Ten Thousand Steps

The cabin chime dings.

I am forty-one minutes away from losing everything.

“Attention, passengers. Due to a sudden ash plume from a new volcanic fissure on the Reykjanes Peninsula, airspace over Keflavík has been closed. Combined with an internal system anomaly, we’re returning to Amsterdam Schiphol. Please remain seated with your seat belts securely fastened.”

We are turning back across the black Atlantic.

On my wrist, the AlphaStride interface glows a soft, toxic green.

9,412 steps.

Every one of them was planned: freeze the contract during a one-hour layover in Iceland, land at JFK, finish the final 588 steps on a new continent before midnight.

I don’t care about the volcano. I care about the server clock. Chase the sun west, outrun the midnight deadline, trigger the Cross-Continent Boost in New York before the calendar flips. But we aren’t outrunning the dark anymore. We are flying east. back to midnight.

I pull out my phone, thumbs flying over a developer console app. If I can’t fly to New York, I’ll fake it. I write a modified coordinate packet into the phone’s location services, hard-coding my latitude and longitude directly onto the tarmac at JFK.

The screen buffers.

My heart stops.

Then, the watch face flashes a harsh amber.

Network Mismatch.

GPS coordinates do not align with satellite latency or aircraft Wi-Fi router.

Spoofing detected.

Security lockdown initiated.

The app’s AI is too smart.

A new countdown replaces the clock.

05:00

Complete physical verification stride immediately to prevent permanent account liquidation.

By trying to cheat the machine, I have given myself five minutes to survive.

The Boeing shudders, dropping a hundred feet into the dark. Oxygen masks rattle in their plastic overhead casings. My stomach slams into my throat. Heels jam violently against the floorboards as gravity catches up.

My wrist buzzes.

9,415.

I freeze.

I stare at the glowing green numbers.

The fake arm-shaking triggers the anti-cheat, but the app demands real kinetic mass, real downward impact, real gravity. And the turbulence is delivering it. Every violent drop is registered by the accelerometer as a perfect, heavy stride.

The plane hits another pocket of dead air, plunging like a dropped elevator. My body lifts against the lap belt before crashing back into the seat. My boots slam against the aluminum deck.

9,421.

No.

No, no, no.

The ten thousandth step has to hit a new geofenced landmass. Hit it here, over the black coordinates of the Atlantic, and the contract snaps shut. The streak dies. Future value evaporates.

“Sir!”

Another violent downdraft throws the cabin into freefall. My hands rip from the armrests. Knees snap downward. Heels hammer the aluminum deck.

The watch vibrates.

A long, continuous, mocking shudder.

10,000.

The screen floods a blinding crimson.

CONTRACT BREACHED

As the plane turns back toward Europe, I lower my feet, lean into the headrest, and watch the battery life on a worthless piece of glass tick down to zero.

Emma told me to cash out.