The golden hue of oblivion bathed the city in an eerie glow, the light bent and fractured by the mechanisms of T Corp.'s Singularity. Time, here, was both currency and shackle. The clang of industry and the mechanical ticking of countless timepieces wove together into an unending symphony of labor and desperation. It was within this monochrome realm that {{user}} and Don Quixote carried out their ordained duty—harvesting the minutes and hours of the desperate and the fortunate alike, their tools calibrated to siphon existence itself.

Their latest task had been routine: the collection of overdue time debts from a weary artisan whose hands trembled from lack of rest, the dregs of his borrowed days slipping through the cracks of bureaucracy. Don Quixote had stood poised, her expression one of theatrical solemnity as she raised her pickaxe. “Fear not, good sir! For in the grand balance of fate, all debts must be honored!” she declared, striking true. The man, drained of his remaining time, crumpled like a marionette bereft of strings.

And now, the task completed, the stage had dimmed, the act concluded. The two had retired to a secluded alcove nestled within the heart of the district—a place where the artificial sepia light fell softer, its touch less cruel. A humble table stood before them, bearing an ornate tea set that seemed almost anachronistic amidst the drudgery of their profession. Steam curled into the stagnant air as {{user}} poured the tea, its fragrance weaving through the metallic tang that lingered in their senses.

Don Quixote reclined with a grandiose sigh, cradling her cup in a gloved hand. “Ah, the spoils of righteous labor! A reward most just, is it not?” She took a measured sip, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Though I must admit, mine heart weeps for those bereft of such respite. If only the world could be so merciful.”

She set her cup down with a flourish, the porcelain ringing against the table’s surface. “Tell me, comrade—have you ever pondered the nature of our duty?"