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Maybe the System was sulking, or maybe it was just useless.
Its clues were fragmented, riddled with restrictions.
I couldn’t call the police. Couldn’t go to the media.
The reason? [To prevent excessive worldline fluctuations.]
But one thing was clear—
Ryan’s sister was alive.
That was enough.
As long as she breathed, we could save her.
Me. Ryan. Kyle.
This shared goal forged a stubborn, fragile link between us.
Days: We ditched class, chasing faint leads across town.
Nights: Crammed in Kyle’s rented band practice room, pouring over maps until we passed out.
Three days before SATs.
We found the remote mountain village.
After handing over the negotiated "ransom," the village chief let us see the Zhang family’s child bride, Amy.
Amy – Ryan’s stolen sister.
She was locked in a woodshed, flinching at the sound but too scared to look up.
Ryan’s eyes reddened, body tense, fists clenched at his sides.
I moved to help Amy up, turned… the Zhang family blocked the door.
Kyle scowled. "Move! We paid!"
"Money, we took," the chief leered, beady eyes fixed on me. "But the girl stays. Our village needs wives. She’s pretty. Perfect for my youngest son."
"You what?" Kyle’s voice dropped to ice.
My heart sank; my other hand went to the stun gun in my pocket.
"None of you leave today!" other villagers roared.
Chaos erupted.
Ryan grabbed the nearest hoe, fighting like a mad dog, carving a path.
Kyle shielded Amy and me, taking blows meant for us.
I swung the stun gun, shocking away groping hands.
Amidst the fray, a man I’d shocked, wild with pain, snatched a rusted cleaver.
He charged me, screaming.
Time slowed.
I saw the excitement twisting his face.
"Lily!!"
Two voices, raw with terror, screamed together.
A blur blocked my view.
Thunk—**
The sickening sound of steel sinking into flesh.
Warm liquid splattered my face—thick, metallic.
Kyle swayed before me.
He looked down, stunned, at the handle protruding from his stomach.
Looked up, managed a smile worse than tears.
"Don’t… tell my mom…"
He crumpled.
My mind blanked.
Vision filled: Kyle on the ground. Villagers’ greedy, stupid faces. Amy’s and Ryan’s despair.
Seven lifetimes of exhaustion, rage, helplessness—crystallized into cold fire.
I saw the kerosene lamp flickering in the corner. Saw the pile of dry firewood stacked for winter.
Enough.
All of it. Enough.
Burn it all.
Let everyone die.
I yanked the cleaver from Kyle’s stomach, lunged for the corner.
Grabbed the kerosene lamp, hurled it at the woodpile!
WHUMPH—!
Glass shattered. Kerosene sprayed. Flames roared to life.
Devouring the tinder-dry wood, licking up the mud-brick walls and thatch roof.
"Ahh! Fire!!"
Screams of terror replaced rage—primal fear taking hold.
They scrambled, grabbing fistfuls of ransom money, fleeing for the doors.
In the chaos, I pulled a dazed Amy up.
Ryan heaved Kyle, barely conscious, onto his back.
The four of us ran, never looking back, escaping the inferno.
Outside, wind whipped the flames; thatched roofs ignited like tinder. The village became an ocean of fire and screams.
No one looked back.
Kyle’s blood soaked Ryan’s back. We stumbled down the rocky path until a passing pickup truck stopped.
The driver, shocked by our state, reluctantly drove us to the nearest county hospital.
After a night in surgery.
Kyle was stable, but needed observation.
Dawn, the day before SATs.
Kyle was paper-white in the hospital bed. His eyes opened. First words:
"Go… get… out. Take… the test."
His voice was weak.
"Got the… answers… in your heads… Go… ace it… for me."
He passed out again.
At his bedside, I cried… and laughed.
Finally, Ryan and I caught the earliest bus back to the city.
We slammed through the exam hall doors as the starting bell rang, dust-streaked faces catching the morning light through the windows.
The SATs began.
