Author: Momo Chan

Our house finally got central air. Coming home for summer break, I thought I was going to be living the high life, chilling in the cool air. Instead, my pregnant sister-in-law, Jessica, decided the A/C compressor—the massive outdoor unit that blasts hot air—should be installed inside my bedroom. When I refused to sleep in there, she burst into tears, threatening to abort the baby if I didn’t suck it up. To calm her down, my brother beat the hell out of me and locked me in that room. Trapped in a sauna of exhaust heat, I died of heatstroke. Then, I opened my eyes. I was standing at the front door, luggage in hand. Summer break had just started. I had died, and now I was back. In my past life, my brother locked me in that oven of a room just to placate his drama-queen wife. God gave me a second chance, and there was no way I was making the same mistake twice. Honestly, if I had rebooted just an hour earlier, I would’ve ghosted this toxic family immediately. But here I was, crossing the threshold. Jessica waddled over, rubbing her belly, a fake-sweet smile plastered on her face. “Nora! Look, we finally got A/C! But we didn’t have space for the external unit outside, so we had to mount it in your room. You don’t mind, right?” In my last life, I exploded immediately. “It’s ninety degrees out! You guys are going to blast the A/C all night. How am I supposed to sleep with a machine pumping hot exhaust into my room?” That was all it took. Jessica’s eyes went red instantly. “Why can’t you sleep? Everyone else sacrifices, why are you so special? I was trying to be considerate, but you’re so ungrateful. You’re breaking my heart!” When I threatened to tear the unit down or leave, she went nuclear. She started punching her own stomach. “If you leave, I’ll kill this baby! I swear to God! Why can’t you just listen to me? I’m carrying the Chen family heir! Everyone has to listen to me!” My parents and brother swarmed her like bees. “It’s okay, honey, don’t cry! The baby!” “Nora, are you crazy? Just sleep in the room! Why are you upsetting her? The baby is innocent!” “Yeah, Nora, don’t be a bitch. Make your sister-in-law happy.” Looking at the four of them, I realized I was the outsider. “I’m not doing it. Why don’t you sleep in there?” I’d screamed. Jessica wailed. My brother threw a punch. Then another. When I woke up, the door was locked. The compressor roared like a jet engine, the temperature climbing past 110 degrees. I pounded on the door until I passed out and died. But this time? I knew better. Getting angry solves nothing. Honey catches more flies than vinegar. “Oh my god, Jess, you are so thoughtful!” I clasped my hands together, looking at her with pure adoration. “You remembered that I have poor circulation and get cold easily? Installing the heat-exhaust in my room so I stay toasty? Wow. We are so lucky to have you.” Jessica froze, her script completely broken. Her five-year-old nephew, Tyler, who was visiting, looked confused. “Auntie Nora, do you really like being hot? Summer sucks without A/C.” I patted his head. “Oh, Auntie freezes easily, Tyler.” I turned back to Jessica, laying it on thick. “I’ll sleep there tonight. It’s going to be so cozy. I’ll really cherish this gift.” “You’re amazing, Jess. I get migraines from cold air. You’re practically psychic.” Jessica scratched her head, flustered. “Oh… well, yeah. I just… sensed it.” Nobody is immune to flattery. I ran to the kitchen and gushed to my mom about how considerate Jessica was. Mom was thrilled. “You’re finally growing up. You get a drumstick tonight!” Usually, chicken drumsticks were reserved for my brother, the Golden Child. Jessica got them once she got pregnant. I got scraps. Praising the dictator works wonders. After all, she was carrying the “Royal Heir.” Jessica was glued to a TikTok livestream sale. Tyler was watching TV. Mom was cooking. Dad and my brother, Kyle, weren’t home yet. Perfect timing. I dragged my broken suitcase loudly to my room—clack, clack, clack. I left it at the door, snuck into my parents’ room, and swiped the A/C remote. Then I went into Kyle and Jessica’s room and stole theirs too. I crouched by my suitcase, pretending to unpack, and buried the remotes deep inside the lining. When Dad and Kyle got home, I turned the charm up to eleven. “Kyle! The installation looks pro! You’re gonna be a dad soon, you’re basically winning at life.” “Dad, you look ten years younger. No wrinkles at all. Very distinguished.” “Mom, this food smells insane. I love you so much.” “And Jess… how are you pregnant and still looking like a model? I’m jealous. And the baby is so quiet, such a good kid already.” The atmosphere at dinner was euphoric. They were eating up the compliments. I kept checking my phone, typing furiously. “Nora!” Dad slammed his hand on the table. “No phones at the dinner table. Where are your manners?” Kyle didn’t even look up from his own phone. I feigned panic. “Sorry, Dad! It’s just… the University called. They have an emergency placement program for seniors. If I accept this internship now, I’m guaranteed a full-time position next year.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “The benefits are insane. Paid internship now, but once I sign the full contract? The company provides a subsidized apartment. And after five years? A company car. A Tesla, apparently.” “There are only five spots. They need me back immediately, but… ugh, I just got home. I want to spend time with you guys.” At the mention of a free apartment and a Tesla, Kyle dropped his phone. Dad, Mom, and Jessica’s eyes practically glowed in the dark. “You idiot!” Mom cried. “We can hang out later! You can’t let someone else steal that spot!” Dad nodded sagely. “Nora, listen to me. This is a solid career move. Go. Send your internship salary to me; I’ll save it for your… uh, dowry.” “Sis, you have to go,” Kyle said, drooling metaphorically. “When you get that apartment, we can come visit. Make us look good.” The abacus beads were clicking loudly in their heads. They were already dividing up my imaginary assets. Kyle narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t lying, are you?” Silence fell over the table. I made a hurt face. “Kyle, how could you think that? Look at the group chat.” I shoved my phone in his face. I’d set this up hours ago—paid a few friends in a group chat to stage a fake conversation about the “Tesla Internship.” “See? I don’t even have a driver’s license. I was going to say, if I get the car, I’d just give it to you.” Kyle scanned the chat. He stopped reading after “give the car to you.” “Go,” he said. “You better keep your word.” I scarfed down two drumsticks, grabbed my suitcase, and bolted. On the way out, pretending to look for the front door key, I pocketed the key to my bedroom. The same key Kyle had used to lock me in to die. I bought the first high-speed train ticket out of there. I was just stepping off the train when Mom called. “You little ungrateful brat! Did you take the A/C remotes?! Just because Jessica wanted you to sleep in the warm room, you sabotage us? She was doing it for your own good! Bring them back right now before I beat you black and blue!” Took them long enough to notice. Too bad I was already 300 miles away. “Mom? What are you talking about? Why would I take the remotes? I told you, I’m anemic! I wanted to sleep in that hot room. If it wasn’t for this job, I’d be basking in the heat right now.” “Check under the sofa. Or the bed.” “Mom, you’re accusing me? I’m heartbroken. I’ll turn around right now. You can search me. I’ll just forfeit the internship. Who cares about the Tesla, right?” Mom panicked. “No! No, don’t come back! We’ll look again. Do not lose that job, Nora. The whole family is counting on you.” She paused. “Is the Tesla thing real?” “Of course! The car and the apartment… I don’t need them. They’re for you guys. You raised me, it’s payback time.” “Good, good. Go work. We’ll find the remotes.” “Hey Mom… Tyler was playing in the bedrooms earlier. You don’t think he hid them as a prank? I mean, kids, right?” I added casually. “Oh, never mind, don’t ask him. Jess would get upset.” Jess treated Tyler like a little prince. If anyone accused him, she’d threaten to abort the baby again. I just wanted to plant a seed of chaos. Besides, that kid was a monster. In my last life, while Kyle was beating me, Tyler kicked me and laughed, yelling at me to die. I hung up and tossed the remotes into a recycling bin at the station. Good luck finding them. Kyle had spent his life savings on those two units. He was broke. My parents were cheap. They wouldn’t buy universal remotes until they were 100% sure the originals were gone. And the heatwave was starting tomorrow. I contacted my old boss from a previous summer job. She ran a logistics company in the city. “Need a hand this summer?” “Always,” she said. The temperature back home hit 104°F. Mom called. “Nora, come home.” “Why?” “Your sister-in-law is hysterical. She says if you don’t come back, she’s flushing the baby. You have to come home.” “I can’t. No time off.” “Tell your boss it’s a family emergency.” “I’m in the probation period, Mom. If I leave, I lose the Tesla.” “But Jess…” Jess screeched in the background. “I don’t care! What kind of crappy company is this?! Make her come back! I need to see her! If she doesn’t sleep in that room tonight, I’m killing myself and the baby! You’re all murderers!” Her voice was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “See?” Mom said weakly. “Just come back for a day.” They must have bought new remotes. Jess’s obsession with me sleeping in that room was psychotic. It wasn’t about the room; it was about control. She needed to assert dominance. If I went back, I’d end up dead again. “Hey! You!” A sharp voice cut in. It was my boss, Ms. Vance. I had briefed her on my family situation beforehand. She was a legend. “Who said you could take personal calls? Get back to work! You think we pay you to chat? You want that bonus? You want the housing? Earn it!” “If I catch you slacking again, you’re fired!” I hung up immediately. “Thanks, Ms. Vance.” She flipped her hair. “Anytime, kid.” I texted Mom: Mom, I’m hiding in the bathroom. The boss is a tyrant. One mistake and I’m out. Tell Jess to chill. I’ll visit when I get the full-time offer. Gotta go. Silence for days. I thought I was safe. Then the police showed up at my rental. “Are you Nora Chen? Your mother reported you missing. She was worried sick.” My blood ran cold. I looked past the officer. Mom was standing there, looking like a martyr. “Mom? I texted you. Why the police?” “We haven’t talked in days! I took the train all the way here alone! My phone ran out of credit! I was scared!” The cop lectured me on taking care of my elderly mother and left. Mom grabbed my arm. “Well? Are you going to invite me in?” I had no choice. I took her to my apartment. It was a simple two-bedroom place Ms. Vance let me rent cheaply because it was usually empty. “The company lets me stay here,” I lied. “If I break anything, I’m fired.” “Relax, I’m your mother.” She looked around, calculating. “Two bedrooms. Nice.” “I have to work, Mom. Why didn’t you just stay with Jess?” “I missed you.”

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After a massive landslide, our college trekking club was trapped in a cave for seven days. I finally cracked the code on a survival cache we found that contained a satellite phone. Everyone cheered. Chase, our trip leader and my boyfriend, immediately snatched the case and handed it to Tiffany, the group’s resident “It Girl” and self-proclaimed heiress. “This is a great photo op. Let’s let Tiff do the honors. She needs the clout for her influencer profile.” Tiffany, looking flustered, punched in the wrong code. Twice. The system locked out after three tries. In my past life, seeing that there was only one attempt left, I snatched the box back and punched in the correct sequence to save us. After we were rescued, instead of thanking me, the whole group accused me of stealing Tiffany’s thunder. They claimed she had solved it and I just jumped in at the last second. Later, Tiffany stole my credit card information to buy everyone expensive gifts and threw a party at my family’s villa, claiming it was hers. When I confronted her with the bank statements, she cried, “Harper is just jealous because my family has money and hers doesn’t.” Chase sneered at me, “You think anyone cares about your pennies? Stop trying to make yourself look important.” During the argument, they shoved me into the river. The whole group watched coldly as I drowned. When I opened my eyes, I was back in the cave. Back to the moment Tiffany was punching in the code. This time, I stood back and watched her fail. Chapter 1 “Tiff, babe, the code is cracked. Go ahead and input it!” Chase stood beaming as I finished scratching the mathematical sequence into the dirt floor with a twig. I had solved the riddle locking the survival case we found in the debris. The moment the solution clicked, I looked up at Chase, a smile forming. But before I could speak, he grabbed the case, completely ignoring my two days of mental gymnastics, and shoved it into Tiffany’s hands. Tiffany smirked at me, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Chase, Harper found this case. She solved the math. If I take the credit, won’t she be mad?” Her tone dripped with fake apology, but her eyes were mocking me. Chase scoffed. “Her? She wouldn’t dare get mad. She’d be happy to hand over her entire food stash if I asked her to.” Hearing that, Tiffany smiled, satisfied. My heart turned cold. I didn’t argue. I just watched silently as Tiffany’s manicured fingers clumsily punched in the wrong numbers. Twice. The group started getting restless. “Come on, Tiff!” She was shaking. In my last life, panic set in. I knew if the case locked, we were doomed. So I grabbed it, saved everyone, and got branded a glory-hog. Not this time. Beep. Beep. The red light flashed. Tiffany, living up to expectations, entered the wrong code for the third time. Click. The mechanism seized. The case was permanently locked. The satellite phone was bricked. The cave erupted. “Tiffany! Are you blind? Two and nine aren’t even close to each other!” “Are you kidding me? We’ve been stuck here for a week! That was our ticket out!” “Nobody asked you to solve it! You just had to type four digits! Did you do that on purpose?” Tiffany dropped the case like it was hot coal and looked at Chase with tear-filled eyes. “Chase… I didn’t mean to. It’s just… Harper took so long to solve it, and I’m so hungry and dizzy… and it’s dark…” Then, she turned her watery gaze on me. “Maybe Harper’s math was wrong! Maybe she gave me the wrong code!” Chapter 2 Hilarious. I spent forty-eight hours verifying that sequence. Now that she screwed up, she wants to pin it on me? In her dreams. Without me, they wouldn’t have even found the box. “I solved the puzzle. I didn’t tell you to type it in,” I said, my voice flat. “And considering you typed three different combinations, none of which matched my solution, how exactly is my math the problem?” I let out a cold laugh. I wasn’t playing the doormat anymore. Tiffany’s face went pale. Being called out wasn’t part of her script. Chase frowned, but the rest of the classmates were fuming. “Well, if Harper wasn’t so slow, Tiff wouldn’t have been so stressed!” “Yeah, blame Harper. She’s so desperate for attention.” “Exactly. Tiffany is top of the class. Harper is just a try-hard.” It was absurd. Tiffany’s “top of the class” status was entirely because Chase, using his position as a T.A., doctored her grades. When the real work started, Tiffany conveniently “fainted.” “I’m sorry, everyone,” Tiffany sobbed, bowing to the group. “It’s my fault. Don’t blame Harper. She didn’t mean to be difficult.” Chase immediately pulled her up, glaring at me. “Babe, this isn’t on you. It’s Harper’s fault.” Seeing him defend her, the group directed their rage at me. Chase comforted Tiffany, whispering sweet nothings while casting me as the villain. I walked to a corner and sat down, clutching my necklace. Inside the pendant was a GPS tracker my brother had custom-made for me. I was kidnapped once as a kid, so my family was paranoid. Before this trip, I told my brother: If I’m not back in seven days, come find me. Suddenly, a hand yanked me up. It was Chase. He looked furious. “Harper, give your food to Tiffany. She’s looking pale.” He said it like it was an order. Before the trip, I told everyone to pack emergency rations and water. Tiffany mocked me. “We’re going glamping, Harper. I’m not carrying a heavy bag. We can catch rabbits or something.” Her bag was full of makeup and ring lights. Chase had packed snacks, but he’d given them all to her days ago. I slapped his hand away. “She needs to eat? What about me? Do I photosynthesize?” “I’m your girlfriend, Chase. Yet you prioritize her every single time. Do you think that’s normal?” Chase froze. I had never talked back to him before. I used to be the “cool girl,” the one who accommodated everything. He gritted his teeth, poking my forehead. “Why are you so selfish? People are starving, and you’re hoarding? If anything happens to Tiff, are you taking responsibility?” Me? Responsible? “Chase,” I said calmly. “Let’s break up.” Chapter 3 Chase looked at me with pure disdain. “Break up? You’re using that to threaten me?” “Fine. Hand over the food in your bag, and I’ll agree to the breakup.” I almost laughed. I was worthless to him. “I carried this food up the mountain. Why should I give it to you?” Chase felt entitled to my labor. Just like in school, when I did the group projects and he put Tiffany’s name on the credits. “You wanted to break up, right? Consider the food your breakup fee. You’re getting off easy.” Even though I hated him now, hearing him say that still stung. “No,” I said. “Get away from me.” “Chase!” Tiffany wailed from the ground. “I think I’m gonna faint…” Chase lunged, ripped my backpack off my shoulders, and dumped the contents. He grabbed the last few energy bars and threw them to Tiffany. She caught them with surprising agility for someone about to faint. She shot me a smug look. I grabbed my empty bag off the dirt. Tiffany tore open a wrapper and bit down. Immediately, she spat it out. “Ew! This tastes like cardboard! Even a dog wouldn’t eat this.” These were high-calorie survival rations. Not gourmet cookies. Chase patted her back, glaring at me. “Harper, did you do this on purpose? Bringing trash food to poison her?” I snapped. I walked over, grabbed the half-chewed bar from the dirt, and shoved it toward Tiffany’s face. “Did I force you to eat it? You stole it!” Tiffany gagged, rinsing her mouth with the last of Chase’s water. “Harper, you’re a psycho!” Chase yelled, raising his hand to slap me. I dodged effortlessly. They cursed at me for ten minutes. I tuned them out. Suddenly, a beam of sunlight pierced the darkness. The storm outside had cleared. Chase grabbed Tiffany’s hand. “Tiff, look! Light! Let’s go find a way out. I have the map!” He dug into his bag and pulled out… confetti. Tiffany bit her lip, looking up at him with puppy eyes. “Chase… I’m sorry. I tore it up to make confetti for the summit photo… I thought it would be romantic.” Chase sighed, his anger melting instantly. “It’s okay. We’re smart. We can find the way.” As they headed for the opening, I spoke up. “The soil is unstable. There could be a secondary landslide or flash flood. It’s safer to stay put.” Chapter 4 Chase stopped and turned around. “Harper, you love hiking, right? You go scout the path.” I wasn’t going to be their cannon fodder. “No. If you want to go, go yourself.” Chase sneered. “I knew you were a coward. You don’t have half the courage Tiffany has.” They rolled their eyes at me and left. I shouted after them, “Seriously, watch out for the mud!” They ignored me. Twenty minutes later, a drone buzzed into the cave. I saw the logo on the side. I smiled. It was my brother’s tech company. The group waved frantically at the drone. It ignored them, hovered in front of me, nodded its camera, and zipped away. “We’re saved!” “I knew Chase and Tiffany would find help!” “Yeah, Harper almost ruined it by telling them to stay.” Suddenly, the sky darkened. Rain poured down in sheets. A while later, two mud-covered figures stumbled back into the cave. They were limping, bleeding from gashes on their legs. “Does anyone have antibiotics?” Chase screamed. “We fell! It’s deep!” I touched the pocket of my jacket. I had a first-aid kit with a single dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics and a tetanus shot. When I told them to pack first-aid kits, they laughed at me for being paranoid. The classmates shook their heads. Chase limped over to me. “Harper. You hoard everything. You must have medicine. Give it to me, and I might consider taking you back.” I laughed. “I only have one dose. Who gets it?” Tiffany lunged, snatching the kit from my hand. She injected herself immediately. “Chase, you know I have a weak constitution! You’re strong, you can handle it!” Chase stared at her, betrayed. He tried to grab the empty syringe. I watched them turn on each other. So much for true love. An hour later, the rain stopped. The sound of rotors filled the air. A sleek, private helicopter landed on the flat rock outside the cave. Chapter 5 A tall man in a tactical jacket stepped out. “Oh my god! That’s Asher Xu! The pop star!” “It’s Tiffany’s brother! I knew she was legit!” “Tiffany, you saved us! Your brother came personally!” The classmates were practically kneeling before Tiffany. Tiffany stood there, frozen. Chase, seeing a luxury chopper, forgot his pain. He rushed forward to shake Asher’s hand with his muddy paws. Asher recoiled, his face showing visible disgust. “Asher, bro! I’m Tiffany’s best friend. I’m the leader here. Take us back first, yeah?” Asher looked confused. I hadn’t told anyone at school that Asher was my brother. I wanted a normal life. The classmates pushed Tiffany forward. “Go on, Tiff! It’s your brother!” Tiffany lowered her head, voice trembling. “Brother… you came for me? I know you’re busy…” Asher’s expression went from confused to icy. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Asher spotted me in the back. He pushed through the crowd and pulled me into a hug. The group gasped. A few months ago, Asher posted a photo of us hiking with the caption: Hiking with Sis. Tiffany posted a photo of the same mountain with the caption: Hiking with Brother <3. Everyone assumed she was the sister. She never corrected them. "Asher... don't you recognize your own sister?" someone asked. "Is Harper paying you to act like this?" "I'm unfollowing you. Abandoning your sister for a peasant?" Chase stepped up. "Harper is my girlfriend. If she gets on, I get on. I need to supervise her." Asher looked at the crowd like they were bugs. "You people are delusional. I don't know who 'Tiffany' is." "Harper is my biological sister. I'm here for her." "As for the rest of you... Search and Rescue is an hour out. Wait here." He pulled me onto the chopper. We lifted off, leaving them in the mud.

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Everyone knew Mark was the ultimate “Wife Guy.” We were the couple that made other people sick—high school sweethearts, married for seven years, practically glued at the hip. Or so I thought. Then came the texts. My phone buzzed. It was Chloe, one of the wives in our inner circle. No caption, just a photo dump. I opened the first one. My hand started to shake. There was Mark, shirtless, holding a beer in one hand and his ex-girlfriend, Jessica, in the other. She was smiling that sweet, innocent smile I remembered from college. Chloe followed up with a single text: “Surprise.” My brain short-circuited. Jessica? That ghost from his past? When did this start? How long had I been playing the role of the oblivious idiot? “Dave has been acting shady,” Chloe texted again. “I hired a PI to tail him. Catching Mark was just a bonus.” Dave was Chloe’s husband. “Check the metadata,” she added. “Taken three hours ago.” I zoomed in. They were on a yacht. Mark in his trunks, Jessica in a floral sundress, looking like a J.Crew catalog couple. In the background, Dave was draped over some bikini model, and Paul—Emily’s husband—was chatting them up, looking distinguished and complicit. The Three Musketeers. They covered for each other. “Don’t worry, Sarah,” Dave would always say on FaceTime during their ‘boys’ golf trips.’ “I’m keeping an eye on him.” They must have laughed so hard after hanging up. 1. Chloe, Emily, and I weren’t natural friends. We were “transactional friends,” brought together by our husbands’ business deals. Mark was the charming entrepreneur; I was the former CPA turned stay-at-home mom. Looking at the photos, the red flags I’d ignored suddenly turned neon. Last year, Mark came back from business trips smelling like lavender. We use unscented sensitive-skin detergent because our daughter, Lily, has allergies. His excuse? “Must be the hotel laundry service.” Four different hotel chains using the exact same boutique lavender detergent? And I bought it. Then there were the “smoke breaks.” Mark didn’t really smoke. But every time he came home, he’d vanish to the patio for twenty minutes. He wasn’t smoking; he was calling her. I remembered meeting Jessica twice. Once in Napa, right after Mark and I got engaged. We bumped into her at a vineyard. Mark introduced her smoothly: “Old college friend.” She was petite, pale, with that fragile “I need saving” vibe. The second time was last year. I was at the hospital because Lily had a fever. I saw Jessica in the OB-GYN waiting room, looking devastatingly sad, comforted by a heavy-set older man. I mentioned it to Mark later. He brushed it off, changing the subject with practiced ease. He was deflecting. We met up—Chloe, Emily, and I—at a quiet lounge downtown. “Emily, aren’t you worried about Paul?” Chloe asked, pacing back and forth. Emily took a sip of her martini. She was the calmest person I knew. “I’m not worried,” she said softly. “I already knew.” Chloe froze. “You knew? And you watched us look like fools?” “Sarah,” Emily turned to me, ignoring Chloe’s outburst. “Now that you know… are you happy?” She pulled two thick envelopes from her Hermès bag and slid them across the table. “We’re smart women. I don’t need to tell you what to do. But you need to decide if you have the stomach for it.” Chloe ripped hers open immediately. “I’m divorcing Dave. Immediately.” “And then what?” Emily asked. “The company is in Dave’s name. Prenup is ironclad. You walk away with a settlement, and he keeps the empire you helped build. Is that enough?” Chloe hesitated. She had funded Dave’s first startup with her family’s money. He used her, made it big, and now he was cheating. If she just left, he won. “Sarah,” Emily looked at me. “If you file for divorce now, Mark fights dirty. You’re unemployed. He gets high-powered lawyers. You might lose custody of Lily.” That hit me like a physical blow. We stayed until closing time. By the end of the night, we had a plan. Mark, you want to play games? Let’s play. 2. I video-called Mark that night. He didn’t answer. Thirty minutes later, he called back, looking wet. “Sorry, babe, was in the shower.” “Signal’s bad,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Go stand by the window.” He hesitated. He couldn’t. Jessica was probably right there. Two days later, Mark came home with a suitcase full of guilt gifts—expensive skincare, perfume. I started Phase One. According to Emily’s dossier, Jessica had moved back to the city two years ago—right when I was pregnant with Lily. Mark had set her up in a luxury condo at “The Lakes,” a building technically owned by Dave’s holding company. I put on a new Chanel dress Mark had just bought me—guilt looks great in tweed—and drove to the Whole Foods near The Lakes. I spotted her in the produce aisle. “Jessica?” I called out, putting on my best smile. She froze. “Sarah?” “Oh my god! It is you!” I walked over, looking effortless. “I haven’t seen you since Napa! Do you live around here?” “I… just moved back,” she stammered. “We have to catch up! You gave us such great tips for that trip.” I glanced at her cart. Prenatal vitamins. “Wait, are you expecting? Congratulations!” She looked pale. “Here, let me drive you home,” I insisted. “You shouldn’t be carrying heavy bags.” She tried to refuse, but I steamrolled her with kindness. On the ride over, Mark called me. I put him on speaker. He sounded panicked. Jessica sat next to me, silent as a statue. Her apartment was nice. Too nice. And there it was—the lavender detergent on the counter. “This place is impossible to get into,” I commented, looking around. “Mark said the waiting list was three years long.” “My boyfriend pulled some strings,” she said, a hint of arrogance creeping into her voice. “He treats me very well.” “I bet. Men act differently when they’re in love,” I said, smiling dangerously. “Mark used to be so showy. Now he just posts photos of our daughter. But hey, good luck with everything. You know what they say—if he’ll cheat with you, he’ll cheat on you.” I left before she could respond. But not before I “borrowed” her bathroom and connected to her Wi-Fi. The password was her birthday. Mark really was lazy. Now I had access to their nanny cam. 3. I watched them on the camera. Mark was “working late” constantly. Phase Two involved a fake dinner. I pressured Mark to invite Jessica out, “to thank her for being an old friend.” He tried to wiggle out of it, but I booked the table. We showed up. Jessica was there, looking anxious. I spent the entire dinner reminiscing about how Mark supported me through my difficult pregnancy. “He was my rock,” I said, grabbing Mark’s hand. He flinched. “That’s how I knew he was my forever. As long as he doesn’t betray me, I’d die for him.” I looked Mark dead in the eye. “So, Mark. Who do you love? Right now?” He choked on his water. Before he could answer, he saw someone at the door. Panic flashed in his eyes. He grabbed me and dragged me out the back exit, claiming he saw a “paparazzi” (he’s delusional about his fame). The truth? He saw his biggest investor walking in. He couldn’t be seen with his wife and his mistress. Meanwhile, Chloe was busy. Chloe went to her parents. They were old money. They were furious. Her brother, a corporate shark, set a trap for Dave. They offered Dave a “too good to be true” investment opportunity. Dave bit. He leveraged his company to buy in. Then, Chloe’s family stalled the deal. Dave was bleeding cash. Desperate, he transferred equity to Chloe to secure a bridge loan from her parents. As soon as Chloe had controlling interest, she brought in the forensic accountants. She found everything. The embezzlement, the kickbacks. And the paper trail linking Mark and Paul to the schemes. The Raid. Wednesday morning. Mark left for his “Big Signing Day”—the IPO launch that would make him rich. Chloe, Emily, and I drove to The Lakes. I called Mark. “Mark! Emergency! Chloe found out Dave is keeping a mistress at The Lakes. She’s going there with a baseball bat! She thinks the girl is yours! You have to warn Dave!” Mark screamed, “Stop her! I’m coming!” We went up to the apartment. Chloe didn’t need a bat. She just needed to be loud. She pounded on the door. When Jessica opened it, chaos ensued. It wasn’t violent—we’re not going to jail for assault—but it was loud, humiliating, and public. Neighbors were filming. Mark burst in, followed by a disheveled Dave. “Sarah!” Mark ran to me. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” I said coldly. “But why is Jessica in Dave’s apartment?” Mark looked at Dave. Dave looked at Mark. “She rents it!” Mark blurted out. “From Dave! I helped her find it.” “With what money?” Chloe snapped. “We checked the accounts. No rent payments. But lots of ‘consulting fees’ paid to a shell company in Jessica’s name.” Mark turned on Dave. “Dave, just tell her the truth! You rented it to her!” He signaled to Dave with his eyes: Take the fall, and I’ll cut you in on the IPO money. Dave, desperate and broke, nodded. “Yeah. It’s a rental.” Chloe scoffed. “You guys are pathetic.” We walked out. 4. Friday. The IPO Gala. Mark was beaming. The press was there. Investors. And Jessica, wearing a dress that cost more than my car, trying to look like she belonged. I walked up to her with Lily in my arms. “Enjoy the champagne, Jessica,” I whispered. “But remember: if I leave something behind, it’s because it’s trash. You’re welcome to it.”

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1. It started with a fever. My son, Leo, was burning up, so I rushed him to the ER at Mount Sinai. Routine blood work. That’s all it was supposed to be. But when the lab report came back, the room started to spin. Leo’s blood type was listed as Type B. I stared at the paper. It was biologically impossible. I’m Type O. My husband, Ethan, is Type A. Two parents with those blood types cannot produce a Type B child. I went home, trembling, and asked Ethan about it. I expected confusion. Maybe a laugh about a lab error. Instead, he turned around and slapped me across the face. “You have the nerve to ask me?” Ethan screamed, his face turning a violent shade of red. “You think I don’t know about you and Ben?”. Ben was my college ex-boyfriend. We broke up years ago. “You were on that business trip in Chicago a month before you got pregnant,” Ethan raged. “I know Ben was there. I checked your texts!”. I was stunned. “That was for the audit! We were working until 3 a.m. on spreadsheets!”. He didn’t listen. He stormed out, leaving me stunned and bleeding. For two weeks, he ghosted me. Then, just as I was preparing to file for separation, he came home, tears in his eyes, begging for forgiveness. “Claire, I love you. Leo is our son. Let’s just forget the past and move on”. I played along, but the cold knot in my stomach tightened. I knew I hadn’t cheated. And I knew blood science doesn’t lie. If Leo wasn’t Ethan’s, and he wasn’t mine… then Leo wasn’t our baby at all. He had to be switched at birth. But every time I brought it up, Ethan shut me down violently. A few days later, Ethan came to me with a “favor.” He was launching a new startup, a stealth mode tech venture, and he couldn’t have his name on the paperwork due to his current employment contract. He needed me to be the legal guarantor and sign for the loans. I agreed, pretending to be the supportive wife. But that night, while looking for his AirPods in his briefcase, I found a burner phone. One unread text: Did she sign the papers yet?. It was his old iPhone, one I thought he’d recycled. He wasn’t texting a business partner. My gut told me everything I needed to know. 2. The next morning, I told Ethan I couldn’t find my passport and driver’s license, so the notary appointment had to wait. He was annoyed but left for work. The second the door closed, I called my cousin Jack. Jack is a private investigator, the kind of guy who thinks cynicism is a virtue. “I told you he was a grifter,” Jack said, not even trying to hide his I-told-you-so tone. “You wouldn’t listen”. Ethan came from nothing. I came from old Connecticut money. When my dad was dying of cancer, Ethan was a saint—changing bedpans, sleeping in the hospital chair. After Dad died, my mom said Ethan was “the one.” Jack had always said Ethan was just chasing the inheritance. Three days later, Jack dropped a dossier on my table. “He’s not working late,” Jack said. “He’s in Jersey. Living with another woman.” Her name was Monica. Ethan’s college sweetheart. And they had a son. “The startup is fake,” Jack continued. “He just wants your signature to load you up with debt”. “Where is their son?” I asked. “Sent upstate to live with Monica’s relatives in a trailer park,” Jack said. I felt sick. Ethan was trying to ruin me. I bugged his car that afternoon. The recordings confirmed it. Ethan was planning to use the shell company to bankrupt me, force a divorce, and make me liquidate my assets—my trust fund, my properties—to cover the “business debts,” which he would then pocket. “If she won’t sign,” I heard him tell Monica on the tape, “we’ll just make the debt bigger. She’ll have to sell everything”. But the kicker? He was accelerating the plan because he knew I’d found out about Leo’s blood type. He knew Leo was Type B all along. 3. I couldn’t understand it. I did two more DNA tests on Leo. No match to me. No match to Ethan. The doctor asked if we did IVF. “Sometimes there are mix-ups in the lab,” she said. “It was natural,” I whispered. I sent Leo to stay with my mom and told Ethan my firm was sending me to London for a month. Instead, I moved into a rental apartment Jack secured—directly across the street from Monica’s duplex in Jersey. Jack knew the super in Monica’s building. We got bugs inside her vents. I watched them through a telescope. Ethan went over there the night I “left.” They were laughing, drinking wine. “With her gone for a month, the plan stalls,” Monica complained. “Patience,” Ethan said. “She ‘lost’ her ID?” Monica sneered. “How convenient”. My phone rang. It was Ethan, checking in. I played the part of the loving wife perfectly. Over the next few days, I dug into their financials. Monica was a receptionist, but she had just bought this luxury duplex cash. The date of purchase? Two weeks after my dad’s estate settled. 4. Jack dug deeper. Ethan and Monica had been together since freshman year. They racked up massive gambling and credit card debt. Ethan didn’t fall in love with me; he targeted me. He kept seeing Monica the whole time. The most chilling detail: Monica was pregnant at the same time I was. She gave birth in the same hospital, on the same day. “They swapped them,” I said to Jack, my voice trembling. “That’s why Leo isn’t mine.” Jack looked ready to kill Ethan himself. “We need proof,” he said.

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It started with a night shift at the ER. I was doing rounds, exhausted, when I saw her. A stunning woman fighting to stay awake next to her daughter’s IV drip. She looked wrecked—messy bun, sweatpants, no makeup—but I still couldn’t take my eyes off her. As I approached, the little girl blinked at me. She recognized me from her checkup a few days ago. “Dr. Ethan!” she chirped. The mom snapped awake, smoothing her hair frantically. “Oh, God. Sorry. We’re back again.” The patient was Lily, a sweet kid I’d treated for bronchitis earlier that week. Maybe I’d given them a little extra attention because, well, the mom looked like she needed a break. “Where’s Dad tonight?” I asked, checking Lily’s vitals. The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to punch myself. Way to be professional, Ethan. The woman didn’t get mad. She just gave a tired, polite smile. “Oh, he’s… busy.” “Right. Well, I’m on call all night,” I said, trying to sound doctorly and not like a guy whose heart was hammering against his ribs. “If you need anything, page me.” “Dr. Ethan, can I get your number?” Lily asked innocently. “Lily! That’s rude,” her mom hushed her. “It’s totally fine. Actually, it’s better for follow-ups,” I lied smoothly. I’m a pediatrician; I know how to charm kids. But let’s be real—I was charming the mom. Lily looked exactly like her. The mom sighed and pulled out her iPhone. “She doesn’t have a phone. You can add me, if that’s okay.” My hands were shaking as I typed in my number. I walked back to the nurses’ station sweating like I’d just run a marathon. A minute later, a text popped up: “Hi Dr. Ethan, it’s Maya. Thanks for everything.” I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on: “Call me Ethan. No problem.” I wanted to say, “Call me anytime. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world alone.” But I didn’t have the guts. Because unlike me—a single guy approaching his mid-thirties—she had a family. Or so I thought. She didn’t recognize me. Maya. Maya Sterling. The Campus Queen of UCLA. 1. Back in college, Maya was the girl every guy dreamed about. She was effortlessly beautiful and famously unattainable. She rejected the captain of the football team. Rumor had it she turned down a guy because he didn’t play the cello. Seriously. The cello. Everyone said she was waiting for Brad, our class president—the golden boy who transferred to London after freshman year. People said she never dated because she was saving herself for him. I watched her from the sidelines for four years. We only spoke once, at the graduation party. I was the MC; she sang a ballad that made half the room cry. Liquid courage in my veins, I cornered her afterward with a cheap bouquet. “You were amazing,” I stammered. “People say I kinda look like Brad, you know? Ha. Ha.” I was an idiot. She just smiled that polite, distant smile. “Thanks. But the rumors about me and Brad? They aren’t true.” Then she vanished. Ten years later, I was still that idiot. Seeing her name on my phone made my palms sweat. I checked her Instagram—private. Of course. 2. New York is a massive city, but sometimes it feels like a small town. A week later, I walked into a Starbucks near my apartment, and there they were. “Dr. Ethan!” Lily shouted. Sitting across from Maya and Lily was another woman. “Ethan, this is my best friend, Chloe,” Maya introduced us. “And Lily’s godmother.” Chloe squinted at me. “Ethan? Wait. Did you go to UCLA?” “Yeah,” I said, bracing for impact. “I knew it!” Chloe slammed her hand on the table. “Maya, how do you not know this? This is Ethan! The MC from graduation! One of the ‘Med School Hotties’!” Maya looked at me, confused. “You were the host?” She remembered the MC. She definitely didn’t remember the guy who awkwardly hit on her. “Wait,” Chloe continued, loud enough for the whole café to hear. “Ethan, you don’t remember Maya? How is that possible?” Maya grabbed Chloe’s arm. “Ethan, ignore her. She has zero filter. Are you meeting someone? Don’t let us keep you.” “Actually, I’m free,” I said. “Lily, do you want to see Disney on Ice? I have extra tickets.” Total lie. I would pay a scalper triple the price in the parking lot if I had to. “Yes! Can Dr. Ethan come, Mom?” Lily begged. Maya hesitated. “You should probably call him ‘Uncle Ethan’.” “If he comes, I’ll call him whatever he wants!” And that’s how I ended up on a date with my dream girl and her daughter. We had an amazing day. Maya wore a red dress that knocked the wind out of me. We ate gelato, walked through Central Park, and for a few hours, I pretended we were a family. When I got home to my empty apartment, the loneliness hit me like a truck. I knew I was playing with fire. She had a husband somewhere. I was just the nice doctor entertaining her kid. 3. But things kept progressing. Lily started FaceTime-ing me to ask for “playdates.” One weekend, Lily dropped a bomb while Maya was in the restroom. “Mom likes you,” she whispered. “Don’t make things up, kiddo,” I laughed nervously. “I’m serious! She only wears black or white clothes. But every time we see you, she wears colors. Like that red dress.” I froze. I thought back. She was right. Later that night, I dropped a sleeping Lily off at their apartment. It was the first time I’d been inside. It was stylish but cold. No family photos. No men’s shoes by the door. Just a picture of young Maya and… Brad. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know. “Maya,” I asked, standing in her kitchen. “Where is he? Lily’s dad. Why is he never around?” I expected a slap. Or to be kicked out. “He’s dead,” she said quietly. My stomach dropped. “I… I’m so sorry.” “It was a long time ago.” Suddenly, the lack of photos, the sadness in her eyes—it all made sense. She was a widow holding onto a ghost. I did the only thing I could think of. I hugged her. And to my surprise, she melted into me. “Can I… can I pursue you?” I whispered into her hair. “We can take it slow. As long as you need.” “I’m not…” she started to protest. “Shh. I don’t care if you’re not over him. Let me take care of you.” “Why?” she asked, pulling back to look at me. “Because I’ve been in love with you for fourteen years.” She stared at me. Then, she kissed me. 4. We fell into a rhythm. I was the happiest I’d ever been, but deep down, I felt like a fraud. I looked like Brad. I knew I did. Was I just a placeholder? A body double for the dead husband she couldn’t forget? One night, after we’d been dating for over a year, I took her to meet my parents. My dad, blunt as ever, laughed over dinner. “I never thought Ethan would settle down. He told us years ago he’d stay single forever if he couldn’t have ‘The One’.” “Why did you say that?” Maya asked me on the drive home. “Because of me?” “Yeah.” She looked at me with that familiar expression—guilt. Whenever she looked at me like that, she would initiate sex. And she did, that very night. Passionate, desperate, like she was trying to make up for something. “You don’t have to,” I told her afterward. “I know you still love him. It’s okay. I’m okay with being the second choice.” “You think you’re the second choice?” She looked confused. “I’m just happy to be here.” I decided to propose. I bought a ring. I planned a surprise party for her birthday with Chloe. I was ready to lock this down, even if I was just the consolation prize. 5. Two days before her birthday, I went to pick her up from work. And I saw him. Brad. The Golden Boy. He was standing outside her office building. Maya ran to him, laughing, and hugged him tight. They looked so… right.

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The Present She was my best friend in high school. The kind of friend you’d bury a body with. One New Year’s Eve, she came over to keep me company. We started drinking cheap whiskey at eight and didn’t stop until the ball dropped. She passed out cold, so I carried her to my bed. Just as I was tucking her in, her eyes snapped open. “You wanna try it?” Her eyes, usually sharp and guarded, were glassy and direct. “Us?” Everything changed after that night. … This morning, a package landed on my porch. Inside was a letter and a collection of junk: my old varsity wristband, a guitar pick I thought I lost, and a strip of faded photo booth pictures. I thought one of my buddies was pranking me until I saw the handwriting. Spiky, rushed, unmistakable. Then I looked at the postmark. This letter was mailed ten years ago. My heart hammered against my ribs. Suddenly, I wasn’t twenty-eight anymore. I was seeing a face I hadn’t thought about—hadn’t let myself think about—in a decade. A face that looked like a boy but smiled like an angel. “No way,” I muttered. “You’re still messing with me?” Junior Year Ten years ago, I was a senior. I was a burnout, exiled to the back row of the classroom—the “stoner row”—next to the trash can. No one wanted to sit next to me. Three days into the semester, we got a transfer student. Alex. Alex walked in looking like a member of a grunge band: shaggy hair, flannel shirt, oversized denim jacket. The girls in class perked up, thinking we finally got a cute emo guy. Mr. Henderson, our math teacher and a man who looked like he ate nails for breakfast, glared at the new kid. “Alex Miller. I can see your house from here. How are you late on your first day?” Alex didn’t flinch. “I can see the sun from here, too, but I can’t touch it. You wanna try?” The whole class inhaled sharply. Henderson was a former marine. He once broke up a fight in the parking lot by lifting two linebackers by their collars. We thought Alex was dead meat. Instead, Henderson just sighed. “Find a seat. Open your books.” Alex walked straight to the back and dropped a bag next to me. Headphones around the neck, eyes glued to the front. “Hey, man,” I whispered. “You got a death wish? Henderson eats kids like you.” Alex glanced at me, pure disdain. “I’m not your ‘man’.” My jaw hit the desk. Alex was a girl. And she was terrifying. The Bond We didn’t speak for a week. She read comics, listened to her Walkman, and drew on the desk. Then came the Ramen Incident. During study hall, she made instant noodles with hot water from the teacher’s lounge. She spilled some broth on the desk. “Hey, Slick,” she snapped at me. “Pass me a napkin.” “My name is Jake,” I shot back. “Not Slick.” “Napkin!” she barked. I threw a wad of paper towels at her. She wiped the desk, balled it up, and sank a three-pointer into the trash can next to me. “Whatever, Slick. Don’t be so sensitive.” The nickname stuck. That was Strike One. Strike Two happened in the Computer Lab. We were supposed to be learning Excel, but the guys were setting up a LAN party for Counter-Strike. Suddenly, my buddy Ben raised his hand. “Mr. G! My screen froze!” “Mine too!” “Same here!” The teacher, a clueless guy named Mr. G, started panicking. “Who isn’t frozen?” I looked around. My screen was the only one working. Alex, sitting to my left, stood up. “Jake’s computer is fine.” Mr. G rushed over. “Why is yours working?” I grinned nervously. “Built different, I guess.” That’s when Alex reached over, grabbed my mouse, and minimized my window. Behind it was a pop-up ad I hadn’t closed—a very graphic, very adult pop-up ad featuring a woman in compromising lingerie. “Sir,” Alex said with a straight face. “I think Jake gave the network a virus. He’s looking at porn.” The class erupted. My reputation was nuked. From that day on, girls avoided me, and guys high-fived me in the hall. ” didn’t know you were into the weird stuff, Jake!” I looked at Alex. She was smirking. Game on, I thought. The Shift I finally got leverage a month later. Alex was acting weird—pale, quiet, refusing to stand up during lunch. I noticed a dark stain on her jeans. I knew exactly what it was. “Hey, Alex,” I said loudly. “Let’s go to the cafeteria. My treat.” “No,” she hissed. “I bet I can beat you there. Unless you’re scared?” She glared at me, trapped. She wanted to kill me, but she couldn’t stand up. I waited a beat, then took off my oversized flannel shirt and tossed it to her. “Tie it around your waist,” I whispered. “You leaked.” Her face went crimson. It was the first time I’d seen her look embarrassed. “Do you have… supplies?” I asked. “What?” “Tampons, pads. You know.” She looked like she wanted to die. “No.” “Stay here.” I ran to the nurse’s office, grabbed a handful of supplies, and sprinted back. I slid them to her. “Go. I’ll watch the door.” The next day, she returned my shirt. It smelled like laundry detergent—lavender. “Your shirt was filthy,” she grumbled. “The water turned black.” She was still mean, but the wall had cracked. We weren’t just desk-mates anymore. We were bros. The Letter: Part 1 Hey Slick, It’s me. Your favorite nightmare, Alex. If my math is right, you’re twenty-eight now. How’s life? Did you become a rock star, or did you sell out and become a suit? Getting this letter must be weird. We sat next to each other for a year, but we never really talked about the real stuff. I spent most of that time pranking you. You probably hated me. I acted like a dude, dressed like a slob, and kept everyone at arm’s length. It was armor, Jake. If I didn’t care, I couldn’t get hurt. If I didn’t let anyone in, they wouldn’t have to watch me leave. But you… you were different. You were warm. Being around you was like standing next to a campfire in the middle of winter. That’s why I was so mean to you. Every time you were nice to me, I panicked. I wanted to be close to you, but I made myself run faster. I was a coward. The Fight Senior year. Winter. Alex was moody. I asked if it was “that time of the month” and she told me to go to hell. Finally, she cracked. “Can you beat someone up for me?” I blinked. I was on academic probation, hanging by a thread. “Who?” “Tyler Vance.” Tyler was a varsity linebacker and a total prick. “Why?” Alex bit her lip. “He… he’s bullying me.” That was all I needed. That night, I kicked open Tyler’s dorm room door (we were at a semi-boarding school). He was playing poker. I dragged him off the top bunk and broke his nose before his roommates pulled me off. “Touch her again, and you’re dead,” I spat. The next morning, I was suspended. Sent home until May to “reflect” before finals. As I packed my locker, Alex stood there, eyes red. She gave me her prized vintage Walkman. “Jake… I didn’t think you’d actually get expelled.” “Worth it,” I grinned, sporting a black eye. “Now I can play video games all day.” She tried to smile, but a tear rolled down her cheek. The Letter: Part 2 I regret asking you to fight him. Tyler wasn’t bullying me. He was blackmailing a girl in our class, Linda. He had photos of her. I wanted to stop him, but I was scared. So I used you. I watched you pack your bag. You were smiling, trying to make me feel better, even though your dad was going to kill you. If I had just three more months… maybe things would have been different. The saddest thing isn’t losing. It’s almost winning. It’s the “what if.” New Year’s Eve Two days into my suspension, Alex showed up at my house. She was wearing a white puffer jacket and a red scarf. For a second, she actually looked… pretty. “How’d you find me?” I asked. “Stole your address from the office,” she said. “Get dressed. We’re going out.” We spent that winter causing trouble. My parents were away on business, so we owned the town. Arcades, pool halls, skating rinks. She was terrible at skating—she’d grab onto me and drag us both down onto the ice, laughing hysterically. Then came New Year’s Eve. She showed up with a bag of snacks and a bottle of Jack Daniels. She mixed the whiskey with hot water and lemon—said it was an old family remedy for the cold. We drank. A lot. We watched the countdown on TV. By midnight, we were wasted. She fell asleep on the couch. I carried her to my room because it was freezing downstairs. I put the blanket over her. That’s when she opened her eyes. “You wanna try it?” she whispered. “Try what?” “Sex.”

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I was dead. Technically speaking, I was a lingering spirit tethered to a pre-war walk-up in Queens, New York. I died the cliché way: a Wall Street burnout who lost everything in a Ponzi scheme, got diagnosed with terminal cancer, and decided to check out early via a sturdy belt and the ceiling fan. I was bitter, angry, and had successfully scared off twelve tenants in two years. Then came Chloe. She was broke—like, “eating ramen for dinner six nights a week” broke. She walked in with a shady broker who told her the rent was $800 a month. In New York City. That alone should have been a red flag the size of a billboard. “It’s haunted,” the broker whispered, terrified to step inside. “The last guy… hung around, if you catch my drift.” Chloe just checked her bank account app, sighed, and said, “Does the Wi-Fi work? I’ll take it.” The Arrangement I intended to haunt her. I really did. But on her first night, instead of trembling in fear, she set up a little altar on the radiator. She didn’t use incense; she lit a fancy “Stress Relief” candle and waved a bundle of burning sage around. “Okay, look,” she announced to the empty room. “I know you’re here. I respect your space. You’re basically my invisible roommate now. As long as you don’t murder me, I’ll keep the place clean and the vibes good. Deal?” I watched her from the ceiling. She was tiny, wearing an oversized hoodie, looking terrified but determined. Deal, I thought. We fell into a routine. She ate mac and cheese; I inhaled the scent of her eucalyptus candles (which, surprisingly, felt like a spa day for my soul). She hung up fairy lights and tapestries to cover the water stains. She turned my tomb into a Pinterest board. I learned about her life. She came from a small town in the Midwest, drowning in student loans, working double shifts at a warehouse while studying for grad school. She was exhausted. One night, she fell asleep with a pot of water boiling on the stove. The water overflowed, extinguishing the flame, filling the tiny kitchen with gas. I panicked. I couldn’t touch things easily, but adrenaline (or whatever ghosts have) kicked in. I focused all my energy and snapped the circuit breaker. The sudden darkness woke her up. She smelled the gas, rushed to turn it off, and opened the window. “Thanks, Roomie,” she whispered into the dark, shivering. I realized then: I didn’t want to scare her. I wanted to protect her. The Scumbag Then came Tyler. He was her “boyfriend,” if you could call him that. He was a SoundCloud rapper with a trust fund he’d already blown, addicted to Call of Duty, and possessed the personality of a wet sock. He came over one night, complaining about the walk-up. “Babe, it’s freezing in here,” he whined, grabbing her hands. “Warm me up.” I hovered in the corner, glaring. Get your hands off her. Chloe pulled away gently. “I’ll make you some tea.” Tyler didn’t leave. He ate her food, complained about her cheap TV, and then had the audacity to ask her for gas money. “I need fifty bucks to get back to Jersey,” he lied. I knew he lived ten blocks away. Chloe, being the saint she was, gave it to him. I followed him out. I watched him walk into a dive bar, buy a round of shots for some random girl, and brag about “finessing some chick for cash.” I made the bar lights flicker and explode. Tyler screamed like a toddler and ran out. It was petty, but it felt great. The Incident A few months later, things escalated. Chloe was sick—flu season hit her hard. She was curled up in bed, miserable. I was pacing (floating?) anxiously, wishing I could just hand her a glass of water. Tyler showed up. He claimed he was there to take care of her, but he reeked of cheap cologne and desperation. “You look hot when you’re sick,” he muttered, sitting on the edge of her bed. His hand crept up her leg. “Tyler, stop. I’m not feeling well,” Chloe croaked. “Come on, I came all the way here,” he sneered, pushing her back down.

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It happened on the way to pick up Liam from his kindergarten. I saw the whole thing. I watched a man snatch him, watched my six-year-old’s face—terrified, tear-stained—pressed against the car window, his tiny hands clawing at the glass, screaming “Mommy.” Then the window rolled up, and his face was gone. But when the detectives pressed me, when they made me sit through hours of interviews, I told them nothing. Not a word. Even when my husband, Ethan, knelt before me on the hardwood floor, his eyes broken, begging me to recall a license plate, a jacket color, anything, I remained silent. My in-laws, their eyes raw and red-rimmed, screamed and cursed me. They called me a cold-blooded executioner, a monster. I only curled tighter into the corner of the sofa. When the reporters blocked our driveway, I grabbed the rolling pin from the kitchen and charged out like a rabid animal. Ethan never divorced me. The man who had once built a perfect world for me, who had treated me like a princess, simply put a deadbolt on the life we knew and locked the world out. He ignored the gossip, the police reports, and the public outcry, deciding I would stay in that house to pay my penance. He tortured me. Every single day. Five years of it, until the day that neural-mapping technology matured and he sent me to the Memory Retrieval Tribunal. 1 The large screen above the trial platform flickered, and Ethan’s face, cold and razor-sharp, filled the frame. He stood at the head of the auditorium, behind the judge’s bench, a sea of over three thousand people filling the seats behind him. “Audrey,” his voice boomed, echoing through the vast Metropolitan Convention Hall, “you don’t deserve the title of mother!” “Liam was so devoted to you,” he spat, “yet you stood there and watched him be taken, refusing to offer a single clue about the monster who did it!” I was strapped onto a specialized medical gurney, a plastic tube snaking down my throat, a necessary evil after years of neglect. My body was an artifact of suffering; lifting an eyelid felt like a monumental effort. “Don’t play dead!” Ethan’s voice was deafening, pumped through the hall’s massive speakers. “The police said you were the only eyewitness. Security footage showed you lingered at that intersection for ten minutes. What were you so afraid of?” “Today, this Memory Extractor will drag out everything you’ve hidden inside your head!” A storm of insults rained down from the audience, a collective, angry roar. Eggs and rotting fruit splattered against the thick, clear partition that separated me from the enraged public, leaving trails of foul, yellow-green slime. My in-laws sat in the front row. My mother-in-law was shaking, weeping uncontrollably, held upright by my father-in-law. “You murderous bitch! Liam was only six! How could you be so cruel?” “That was your own son!” I knew their hatred was boundless. Liam was the only grandchild, the light of their lives. My refusal to speak had turned the case cold, a national obsession and an unsolved mystery. Grief had aged my in-laws ten years in one. As the metallic probes of the Extractor were fixed to my temples, I forced what little strength I had left to shake my head at Ethan. A tear finally broke free, tracing a hot path down my cheek. He only sneered. He nodded to the technician. “Begin.” The instant the machine powered on, a thousand molten needles seemed to pierce my skull. My eyes flew wide. I couldn’t scream. My body spasmed violently, uncontrollably. A doctor rushed forward to administer a sedative, but Ethan waved him off. “No. I want her to be fully conscious when she watches her own memory. She will atone in excruciating clarity.” The massive screen in the center of the auditorium lit up, beginning to stream fragments of my mind. The first image was Ethan’s back. He was wearing a black suit, standing in a room overflowing with white lilies. In the center, on a small table, was a photograph of Liam. He was six, wearing blue overalls, holding up a drawing of a sunflower, his two small canine teeth showing in a gap-toothed, proud grin. Toys and coloring books lay scattered nearby. This was the memorial room. I saw myself walk forward, wanting to touch Ethan’s shoulder, but he shook me off. He turned, grabbed my throat, and dragged me right up to the photograph. “You have the audacity to come here?” His eyes were bloodshot, manic. “The police asked for the license plate, and you said you didn’t see it!” “They asked what color jacket the man wore, and you said you couldn’t remember!” “Audrey, look at Liam’s eyes,” he growled, shaking me until my teeth rattled, “and tell me again you don’t remember.” My body trembled, but even in the memory, I remained mute. The image began to warp and blur. The insults from the auditorium grew more intense. “She’s doing this on purpose! Maybe she was in on it with the kidnapper!” “This kind of woman should be flayed alive!” My physical convulsions grew more violent. The tube in my throat scraped my vocal cords with every spasm, sending searing pain through my chest. I felt a warm, sticky liquid—saliva mixed with blood—trickle from the corner of my mouth onto the pillow. The doctor’s face wavered in my blurred vision. He hesitated, looking up at Ethan. Then, with a grim determination, he plunged a syringe of adrenaline into my vein. The drug hit my bloodstream and, suddenly, the fog in my consciousness tore open. The screen went haywire. The shouts, Ethan’s face, the blur of the running child—everything imploded into a chaotic mass of color before dissolving into a single, cohesive wash of warm, saturated orange light. The doctor rushed to the microphone to explain. “The Memory Extractor detected a surge of intense emotion. The memory being displayed now is likely the patient’s deepest, most profound fragment—the most critical one.” The screen slowly stabilized. It was our sun-drenched living room. Liam was on the rug in his little dinosaur pajamas, the afternoon sunlight slicing through the French doors and spilling over him. He was coloring sunflowers, just like the one in the memorial picture. I sat beside him on the sofa, peeling a tangerine. I broke off a section and offered it to him. “Mommy, look!” Liam held up his artwork, a smear of yellow crayon on his nose. “I drew Mommy and Daddy for the sunflower so it won’t be lonely!” I wiped the crayon off his nose, squeezing his soft cheek. “My clever boy.” He giggled and launched himself into my arms, burying his little head in my neck. “Mommy smells so good,” he whispered, “like a cupcake.” Just then, the front door clicked. Ethan walked in. Before he could even put his briefcase down, Liam had slid off the sofa and toddled over on his short legs, wrapping his arms around his father’s thigh. “Daddy! You’re home!” Ethan bent down and lifted him, the exhaustion instantly melting from his face, replaced by a profound, heart-stopping tenderness. A profound silence fell over the hall. “Wait… that looks like a happy family,” someone whispered. “Why wouldn’t she give up the killer’s information if she was this close to him?” “If she was truly cold-hearted, why would this warm memory be the strongest?” “Maybe there’s another side to the story?” But the murmurs of doubt were quickly drowned out by renewed fury. “It’s a performance! She’s trying to manufacture sympathy to confuse the machine!” Ethan, standing by the platform, stared at the image of our smiling, sun-lit faces. His hands clenched into fists, his expression so dark it looked like storm clouds brewing. “Enough!” he roared suddenly. “Audrey, you have no right to remember those moments!” He vaulted off the platform, ignoring the technician’s protests, and rushed to the Memory Extractor, snatching the control lever. “Mr. Ethan, no! It’s already at eighty percent of the safety threshold! Any higher will cause irreversible brain damage!” “Irreversible?” Ethan’s voice was a chilling sneer. “She killed my son. I need the answer now.” Slam. He pushed the lever all the way to the top. Kerr-CHUNK! The Extractor emitted a high-pitched, electric scream. The metal probes on my temples felt like they’d instantly turned into branding irons. My head felt like a bell struck by a hammer, my skull cavity pressurized to the point of rupture. My eyeballs rolled upward into my head, and my body began to convulse with ten times the force, my limbs twisting at unnatural angles. “Doctor! Stop the machine! You’ll kill her!” a voice from the audience screamed. “This is barbaric! It’s not a trial—it’s murder!” The discussion erupted into full-blown panic. Security rushed to block the exits as several distraught attendees tried to rush the platform. The doctor, frantic, again tried to inject the sedative, but Ethan brutally shoved him aside, sending him tumbling to the floor. Ethan stood over the gurney, his face a mask of pure hatred. “You think you can die, Audrey? I promise you, not even the Devil himself can take you until you tell me who the kidnapper was!” He spun to the technician. “Stabilize the power! I need a clear picture! The killer’s face!” “I want everyone to see the bastard!” The technician was shaking, but fearing Ethan more than the exploding machine, he fumbled with the controls. I felt my neural pathways snapping, one by one. The darkness at the edge of my vision grew thicker. I could only see the broken fragments flickering on the screen. Liam’s crying face, the glaring sun, the flashing red light of the crosswalk. The pain was too severe to concentrate, too consuming to piece together any coherent image. I felt my breathing shallow, my consciousness sinking into a bottomless well. The shouts of the audience had quieted, replaced by looks of horror and pity. Some began to murmur that Ethan was too obsessed, that this spectacle was senseless cruelty. My in-laws’ hatred softened, replaced by a lost, vacant confusion as they looked at my near-dead body. But Ethan heard none of it. “The killer? His face? Audrey, think! Now!”

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“In court, I’m gonna say he touched me here.” I watched on my security camera as my own mother coached my eight-year-old daughter—a child with Down syndrome—to commit perjury. The lie was designed to strip me of my daughter, my reputation, and my freedom. The Build-A-Bear I bought her was laughing at me from the back seat, so I did the only thing I could: I sewed a voice recorder into its belly. For three weeks, I became the world’s greatest actor, installing tiny cameras everywhere, gathering irrefutable proof of their monstrous plot. Now, in the packed courtroom, my daughter clutches the bear, ready to deliver the final, devastating lie. But she doesn’t know her “Mister Snuggles” is about to testify on my behalf. 1 On my way home from work, my home security camera activated. On it, I saw my mother in the living room, coaching my eight-year-old daughter. “In court, I’m gonna say he touched me here.” My daughter was pointing at her private parts, while my mother hugged her and told her she was a good girl. I almost swerved off the road, watching my daughter smile about how she was going to ruin my life in three weeks’ time. The surprise Build-A-Bear I’d bought her was laughing at me from the back seat. The photos of Julie my mother had sent earlier now seemed contaminated. But instead of getting angry and acting on impulse like college-me would have, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I sewed a recording device into the Build-A-Bear before driving home. “Grandma’s here!” Julie squealed when I walked through the door 20 minutes later, running to me with the same innocent face that had just been rehearsing my destruction. “I know, sweetheart,” I said, handing her the Build-A-Bear. “Mister Snuggles has a new friend for you.” My mother smiled that grandmother smile I’d trusted for 42 years. “You spoil her, Daniel. How was work?” “The usual.” I kissed Julie’s forehead, my stomach churning. “Thanks for watching her, Mom.” Over the next two and a half weeks, I became the world’s greatest actor. I installed cameras in Julie’s dollhouse, her jewelry box, even inside the old tablet she used for games. Every device was legally purchased and placed in my own home, in items I’d bought. My lawyer would later call it genius. Tuesday, my mother brought Disney brochures to my daughter. “For after the bad man goes away,” she whispered to Julie, who was ecstatic about the holiday and seemed to have no idea of the consequences she was doing. On Thursday, they practiced Julie’s testimony again. “Remember baby, tears help. The judge needs to see you’re scared of Daddy.” On Saturday, she gave Julie a new American Girl doll. “This is for being such a brave girl about our secret.” Each night, I’d transfer the recordings to three separate cloud services and a physical drive in my office safe. Then I’d tuck my daughter in, bringing her milk and cookies before calling her a good girl. It wasn’t her fault. She had Down syndrome and didn’t understand the gravity situation. I couldn’t be mad at her. When young children do bad things, you point the finger at the adults in their life. The court date arrived three weeks later. The room was packed for what everyone thought was day three of our custody battle. Jessica, my ex-wife, sat with her lawyer, looking confident. She’d been pushing for full custody with supervised visits only. My siblings sat behind my mother. “Your Honor,” Jessica’s lawyer announced. “We’d like to call Julie Grimes to the stand.” My eight-year-old daughter walked in clutching her Build-A-Bear. She wouldn’t look at me. The bailiff helped her onto the witness stand, adjusting the microphone to her height. “Julie, sweetheart,” Jessica’s lawyer said. “I know this is scary, but can you tell the judge what you told your mommy and grandma?” Julie’s little voice shook. “Daddy… Daddy touches me in bad places.” The courtroom gasped. Jessica dabbed her eyes. My mother reached over to squeeze Jessica’s hand in support. “Where does he touch you?” Julie pointed to her private areas. “There. He says it’s our special secret.” I felt my lawyer’s hand on my arm, keeping me seated. My siblings were staring at me in horror. “How long has this been happening, Julie?” “A long time. He said if I told anyone, Mommy would get hurt.” Jessica broke into performative sobs. The CPS workers were furiously taking notes. The judge’s face had turned to stone. “Julie, one last question,” the lawyer continued. “Do you feel safe with your Daddy?” Julie started crying, coached tears. “No. I’m scared of him. I want to live with Mommy and Grandma forever.” “No further questions.” The judge looked at my lawyer. “Does the defense wish to cross-examine?” “Your Honor,” my lawyer stood. “Before we proceed, we need to submit critical evidence that will recontextualize this testimony.” “This is a delay tactic!” Jessica’s lawyer protested. “Your Honor, I have 18 days of video evidence that this child has been coached to give false testimony.”

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I entered a game where the challenge was to survive 7 days on 50 bucks. The prize: a staggering 120 million. Simple math, brutal reality. A bottle of water cost 15. A sandwich ran 40. Everyone else whispered, laughed, even sneered at me. “You’re doomed,” they said. They didn’t know, I thrived in these conditions. Call it luck, call it experience, call it what you will. I was a sophisticated dirt poor, and the game was practically tailored to me. I would be the one walking out alive, side by side with the few who dared to last. A mechanical, electronic voice cut through the anticipation. “Welcome to the Dirt Poor Game. Initial funds: $50. Objective: Survive in the game for 7 days. Winner receives: 120 million. Overspending, death, or leaving the game zone will result in elimination and a 120 million debt.” 1 A pause, heavy with mischief. “Now, any cowards want to quit?” Quit? I laughed under my breath. A young guy with bleach blonde hair scoffed, shaking his head. “Seven days? I could survive on water alone.” A chubby kid in a soaked t-shirt muttered something about stretching $50 over bagels and peanut butter. His shoulders sagged with nervous energy, but the glint in his eyes said he still believed in fortune favoring the bold. “Only an idiot would quit now.” Around us, the crowd buzzed with blind excitement. Some daring each other with smirks and bets, others frozen in silent panic. Finally, the system confirmed what I already knew: not a single player has quit. “Game rules activated. Players cannot quit. 100 players deployed. Welcome to Airport Odyssey. May you survive.” A flash of white light swallowed me, and then, chaos. I was standing in an airport that stretched endlessly in all directions, terminals disappearing into vanishing points. Travelers streamed past, faces blurred, some human, some not. I couldn’t tell which were players and which were NPCs. I glanced at my interface. $50. Exactly as promised. Three stats blinked above it: Hunger, Thirst, Energy, all full. My eyes caught a convenience store across the terminal, a flicker of hope. I moved toward it, scanning the shelves. Then came the sound that froze me in place—a choked, terrified cry. “Holy hell!” It was the chubby kid from earlier, staring at the cooler like it had just turned into a wall of fire. “$15 for a bottle of water?” he groaned, eyes wide. “Highway robbery!” I stepped closer, heart sinking. Cupcakes? 50 bucks. Sandwiches? 40. Bagels? 10. Even the cheapest pack of graham crackers was 18. The math was merciless. Seven days, $50, and not enough to buy half a bottle of water each day. He grabbed my arm, panic flaring. “Player 66, sis, we’re screwed. 50 bucks won’t even cover three bottles of water for a week. We’ll starve. We’ll die.” I let out a long sigh. Charity wasn’t in the system’s vocabulary. I already knew survival wouldn’t be easy. Around us, other players crowded the store, faces twisted with disbelief and dread. “Miss, I’m Player 44,” the kid said, rubbing sweat from his brow. “Come on, let’s team up. I can handle anyone who messes with you.” He threw a quick flurry of martial arts moves, smooth but nervous. I shook my head politely. “Not yet.” I needed to understand the rules before I trusted anyone. My eyes scanned the terminal. My priority was simple, cold, and clear: water. Free water. Outside the restroom, I spotted a water fountain. Two discarded plastic bottles lay nearby, dented and forgotten. I washed them quickly, filling both to the brim. Water problem solved. Cost: zero. Survival didn’t have to be complicated yet. Next came energy. My eyes fell on a Starbucks across the terminal. The condiment stand gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Rows of sugar packets and creamer cups lined neatly like soldiers. Sugar was essential. It could save me from low blood sugar, from weakness, from mistakes. I moved toward it, calm and deliberate, every motion fluid and casual, like I belonged there. Within seconds, a dozen sugar packets and a few creamers slid into my pockets. Less than two seconds. Then, just as casually, I walked out. Reaching a deserted corner, I tore two packets open and dumped the sugar directly into my mouth. Sweetness exploded, sharp and cloying, but energizing. Cost: zero. The airport’s air conditioning blasted like an icebox. Maybe the system had designed it this way; colder temperatures burn energy faster. My thin clothes offered little protection, but I improvised, moving to stay warm. A discarded airline blanket in a trash can became my temporary armor against the chill. Hunger, however, was more persistent. By 8:00 PM, I drifted toward a small bakery tucked behind a glass counter. The unsold bread radiated warmth and a rich, yeasty aroma. My stomach growled loudly, a reminder that instincts alone weren’t enough. My dirt poor instincts whispered that the bread should be discounted by now. A loaf marked $30 sat temptingly behind the glass. Now it read 15. Still not enough. Waiting longer could yield deeper discounts, maybe even free. Every saved dollar was a chance to survive another hour, another day. I perched on a chair across from the bakery, half-closing my eyes to rest. The quiet was shattered by an anonymous broadcast on the game’s public channel. “Head to the bakery in Terminal 3, Zone A. Bread here is half price. Hurry, don’t shove. It’s mine!” Pandemonium erupted. 20, maybe 30 players surged toward the bakery like a stampede. People waved cash frantically, grabbing loaves straight off shelves. Staff shouted for order, but their voices were drowned in chaos. Within minutes, every discounted loaf, including the one I had been eyeing, was gone. Some players held their bread triumphantly, relief written across their faces. Others pounded their chests, cursing their luck. Curses, complaints, and desperate sighs hung in the cold air like smoke. My hunger pangs twisted sharply, yet I forced a deep breath, suppressing the cramps. My gaze drifted upward to the flight information screens hanging above the terminal. Red statuses scrolled relentlessly. It was time to show my true skills. The red letters on the departures board told a story most players hadn’t yet understood: Delayed. Delayed. Cancelled. Flight after flight, destination after destination. This wasn’t just an airport; it was a trap designed to bleed money from the desperate. But delays meant something else entirely to someone like me. Delays meant free food. I approached the nearest gate agent, a tired-looking NPC—or player, I still couldn’t tell—shuffling papers behind a desk. The crowd around her had thinned after the latest cancellation announcement. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice carrying just the right blend of exhaustion and concern. “My flight’s been delayed six hours. Are there meal vouchers available?” She barely looked up. “Vouchers are only for delays over eight hours.” “Oh.” I let my shoulders slump, then brightened slightly. “What about the passenger rights compensation? I read something about that online.” A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. “You’d need to file a formal complaint. Takes three business days to process.” I nodded slowly, as if accepting defeat, then played my real card. “I understand. It’s just… I’m diabetic, and I need to eat regularly. Is there anything you can do? Even just pointing me toward where they put the expired sandwiches?” Her expression softened minutely. She glanced around, then leaned forward. “Wait here.” Three minutes later, she returned with a wrapped sandwich and a small bag of pretzels. “Don’t tell anyone. These were supposed to be thrown out anyway.” “Thank you so much,” I breathed, genuine gratitude flooding my voice. As I walked away, I checked my interface. Hunger: 78% Thirst: 85% Energy: 82% Balance: $50 Cost: Zero Behind me, I heard Player 44’s voice rising in pitch. “What do you mean you don’t have anymore? She just got food! I need food too!” The agent’s voice turned cold. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.” I found a quiet corner near Gate C17 and unwrapped my prize. The sandwich was dry, the lettuce wilted, but it was sustenance. As I ate slowly, savoring every bite, I observed the other players. Most had already spent money. I could see it in the way they clutched shopping bags, held half-empty water bottles, or nervously checked their interfaces. The blonde kid from earlier strutted past with a large coffee. $20 gone in a single impulse. Others huddled in groups, pooling resources or arguing about strategy. The public channel crackled to life again. “Day 1, Hour 12. Current Player Count: 100. Eliminations: 0. Average Remaining Balance: $38.50.” Someone had already burned through almost $12. The game had barely begun. A new announcement echoed through the terminal. “Attention passengers. Due to inclement weather, all flights are grounded until further notice. Complimentary blankets available at Terminal B, Gate 7. First come, first served.” The stampede began immediately. I stayed seated, finishing my sandwich. Blankets were useful, sure, but I already had one. More importantly, I’d noticed something else on the departures board. A pattern in the delays. Every two hours, one specific flight kept getting pushed back by exactly 30 minutes. Flight AA2847 to somewhere called Nexus Point. That flight was important. I didn’t know why yet, but the system wanted us to notice it. I settled back against the wall, pulling my salvaged blanket tighter. Around me, the airport’s fluorescent lights hummed their monotonous song. In the distance, I heard shouting as the blanket distribution turned into a brawl. Survive 7 days. That was all I had to do. I closed my eyes and began counting the hours until my next move. I woke to the sound of crying. It was soft at first, muffled, like someone trying desperately to hide their breakdown. I opened my eyes to find the terminal dimmer; they must have switched to night lighting. My interface read 3:47 AM, Day 2. The crying was coming from a figure huddled near the window, silhouetted against the tarmac lights. I recognized the body language before I saw the face. Player 44, the chubby martial arts kid. “Hey,” I said quietly, approaching. “You okay?” He jumped, wiping his face quickly. “Player 66. Yeah, I’m… I’m fine.” His interface was visible on his wrist display. Balance: $23.50 $26.50 spent in less than a day. My stomach tightened. “What happened?” He laughed bitterly. “I got hungry. Bought a sandwich. Then I got thirsty. Bought water. Then I thought, might as well get something for tomorrow, right? So, I bought another sandwich. And chips. And…” He trailed off. “I’m an idiot.” “You’re panicking,” I corrected. “Different thing. Same result.” “I’m going to die in here.” He looked at me with desperate eyes. “Please. Team up with me. I can protect you. I’m strong, I can—” “Protection isn’t the problem,” I interrupted. “Resources are. And if I team up with you, your spending habits become my problem.” His face crumpled. “So you’re just going to let me die?” I should have walked away. The rational, survival-focused part of my brain screamed at me to cut loose the dead weight. But another part, maybe the stupid part, remembered what it was like to be young and scared and in over your head. “Listen,” I said, sitting down next to him. “I’m not carrying you. But I’ll make you a deal. I teach you how to survive on nothing, and you watch my back when I need to rest. Equal partnership. You follow my rules exactly. No improvising. No panic buying.” “Deal?” He nodded frantically. “Deal. Yes. Thank you. Thank you.” “First rule,” I cut him off. “Stop thanking me. Gratitude makes you weak. Makes you feel like you owe me. We’re partners, not charity case and savior. Got it?” “Got it.” “Second rule: never, ever announce free stuff on the public channel. That was you with the bakery, wasn’t it?” He had the grace to look ashamed. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought people would appreciate it.” “You created a stampede. You know what happens in stampedes? People get hurt. Resources get hoarded. And you make enemies.” I leaned forward. “In this game, information is more valuable than money. You give it away, you’re giving away your edge. Understand?” “I understand. Do you?” I studied him. “What’s your real name?” “James. James Chen.” “Okay, James. I’m Maya Patel. And starting now, we survive together. But only if you can prove you’re worth the investment.” His jaw set with determination. “What do I need to do?” I smiled. “First lesson: Airport Infrastructure. Come on.” Over the next two hours, I taught James everything I knew about surviving in institutional spaces. The maintenance closets that were rarely locked. The employee break rooms with microwaves and, sometimes if you were lucky, forgotten leftovers. The loading docks where delivery trucks occasionally left pallets of supplies unattended for precious minutes. But most importantly, I taught him about people. “See that guy?” I nodded toward a middle-aged player in a business suit, pacing and muttering to himself. “He’s about to crack. Watch.” Within five minutes, the man had purchased a $40 sandwich and a $50 bottle of wine from the duty-free shop. He ate and drank with frantic urgency, barely tasting anything. “He’s not surviving 7 days,” James whispered. “No. He’s not built for deprivation. But watch what happens next.” Sure enough, an hour later, the man approached other players, trying to sell his remaining wine. “Thirty dollars! It cost me fifty! Come on, someone!” No takers. Alcohol wasn’t essential, and everyone was hoarding cash for food and water. The man’s face darkened with rage and fear. “That’s when things get dangerous,” I explained to James. “When people realize their mistakes and start getting desperate. Stay away from them.” James nodded, absorbing everything like a sponge. By dawn of Day 2, I’d spent nothing. James, now operating under my guidance, had spent nothing additional. My stats were manageable: Hunger: 65% Thirst: 72% Energy: 68% James’s stats were worse—Hunger 45%, Thirst 53%—but improving with the sugar packets and water I’d shown him how to obtain. The morning announcement came. “Day 2, Hour 18. Current Player Count: 97. Eliminations: 3. Average Remaining Balance: $31.20.” Three people had already lost. Either by overspending, death, or somehow leaving the game zone. The reality of the situation was setting in across the terminal. I could see it in the way players moved—slower, more cautious, eyeing each other with suspicion. “Maya,” James said quietly. “What do you think happens to people who get eliminated?” “I don’t know. But I don’t plan to find out.” That’s when we heard the screaming. The scream came from Terminal D, shrill and full of genuine terror. James and I ran toward it, joining a stream of other curious and concerned players. We found a crowd gathered around Gate D12. At the center lay a body. A young woman, maybe 25, her face pale and eyes staring at nothing. Next to her, a shattered water bottle leaked its contents across the floor. “She’s dead,” someone whispered. “Oh god, she’s actually dead.” A player in medical scrubs pushed through the crowd, checked for a pulse, then sat back on his heels. “Definitely dead. But I don’t see any obvious cause.” My eyes caught something on her wrist display. Balance: -$3.75 “She overspent,” I said aloud. The crowd turned to look at me. “Her balance is negative,” I continued, pointing. “The game rules said overspending results in elimination. This must be what that means.” “That’s insane!” someone shouted. “They killed her for going three dollars over?” “We agreed to the rules,” another voice called back. “We all heard them.” The medical player stood up, face grim. “Whatever the cause, we should move her somewhere respectful.” “No.” The electronic voice of the system cut through everything, emanating from hidden speakers. “Bodies of eliminated players will disappear automatically within one hour. Do not interfere with the process. All players are reminded: Overspending, death, or leaving the game zone will result in elimination and a 120 million debt.” “Would anyone like to quit now?” The silence was absolute. “Negative debt will be transferred to your real-world accounts. Think carefully.”

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