Please Follow Your Death Order

At the stroke of midnight on my eighteenth birthday, a string of cold numbers appeared above everyone’s heads.

They were “death tags” assigned to all living things by the world to keep it running. The smaller the number, the sooner the System would “reclaim” you.

But to my horror, there was nothing above my own head in the mirror.

In this meticulously strict sequence of rules, I am the only exception, and the only loophole.

When the world decides to sacrifice some people just to scrape by, who gets to decide the order in which we die?