Lin Ren had always hated stairs.
Not because they were hard—he was used to that. In this city, a courier either learns to breathe while running or vanishes from the work roster fast. Stairs were worse for a different reason: they were honest. They didn't promise that "everything will be fine." They just went up and demanded payment—in steps, sweat, and aching knees.
Today's delivery was strange from the very start.
Too high a floor. Too late at night. Too big a bonus for a box that weighed almost nothing. On the waybill—only the building number, the entrance, and a dry note: "urgent."
Lin Ren decided the rich were playing their games again and chose not to dig for meaning. He'd learned a simple truth long ago: meaning doesn't feed you.
The stairwell smelled of wet cement, old iron, and someone's cheap noodles. The bulb above the door flickered as if it, too, was thinking: why am I here? Someone had scrawled a phone number on the wall with a marker and one word: "CHEAP." Under it, someone added: "AND SCARY."
Lin Ren reached the second floor and was about to hop upward when he heard noise from outside.
The scream was short—not hysterical, but the kind people let out when they suddenly realize reality has left no room for negotiation. Then came a dull thud. Then a metallic clink, like something dropped and rolled across wet asphalt.
He froze, pressing the box to his chest.
It was quiet inside the stairwell, but the street door was ajar by the width of a palm. Cold air seeped in, and with it—something that shouldn't exist in a normal night: the smell of blood. Thin as rust.
Lin Ren took a step. Then another.
He wasn't brave. He was curious. And too tired to keep pretending he saw nothing every time.
The door creaked a little wider.
Outside, the courtyard was wet from a recent rain. Puddles reflected the streetlights, making the night look like shattered glass. A person lay near the dumpsters—face down, arms folded under at an awkward angle, as if the body was still trying to find a position where dying didn't hurt as much.
Two people stood nearby.
One held a knife—short, kitchen-made, but sharpened so well the edge caught light even in the dark. The other held a phone and was filming. He laughed quietly, like this was entertainment.
Something tightened inside Lin Ren.
Not pity. Not fear.
Disgust.
"Hey…" he said, and his own voice sounded чужим—like it didn't belong to him. "What are you doing?"
They turned almost at the same time.
The one with the phone raised an eyebrow slightly, as if he'd seen not a person but a trash bag that had decided to speak.
The one with the knife said nothing. He simply took a step forward.
Lin Ren understood without words.
He backed toward the door. The stairwell, the steps—familiar, reliable escape. He managed one thought: close the door, slam it shut, just—
His foot slipped.
The wet edge of the step had a thin film of grime, and that was enough.
The box tore free from his hands, struck the railing, and dropped with a dull crack. The white packaging split open, and something metallic flashed inside—a thin plate, like a card, but blank.
Lin Ren didn't have time to understand what it was.
He was falling.
And he saw the knife moving toward him—not fast, not frantic, but certain. Like habit.
The impact of his skull against the stair edge wasn't cinematic.
No bright sparks. No beautiful slow motion.
Just a short click—like someone flipped a switch.
And the world shut off.
---
The first seconds of coming back were worse than losing consciousness.
Because his mind returned before his body did.
Lin Ren heard sound—distant, as if through water. Someone was talking, but the words fell apart into useless fragments. He tried to inhale and felt his chest refuse to obey.
His body was heavy, like soaked sand.
He lay on his back, staring at the stairwell ceiling. The bulb above the steps trembled as if it was about to die for good. Somewhere above, footsteps were coming down.
Heavy. Unhurried.
The man with the knife wasn't rushing. He knew he'd done his job.
Lin Ren tried to raise a hand—his fingers didn't move.
Panic arrived softly, not as an explosion but as icy water filling his lungs. He understood: if nothing happened now, it would end here. On the third floor. On a dirty staircase. With a box he hadn't even delivered.
And then, at the edge, he saw it.
Not with his eyes.
It appeared directly in his head, like a transparent layer laid over the world. Clean, even, white.
At the top, a single word—written the way official documents are written:
LEDGER
Below it—lines.
Name: Lin Ren
Status: COLLECTOR
Access Rank: D
Credit Limit: 100
Interest: 5%
Current Debt: 0
Collateral: Not Assigned
Collection: Not Assigned
Lin Ren didn't have time to be surprised. Surprise requires energy. And he only had one desire left: not to die.
The lines flickered, as if the system noticed he was "active."
A new entry appeared beneath them, framed in a thin outline:
Emergency Credit
Condition: Survive the next 10 seconds.
Cost: Debt will be accrued.
Consequence: Collateral will be assigned.
Ten seconds.
The footsteps drew closer. He heard soles scrape concrete. Someone exhaled. The air filled with the stink of cheap tobacco.
Lin Ren tried to "press" the entry like a button. He didn't even know how. But his thought reached forward—instinctively, the way a hand rises to shield your face.
The world blinked.
Pain slammed into the back of his head so hard he nearly blacked out again.
But along with the pain came something else.
As if his body remembered it was more than meat and bone. As if someone removed restraints. Muscles flooded with strength, breath cut through his chest, and his heart began beating fast and steady.
Lin Ren jerked upright.
The man with the knife was already one step below. He didn't look surprised—only rotated his wrist slightly, preparing the stab.
Lin Ren saw the blade so clearly he could describe every scratch on it. He didn't think—he moved.
He caught the blade with his bare palm.
Steel bit into skin—yet didn't cut.
Impossible.
Lin Ren felt the cold of metal and a strange resistance, as if an invisible layer had formed between his hand and the knife.
The knife-man's eyes widened.
He froze for a heartbeat.
That was enough.
Lin Ren shoved him in the chest.
The shove wasn't "strong." It was "right." His body obeyed perfectly. The man flew backward and slammed into the railing with a ring of iron. The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered down the steps.
At the same instant, new lines flared across Lin Ren's mind:
Operation Executed: Body Reinforcement (D).
Debt Accrued: 30.
Interest Activated: 5%.
He didn't have time to process the numbers.
Because the second one—the guy with the phone—finally stopped laughing.
He lunged in and drove something heavy into Lin Ren's side. A knuckle-duster, maybe. Or just metal gripped in his fist. Pain speared through his ribs.
Lin Ren staggered back.
But his body was still "on credit." He grabbed the railing, pulled, and kicked—ugly, but fast. The attacker stumbled, the phone flew from his hand and shattered against the step.
"You—what the…" the man rasped, and for the first time real anger entered his voice.
Lin Ren didn't press the advantage.
He understood something else: credit wasn't forever. Ten seconds wasn't a metaphor. It was a countdown.
He spun and sprinted downward.
Steps blurred beneath his feet. His heart hammered like it was trying to outrun fate. At the bottom, the street door was still ajar.
He burst outside.
Cold, damp air slapped his face. Somewhere far off, a car passed. In a neighbor's window, TV light flickered. The world was normal. Too normal for what had just happened.
Lin Ren stopped, bent over, and tried to breathe.
Then Ledger flickered again.
New lines appeared without warning—like someone signed a contract without asking.
Collateral Assigned.
Lin Ren tensed.
He didn't know what he expected: "years of life," "memory," "eyesight." Those words were terrifying, but abstract.
On a screen, they still felt survivable. Like a fine. Like an illness. Like a problem for later.
What appeared was worse.
Collateral: YOUR NAME.
Lin Ren blinked.
His brain refused to accept it.
A name isn't a thing. Not an organ. Not blood.
But Ledger was completely serious.
Below, like a signature:
"FIRST PAYMENT ACCEPTED."
Lin Ren jerked his head up, as if expecting a massive eye in the sky or a sign. But the sky was ordinary—dark, wet, starless. Wind stirred tree branches. That was all.
With trembling fingers, he pulled out his phone.
It unlocked. He opened Contacts—just to prove he wasn't insane.
The top line, where the owner's name should be, was empty.
Not "Unknown." Not "User."
Blank.
He opened his banking app—where "Lin Ren" used to be, there was now a dash.
He opened his messenger—his chat with his mother, where he'd texted "I'll be late" yesterday, now displayed "User," no avatar.
A cold, sticky sensation rose from his gut to his throat.
This wasn't "deleted online."
This was… erased.
As if the world had ripped his name out of its memory.
He turned sharply and saw a woman passing by—around thirty, carrying grocery bags. He grabbed her sleeve too hard, too desperate.
"Please," he gasped. "Call an ambulance… someone's been stabbed… and… me…"
The woman froze.
There was no irritation on her face—the normal response to a stranger grabbing you at night.
There was something else.
Emptiness.
She looked at him the way you look at a strange object: it's there, but you can't tell why it matters.
"Sorry…" she said slowly. "Who are you?"
Lin Ren let go.
"I…" He tried to say his name.
And in that moment he understood: he could pronounce the word. But it no longer "caught." It left no hook in reality.
The woman's gaze slid away, like her mind had decided: irrelevant.
She walked around him and kept going, and after three steps her shoulders relaxed—as if she'd already forgotten anything happened.
Lin Ren stood under the streetlamp, and understanding began to spread in his chest.
A name isn't just a sound. It's an anchor.
Without an anchor, you don't hold in anyone's memory.
Friends won't recognize you. Police won't find you. A doctor won't remember you. A camera will record your face—but the viewer's mind won't lock onto the thought: it's him.
You become someone who passes by—and instantly disappears.
And all of it was the price of ten seconds.
Lin Ren raised his eyes to the Ledger.
The numbers glowed calmly:
Current Debt: 30
Credit Limit: 100
Interest: 5%
Collateral: Name (Active)
Collection: Not Assigned
Like a bank contract.
Like a credit report.
He wanted to laugh, suddenly—but the sound stuck in his throat.
Because at the very bottom of the interface, another line appeared—one that hadn't been there before. It surfaced as if Ledger had only now decided to show the real part of the deal.
"RANK TRIAL: Available."
And beside it—a small timer.
00:23:59
Exactly one day.
Lin Ren didn't know what it meant, but he felt it: if he failed the trial, the Heavens would come for the next payment.
And the next collateral might not be "a name."
He stood under the lamp, wet, shaking, still alive—and for the first time in his life he understood something simple:
Surviving isn't victory.
It's only the start of the debt.
Ledger flickered, and over every line appeared a new entry—emotionless, without warning:
"COLLECTION SCHEDULED: 24 HOURS."