"The count's daughter—villain, traitor, accused witch—was no more—WHAT!!?? SERIOUSLY!? REALLY?! what a shitty book."
I hurled the novel across my not-so-big, not-so-small living room and collapsed onto the sofa.
"Damn those family of her! damn those people! and cursed should be placed on those damn royal if she were a witch! they should all burn in hell for all she cares!"
I vent while hugging and punching my pillow as I express my anger. I rolled my eyes in frustration and sigh. Why am I getting work up on just a novel? Honestly. Ugh. So annoying.
Still... if only she could crawl back from the grave. If only she could rise again and avenge herself against those maggots.
I sigh and dragged myself off the sofa with a groan, still fuming at the injustice of that damned novel. My throat felt dry from all the ranting, so I trudged to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and downed some cold water in one go.
Just as I set the glass down, my phone buzzed on the counter. I frowned, swiping it open.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?!" It was Mina from work, her voice sharp and panicked. "The boss is furious—he's looking for you. He wants you in the office now."
I sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of my nose. Mina's voice still echoed in my ears, sharp as a whip.
"I'm on my way," I muttered, grabbing my coat from the hanger by the door. My sneakers squeaked faintly on the wooden floor as I hurried out.
The drive was silent except for the steady purr of the engine.
Work. Cases. Court. Deadlines.
My mind wandered to the ever-growing mountain on my desk. Ever since that one victory—the case against that corrupt politician, Mr. Alvarez—the firm had treated me like their prized soldier. At first, it felt good. Recognition, praise, headlines. I'd poured years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights into winning that case but it also had turned me into a working maniac—an endless cycle of paperwork, hearings, clients clawing at me like I was the only rope holding them from drowning.
Lucky?
Sometimes it felt more like a curse. I hadn't had a proper weekend in months. My fridge was nearly empty, my laundry piled high, my family barely hearing from me unless it was a rushed birthday text. And relationships? Forget it. I didn't even have time to swipe left or right.
My car halted in front of the towering glass building. Our law firm—tall and polish. I adjusted my coat, and walked in.
Inside, Mina was already waiting by the elevator, tapping her foot like she owned the place. "Finally," she hissed, pulling me in by the arm. "He's been pacing."
I rolled my eyes. "Damn, that baldy can't even wait, huh?"
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped into the lion's den—also known as the top floor. Mr. Ortega, our firm's managing partner, was indeed pacing in his glass office like a caged hamster who had just realized the wheel wasn't moving fast enough.
"There you are!" He boomed immediately when he saw me.
"Good morning to you too, sir," I said smoothly.
"I need you on something urgent," he started, shoving a stack of files onto the table.
"Of course," I said, as I saw him picking a file from the stack. "Because my desk wasn't already auditioning for the role of Mount Everest."
He either didn't catch that or chose to ignore it. "You're our star. After what you did to Senator Alvarez, the whole firm is under the spotlight. Every client wants you. Every rival wants to bury us. And these," he jabbed at the files like they'd insulted his mother, "these cases need to be handled fast."
I flip the top file open, skimming the first page. "ahh. A whole buffet of egos and skeletons in closets. You really do know how to spoil me, sir."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "This isn't a joke."
"Of course not," I said, lifting the file to his view. "It's an all-you-can-eat career buffet. And I don't even have to leave the office."
He groaned, rubbing his temples like I was the migraine he couldn't afford. I took that as my cue to retreat.
For the next three hours, I drawned my self with the case and by the time I walked out of my office and off tommy car, my head throbbed.
The city air felt colder than before. My phone read 9:46 PM. My stomach growled—loud, pitiful. I couldn't even remember the last proper meal I'd had. Something greasy, cheap, fast… that would do.
The neon sign of a convenience store flickered across the street, full of instant noodles, chips, and bottled coffee. Perfect.
The bell chimed when I entered. Rows of brightly packaged goods greeted me like silent companions. I picked out a cup of ramen, some biscuits, and a canned drink. My basket was light, almost laughably so, compared to the load of case files still sitting at the office.
At the counter, I gave the cashier a tired smile. She barely looked up, scanning my items mechanically. I tapped my card, grabbed the plastic bag, and turned to leave.
As soon as I was out, that's when the air shifted.
The bell rang again, but this time the sound crawled under my skin. A figure entered—hoodie drawn low, cap pulled down, a cheap mask covering most of the face. My chest tightened. Something about the silence, the slowness of their step, sent alarms blaring in my head.
Before I could move, before I could greet or even adjust my grip on the bag—
A sharp, burning pain exploded in my side.
My breath hitched. My eyes widened. I looked down in disbelief. The masked stranger's hand twisted, metal glinting—red already seeping through my blouse.
A stab.
Another.
Another.
Each plunge was a lightning strike of agony. My knees buckled, the world tilting as the stranger pulled away, fleeing through the door.
The bag slipped from my hand. Biscuits scattered, the canned drink rolled across the floor.
I collapsed on the cold cement, cheek pressed against it, the sharp smell of dust and blood mingling in my nostrils. Warmth spread beneath me, soaking into my coat, my skin.
Voices blurred—shouts, gasps, the cashier screaming. Feet scurried, someone calling for help. But it all sounded so far away.
My breaths came in shallow, ragged pulls. My chest rose and fell like a broken machine. Tears burned my eyes, slipping down my temples.
No. No, no, no.
I can't die here.
Not like this.
I still have to do more.
I can't die like this... leave this world.... I can't.
I'd given up my teenage years for textbooks, sacrificed late nights to memorize statutes instead of songs. I'd missed out on parties, skipped vacations, smiled politely as friends posted their happy photos while I drowned in caffeine and case briefs.
For what?
For this?
I wanted to spend my hard-earned money—not on suits and paperclips—but on things I desired, things that made me laugh, things that made life worth living.
I wanted to fall in love, the messy, dizzying kind. To find someone who saw me, not just the "lawyer who won." or "Hardworking lawyer" To marry, to hold hands with someone who cared when I came home late, who'd stay awake just to share midnight noodles with me.
I wanted children. Little hands clutching mine. Bedtime stories, birthdays, first days of school. A family of my own.
I wanted… a future.
But my body was giving out. My limbs heavy, my sight clouding. The ceiling lights blurred into hazy stars. Every inhale was a battle, every exhale a surrender.
The shouting grew faint. Sirens in the distance? Maybe. Or maybe just my imagination.
Darkness edged in, wrapping me in a suffocating embrace.
"No," I croaked, voice barely a whisper. "Not yet… I'm not ready…"
But the world didn't care.
The blood kept flowing. My strength slipped away.
And finally—
I let go.
Everything went still.