Content Warning:
This chapter contains depictions of bullying, emotional abuse, betrayal, suicidal ideation, and suicide. It also references threats of sexual violence and familial trauma. These themes may be distressing to some readers.
Reader discretion is advised.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please consider reaching out to a trusted friend, family member, or mental health professional.
U.S. readers:You can dial or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
International readers: Please seek local crisis hotlines or mental health resources available in your country.
I woke before the alarm.
Just—awake. Eyes open. Staring at the empty ceiling. The pre-dawn light leaked through the thin curtains, gray and hesitant, like it wasn't sure it wanted to be here either.
My body lay pinned to the mattress as if gravity had doubled overnight. A cold, patient weight pressed on my chest, whispering that staying still was the sensible choice. It wasn't fear. It was certainty—dense, immovable. The kind that doesn't argue.
I should get up, I thought.
I didn't move.
The alarm clock on my nightstand read 6:27. Three minutes before it would start screaming. I watched the numbers flip. 6:28. 6:29. When 6:30 finally arrived, I reached over and switched it off before it could make a sound.
The silence felt thick. Expectant.
I sat up. Took longer than it should have. My limbs moved like they were operating on a five-second delay, like my brain was sending signals through molasses. When my feet finally hit the floor, the cold shocked through me, but even that felt distant. Secondhand.
Get up. Shower. School. Same as always.
Except it wasn't the same as always.
Today I turned eighteen.
The shower was cold—the hot water had been temperamental for months, and Grandma kept saying she'd call someone to look at it, but we both knew she wouldn't. Couldn't afford to. The icy water hit my skin like a thousand tiny needles, and I stood under it longer than necessary, waiting for it to do something. Wake me up. Shock some feeling back into my body.
It didn't work.
I toweled off, was about to get dressed for school—when Grandma's voice drifted down the hall.
"Luck. Kitchen."
When I came to the kitchen, the smell hit me first.
Burnt toast. Unmistakable.
Grandma stood at the stove. Maeve, still in yesterday's pajamas, beamed beside her with the pride of a small arsonist who has decided to branch into cuisine.
"Morning!" she said, too loud, too cheerful.
"Morning," I said.
Grandma glanced over her shoulder. "Sit. Food's almost ready."
I sat.
The table was set differently than usual. Normally it was just bowls for porridge, or nothing if I was running late and grabbed an apple on the way out. But today—today there were plates.
And on those plates: eggs, scrambled and slightly rubbery. Toast, burnt black at the edges with butter melting in the center where it had been slathered on too thick. A glass of orange juice—the cheap kind, reconstituted from concentrate, but still. Juice.
"I made the toast," she announced, proud as a soldier reporting for duty.
I looked at the blackened bread. At her eager face.
Grandma and I smiled at each other.
"Grandma," I said, nudging Maeve with my elbow, "please don't ever let her near the stove again. We'll lose the house next."
Maeve pouted theatrically. I ruffled her hair.
Grandma touched my shoulder as she passed, just once, her palm warm and rough through my shirt.
"Eat," she said.
I picked up the toast. Bit into it.
It tasted like charcoal.
"It's perfect," I lied.
Maeve beamed.
In the background, the TV muttered. Grandma always left it on—said the noise made the house feel less empty. The news anchor's voice pushed through the static, droning on about the weather:
"...expect another scorching day today. Temperatures climbing into the low thirties, possibly hitting thirty-three in some areas. Dry conditions persist. Stay hydrated out ther—"
Grandma clicked it off mid-sentence.
I ate the eggs. Drank the juice. Finished the burnt toast even though it scraped against my throat going down. Maeve watched me the entire time, chin propped on both fists, grinning like she'd just won something.
I knew what the breakfast meant. And still—no one said it.
Neither of them said the two words I was waiting for.
Happy birthday.
After breakfast, I went to get dressed.
When I reached into the closet for my uniform, something slipped free and landed at my feet.
A small box.
Wrapped in old newspaper, folded with care, tied neatly with string. On top, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
Happy Birthday — Grandma & Maeve
I froze.
For a moment, I just stood there, smiling like an idiot. It was light. Something rattled inside—not fragile, but solid. Real.
For a long moment, I just held it.
Then I set the box carefully back on the shelf behind winter coats, exactly where it had been. I pretended I'd seen nothing.
And I went to school like it was any other day.
Classes dragged. Every minute stretched, sticky and resistant, as though time itself had decided to punish me.
And then, finally—
Ring.
The final bell.
The sound sliced through the room. Chairs scraped. Laughter burst and scattered. Normally I would have bolted—anything to escape. Instead, I just sat there, hands flat on the desk, staring at nothing, while the classroom emptied around me. Voices faded. Footsteps receded.
Silence.
I exhaled.
"Hey, Luck."
That voice. I knew that voice. Knew it the way you know the sound of your own heartbeat—intimately, inescapably.
"It's been a while," she said, stepping into the classroom. Her voice was soft. Careful. Like she was talking to a wounded animal. "How have you been?"
I looked up.
How have I been? The question was so absurd I nearly laughed. Instead, I stood up. Grabbed my bag. Started packing my things with slow, deliberate movements, refusing to answer, pretending she didn't exist.
"Hey," she said. "I'm talking to you."
I zipped the bag. Slung it over my shoulder.
"Luck—"
"Don't."
She flinched.
I walked toward the door. She didn't move. Just stood there, blocking the exit, her hands twisted together in front of her.
"I wanted to say—" She swallowed. "Happy birthday."
I stopped.
"I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier," she continued, the words coming faster now. "I wanted to, but I—"
"Move."
"Just listen—"
"I said move."
"Please." Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. "Just hear me out. Please."
I looked down at her hand. At the place where her skin touched mine.
Then I looked at her face.
"Don't touch me!" I yanked my arm away hard enough that she stumbled back a step, the words snapping out sharper than I intended.
"You told me to stop embarrassing myself," I said. My voice came out flat. Dead. "You said you didn't want anything to do with me. So why are you here, Natalie? What do you want?"
Her eyes were wide. Afraid.
Good.
"I just—" She took a breath. "I need you to come with me."
"No."
"It's important."
"I don't care."
"After this, I won't bother you again." She held up her hand, pinky extended. "Pinky promise."
And God help me, something in my chest twisted.
Pinky promise.
We'd been seven years old when we invented that. A sacred oath. Unbreakable. We'd sealed every secret, every plan, every promise with linked fingers and solemn faces.
Pinky promise you'll be my friend forever.
Pinky promise.
I looked at her extended finger. At her face. At the desperation in her eyes.
Every instinct I had was screaming at me to walk away.
I followed her anyway.
She led me through the empty hallways, up the stairs to the third floor, then the fourth. Past classrooms and lockers and bulletin boards covered in flyers for clubs I'd never joined and events I'd never attended.
We climbed higher.
Fifth floor. The science wing, usually locked after hours.
Not locked today.
We kept going.
Sixth floor. Administration offices. Empty.
Then—the final stairwell.
The one that led to the roof.
I stopped.
"Natalie."
She didn't turn around. Kept climbing.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"The roof is locked."
"Not today."
My heart was pounding now, hard and fast, slamming against my ribs like it was trying to break free.
Run, something whispered. Turn around and run.
Natalie pushed open the door at the top of the stairs.
Gray light spilled down. And with it—smoke. Cigarette smoke.
My stomach dropped.
I knew that smell. Knew who it belonged to.
"Natalie," I said again, quieter this time. "What did you do?"
She finally looked back at me. Her face was pale. Stricken.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Then she stepped through the door.
Blake leaned against the railing, waiting. His friends ringed him, laughter circling like vultures that already knew something was dead.
"Pay up," one of them said. "Told you he'd follow her."
The other pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and slapped it into the first one's palm.
I looked at Natalie. She wouldn't meet my eyes. Staring at the ground.
Blake straightened. Took a last drag from his cigarette. Exhaled smoke into the gray air and walked toward me slowly, deliberately. When he reached Natalie he slid an arm around her waist, fingers splaying across her hip with casual ownership. Then lower.
She didn't pull away.
He smiled the smile that had ended dozens of afternoons for me.
"You know what I think you are, Luck?" he said, tasting each syllable. "A dumb genius."
"I mean think about it. She stopped talking to you months ago, started dating me—the guy who's been making your life hell since first-year. And yet here you are. Following her up to a locked rooftop. Alone, just because she crooked her finger." He laughed, sharp and cruel. "Love really does make people blind, doesn't it?"
The wind picked up, sudden and sharp, carrying the smell of rain that hadn't started falling yet. Above us, the clouds devoured the sun. Storm clouds rolling in like bruises spreading across skin.
Thunder rumbled. Once. Twice.
Waiting.
As if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to unleash its fury.
"Want to know what I think?" Blake said, stepping closer. "I think you have Stockholm syndrome. You're so desperate for any kind of attention that you'll take abuse and call it love." He tilted his head. "That's pathetic, Luck. Even for you."
My hands curled into fists.
One of his cronies moved. Stepped forward and slammed a shoulder into my chest, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. Before I could recover, his boot connected with my knee and I staggered backward, my spine hitting the railing—a cruel reminder of my fragility. Yet even that pain was warmer than the frost of Natalie's betrayal.
Blake laughed. The others joined in, a chorus of hyenas.
"She told me everything, you know," Blake said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather. "About your mom. She must've been really easy getting knocked up that young. Both your folks smeared across the highway, leaving you orphaned." He shook his head in mock sympathy. "And now your grandma—turned into a damn coin collector working herself to death to keep you and your little sister fed."
My vision tunneled.
I had trusted her enough to tell her this information.
"Maeve," Blake said, tasting the name. He glanced at Natalie. "That's her name, right?"
Natalie's face was white.
"Yeah," Blake continued. "Maeve. Cute name. How old is she now? Thirteen?"
"Don't—"
"If I'd known your life was such a shitshow, maybe I would've gone easier on you." He flicked ash from his cigarette. "I do have a conscience, you know."
"Debatable," one of his buddies muttered, and they all laughed again.
Blake's expression shifted. Grew colder. He stepped forward until we were inches apart, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with tobacco.
"You remember how we met?" he said softly. "You walked up to me in that class. Told me to leave that kid alone and handed me your dirty coins. Like you had any right to tell me what to do." His voice dropped lower, intimate. Venomous. "A nobody like you, trying to act like a hero. You wanted attention? Congratulations. You got it."
He leaned in until his mouth was beside my ear.
"I've taken everything from you," he whispered. "Your dignity. Your girl. Your pride. So go ahead, Luck. Be the good little toy and break for me."
Something inside me cracked.
Not broke—cracked. Like ice fracturing under pressure, spider-webbing out in all directions.
Blake pulled back. Smiled.
"Oh," he said. "Almost forgot. Happy birthday."
And then—he kissed Natalie.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't loving. It was possession. Ownership. His hand fisted in her hair and he pulled her close and she—
Kissed him back.
Her hands settled on his chest. Her eyes closed.
I watched her surrender.
That's the moment, I would think later. That's when I died.
Blake broke the kiss. Looked at me over her shoulder.
"Before you go," he said. "I've been thinking. Your sister—Maeve, right? I could pay her a visit. Just for a day. Have some fun." His smile was a knife. "You know who my father is, don't you? Met him once, at the headmaster's office. Remember, he can make any problem disappear?"
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
"After I'm done with her," Blake continued, "your grandma won't have to worry about working another day. I doubt she's got much time left anyway—old woman like that, grinding herself down to nothing. She'll probably drop dead before the year's out. Just like your parents did. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
He extended his hand like a businessman closing a deal.
"What do you say?" he said. "Shake on it. I promise I'll be gentle with her."
Something inside me snapped.
Not cracked. Snapped.
I didn't decide to charge him.
My body decided.
Some ancient, animal part of my brain that had stopped thinking and started surviving.
Adrenaline: The body's emergency switch.
When the brain senses danger or extreme stress, it tells the adrenal glands to release adrenaline into the bloodstream. In seconds, the body changes: the heart beats faster, blood rushes to the muscles, breathing sharpens, pain dulls, and thoughts narrow to one thing—act.
That's why time can feel slow, why fear turns into heat, and why a body that was shaking a moment ago suddenly hits harder than it ever has.
The body does it first.
Adrenaline takes the wheel—and everything else disappears.
I lunged.
Thud.
My fist connected with his jaw and I felt his lip split open, felt hot blood spray across my knuckles, felt the shock travel up my arm—
Felt good.
Felt like nothing.
Blake stumbled back, hand flying to his mouth, eyes wide with shock. For one perfect second, his smug mask shattered and underneath I saw something real—
Fear.
Then his expression hardened.
His boot slammed into my chest.
The world tilted.
I flew backward and hit the railing and—
Crack.
The metal gave way.
Not slowly. Not with warning. Just—gave up. Like it had been waiting for this. For me. The bolts that had held it in place for over 70 years finally surrendering to rust and gravity and fate.
I fell.
Time didn't slow down. That's a lie people tell in stories. Time moved exactly as fast as it always did.
I just became very, very aware of it.
One second: Thunder cracked, the heavens splitting open in a torrential downpour, a curtain of rain cascading as though the universe had conspired for this precise unraveling, cold drops hitting my face.
Guess the weather lady was wrong, I thought.
Two seconds: I glimpsed their faces. Blake with blood on his chin backed away in shock. The others petrified in place like deer in headlights. And Natalie—
Natalie with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, screaming something I couldn't hear.
A bitter, thin smile found my lips. Look at that, I thought. I finally did it.
"You told me to break," I screamed into the storm, "so I did—into a thousand shards. You walked on my splinters blind, and your own toy cut you in the end!"
Three seconds: Thunder. Loud enough to shake my bones. Lightning etched the scene like a photographer's strobe, imprinting their expressions forever in my mind.
Flash.
Four seconds: Finally, I thought.
I raised my middle finger to the sky with the last strength in my arm in one last act of defiance. You're late, but I'm glad you came. I'm Luck, and it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Karma.
Five seconds: The ground rushing up to meet me.
I wasn't scared.
That was the strangest part.
I should have been terrified, but instead I felt—calm. Distant. Like I was watching this happen to someone else.
Then reality intruded:
Fuck. I'm dying.
The thought hit me harder than the ground would.
A laugh tried to bubble up my throat.
And they called me Luck. This life has only been one hell of a nightmare and I'm dying. On my birthday. On my eighteenth birthday. Who does that? I'll have to give them a piece of my mind for naming me that if I see them in the afterlife.
The memory of them was old, soft at the edges like a photograph left in the sun too long.
I'd been months away from graduating. From leaving this place. From starting over somewhere new where no one knew my name or my history or the weight I carried.
The rain fell harder. I was soaking now, falling through a curtain of water, the world blurring into streaks of gray and white.
Six seconds: Lightning flashed again, so bright it burned my retinas.
And then—I saw her.
Grandma's face materialized.
Standing in the kitchen, her back bent, her hands moving through a jar of coins. Counting. Sorting. Calculating how to make five dollars stretch to feed three people for three days.
Maeve will be shattered. She ended up losing me too.
What happens to them now?
The thought was ice water in my veins.
They'll have to pay for a funeral. Grandma will work herself to death trying to cover it.
The gift.
I should've snuck a peek.
I should've hugged them for the last time.
Hell, if I knew this was how my life would end, I would've just skipped school.
I'm sorry.
The sound came then—not from me, but from somewhere outside myself. Like pages turning. Thousands of pages, a book the size of a building being rifled through by invisible hands, faster and faster, the sound building into a roar—
I closed my eyes.
Grandma. Maeve.
I'm—
BOOM.