Luxury used to be simple. A Lamborghini. A Birkin. A wristwatch that cost more than a house. The formula was easy: if it sparkles, revs or takes 12 months to be hand-stitched, preferably by someone in Tuscany, it’s luxury.

But that kind of luxury is dead, or at the very least, wheezing into its monogrammed silk pillow. Luxury is no longer a thing. It’s a feeling. Or more precisely, a biological metric. Luxury today is a resting heart rate of 47bpm and a telomere length that makes Death check his ruler twice.

The most coveted thing money can buy is no longer a yacht, it’s time. As one longevity bro put it: “My Rolex tells the time. My Altos Labs subscription buys it.” And buy it they do.