legal identity to a different person, or alter your calendar age. It changes the body’s age-offset. You may experience stiffness, reduced recovery, changes in skin elasticity, joint pain, hormonal disruption, and fatigue.”

“How much?”

The counsellor’s eyes lifted. “The effects vary.”

“How much will I look?”

“That cannot be predicted precisely.”

“I need to know if I can still work.”

“Most donors continue working.”

“Most?”

“Some change their occupations.”

Nara thought of the ward. Of Ivo’s hand gripping the blanket when the pain came. Of the invoice clipped to the foot of his bed, its red balance increasing each day.

“Ten years,” she said. “Not more.”

“The system will not take more than the authorization specifies.”

“And the payment clears everything?”

“The settlement amount will be transferred to the hospital account attached to Ivo’s treatment. Any remainder will be applied to the outstanding debt.”

“Immediately?”

“Upon completion and verification.”

Nara leaned forward. “I need the hospital to receive it today.”

“It will.”

The counsellor turned the screen toward her. The terms filled it in dense columns. Nara saw her name, her birth date, the beneficiary designation, the ten-year debit, and a field marked AGE-OFFSET: PERMANENT.

At the bottom was a declaration.

I UNDERSTAND THAT THE TRANSFER MAY ALTER MY APPEARANCE, HEALTH, EMPLOYMENT ELIGIBILITY, AND EXPECTED YEARS OF ACTIVE LIFE.

Nara read it once.

The counsellor watched her. “You have a cooling period of forty-eight hours.”

“No.”

“You may leave and return after consideration.”

“No.”

“Nara, the cooling period exists because urgency can impair judgment.”

“Urgency is the reason I’m here.”

“It is also the reason people sign terms they later regret.”

Nara placed her finger on the signature field. The glass recognized the pressure of her skin.

“I won’t regret saving him.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

For the first time, something moved in the counsellor’s face. Not sympathy. Recognition, perhaps. The clinic had seen people arrive with the same fixed expression, carrying debts that had already entered their bodies.

“Once you sign,” the counsellor said, “the transfer begins within three minutes.”

“Then start it.”

The signature line flashed green.

Nara signed.

A confirmation tone sounded. Somewhere beyond the wall, another door sealed shut.

The counsellor took a transfer disc from a sterilized tray. It was no larger than a coin, translucent at the centre, with a ring of conductive metal around its edge. “The disc will remain attached for the duration. You may feel pressure, heat, or an electrical sensation. Do not remove it.”

“Will it hurt?”

“There is discomfort.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

The counsellor held her gaze. “Yes.”

Nara nodded and turned her head.

The disc touched her temple.

Cold spread first, a clean circle against her skin. Then the machine engaged.

Pain entered without drama. It did not stab or burn. It moved through her in a slow, deliberate tightening, as if invisible hands had found every joint and begun turning them. Her teeth clenched. The room sharpened around her: the hum of the machine, the squeak of rubber beneath a passing cart, the faint rasp of her own breath.

A progress bar appeared above the counsellor’s desk.

TRANSFER: 01%

Nara pictured Ivo’s room. The cracked blue mug beside his bed. The way he tried to hide the tremor in his left hand. The nurse who had told her, gently, that treatment was not charity.

The percentage climbed.

At twenty-three, her knees began to ache.

At forty, heat crawled down her neck.

At sixty-eight, she felt an abrupt emptiness beneath her ribs, as though something had been lifted out and carried away before she could name it.

The counsellor’s voice reached her through the pressure. “Stay conscious.”

“I am.”

“Breathe evenly.”

“I am breathing.”

At ninety-nine, Nara opened her eyes.

The progress bar vanished.

The disc released with a soft click.

For several seconds she could not move. Her hands rested in her lap. The skin across her knuckles looked looser than it had when she entered, the creases deeper, the veins more visible. She flexed her fingers. Pain answered from her wrists.

The counsellor removed the disc and sealed it in a disposal sleeve.

“Transfer verified,” she said. “Settlement initiated.”

Nara swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “Ivo’s debt?”

“Cleared.”

“That fast?”

“The Exchange settlement is automated.”

“Show me.”

The counsellor turned the terminal toward her. A green confirmation filled the screen.

BENEFICIARY ACCOUNT: IVO OUTSTANDING BALANCE: 0.00 TREATMENT STATUS: FUNDED THROUGH CURRENT COURSE

Nara stared until the numbers blurred.

A laugh escaped her, small and broken. She covered it with one hand. The hand looked unfamiliar. Older. Not dramatically, not enough for anyone in the corridor to stop and stare, but enough that she could not pretend the change belonged to bad lighting.

The counsellor printed a receipt.

“Keep this,” she said. “It contains the transfer record and donor reference.”

Nara accepted it. The paper was heavier than the first strip. At the bottom, beneath the settlement details, a grey line of type gave a string of letters and numbers.

DONOR REF: D-4419-K

“What is that?”

“Your donor reference.”

“I’m the donor.”

“It identifies the transfer in the Exchange system.”

“Can I look it up?”

“Through the public register, if the record is eligible for public access.”

“Is it?”

The counsellor’s pause lasted less than a second. It still landed.

“It should be.”

Nara folded the receipt and slid it into the inner pocket of her coat.

When she stood, her knees nearly failed.

The counsellor reached across the desk. “Take a moment.”

Nara caught the edge of the chair. A dull ache had settled into both knees, deep and persistent. Her back felt tight. The corridor seemed longer than before, its blue floor lights stretching toward the exit.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“That may change over the next several hours.”

Nara straightened. “I have to go to the hospital.”

“You should avoid driving.”

“I didn’t drive.”

“Then avoid walking far.”

Outside, the afternoon had turned bright and hard. The clinic’s glass façade threw the sky back at her in broken rectangles. Nara stood on the pavement, one hand against the railing, while the receipt pressed against her ribs.

Her phone vibrated.

The hospital had sent a payment confirmation. Ivo’s treatment course remained active. His debt was zero.

She opened the message and read it twice. Then she locked the screen.

She would tell Ivo the hospital had found emergency funding. She would tell him anything that kept his face from changing when he learned what she had done. The sale belonged to her. The receipt belonged in the bottom of a drawer. The pain would pass, or she would learn to carry it.

Her phone vibrated again.

This time it was a public-register notification. Nara had not remembered opening the search page, but her thumb had already entered the donor reference.

D-4419-K.

The result appeared almost immediately.

NO PUBLIC RECORD FOUND.

She tried again, checking every character. The grey type on the receipt was faint, but clear. D-4419-K.

The register returned the same answer.

Nara looked back at the clinic. Through the glass, the intake corridor shone without a mark, each scanner waiting for the next body to enter.

Her knees hurt when she began walking.

The receipt stayed warm against her chest, and the number on it did not exist anywhere public.

End of chapter one. 9 more chapters in the full book.