"It’s a fair valuation based on your medical records, Arthur," I said, keeping my tone silk-smooth. I had memorized his echocardiograms. I knew about the fluttering valve and the thickening of his arterial walls. According to the actuaries, I had a seventy-two percent chance of a payout within forty-eight months.

The first year was a game of silent observation. I checked the social media accounts of the Italian resort where he retired. I saw photos of him drinking Brunello and staring at the Mediterranean. Every month, I cut a check for the staggering premiums. It was an overhead cost, like rent, but with a person attached.

"Arthur. How are you feeling?" I asked, the feigned concern tasting like copper in my mouth.

In the industry, they call it a life settlement. To the uninitiated, it’s a "death bond." I prefer to think of it as a high-stakes bridge. I provide the capital for a man to enjoy his final years in a villa in Tuscany, and in exchange, I inherit the right to collect when his heart finally stops.

The primary risk is "longevity risk"—the chance the insured lives significantly longer than predicted.

I was twenty-nine, possessed a predatory line of credit, and was about to buy his death.

By the second year, the updates thinned. By the third, I felt a twitch of anxiety. My investors were asking for their returns. I found myself scrolling through Italian obituaries at 3:00 AM, a digital vulture looking for a name. Then, the phone rang. It was an international number. "Elias?" The voice was weaker, breathless.