"You're not selling years," I whispered, pulling my hand back. "You're selling memories. The experience of living them."
I was ready to sign.
"What if I don't sign?"
The Vault was a spherical room, walls made of polished black resonance crystal. In the center floated a single object: a faded plastic card, no larger than my palm. Embossed on it was a golden falcon and the letters: enbd 5015
Not audibly. Temporally. A flood of images, smells, emotions—fragments of a thousand human lifetimes. A man in a white kandora depositing physical dirhams in 1995. A woman crying over a mortgage in 2023. A child in 2077 buying her first hover-toy with a digital thumbprint. All of them banking at ENBD. All of them trusting that a bank would hold their value . "You're not selling years," I whispered, pulling my