Existence+

Jon woke up to find his hand flickering. His fingers blinked in and out of existence, like a glitching hologram. He groaned. Not again.

Scrambling out of bed, he grabbed his phone and tapped open the Existence+ app. A red banner flashed across the screen:

Your subscription has expired. Renew now to avoid full dissolution.

“Shit,” he muttered. He had meant to pay it last night, but payday wasn’t until noon. That left him in a tricky spot.

He hurried to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection. His face always blurred when his subscription lapsed—his own eyes looking at him like they belonged to someone else. He splashed water on his face, but then his hand went right through the tap. He was already starting to phase out.

He could still move, still breathe, still exist—for now. But if he didn’t pay soon, the system would begin retracting him. First fingers, then limbs, then memories. The worst part was the memory rollback. If he was deleted, would he even know?

Shaking off the thought, he dressed quickly, ignoring the way his shirt flickered against his chest.

At the office, the door scanner beeped red. Denied. His work subscription had clearly been bundled with his existence plan. He pounded on the glass. “Come on, Carl, let me in!”

Carl, his manager, looked at him through the window. “Jon… I’m sorry. You know the policy. Get yourself sorted, then come back.”

Jon’s voice wavered. “But I don’t have the money yet. I just need a few hours—”

Carl reached for the blinds and pulled them shut.

Jon staggered backwards. His legs flickered, struggling to hold his weight. He checked his phone. The notification had changed:

Subscription Termination in 10 minutes.

He tapped the Renew Now button, hoping they might give him a grace period. The screen flashed:

Insufficient Funds. Please upgrade to Existence+ Pro for emergency overdraft protection.

His fingers dissolved first. Then his arms.

He turned, running—or trying to run—through the street. People ignored him now. His presence no longer triggered facial recognition. Store doors didn’t slide open for him. A mother pushed her pram right through him without noticing.

His torso unravelled like smoke. He pressed his phone with hands that weren’t there, but the screen no longer recognised him.

As the last of him faded, his phone vibrated one final time. A cheery message popped up:

We’re sorry to see you go!

Jon opened his mouth to scream, but his voice had already been revoked.