"Don't worry, child. A well-meant warning isn't a crime. Even if you're wrong, that's fine. We don't curse others with malice—but we don't punish kind people for speaking up, either."
The round, white-haired, white-bearded old man beside Bella spoke gently, handing her a business card.
John Gray, Professor of History, Bard College, New York.
Bella didn't have a card of her own, so she introduced herself.
"Isabella Swan. You can call me Bella, Professor."
"Hello, Bella. You look very unsettled. Are you afraid the government will blame you for all this? Don't be. I still know a few people—I won't let you take the fall."
Bella was terrified. The rush of saving people had faded, leaving only fear behind. She knew better than anyone what she was up against now—things beauty, money, and status couldn't fight.
"You… believe my rambling? My nonsense?" she asked carefully.
Most passengers believed her halfway—or out of superstition, the better safe than sorry mindset. Very few truly believed her.
The professor's gaze drifted toward the skies, his expression tinged with melancholy.
"You're in high school, right? Have you studied American history?"
America has history?
Bella sneered internally. She remembered "Washington the cherry-tree slasher," "Lincoln the vampire hunter"… and nothing else.
She hadn't inherited much memory from the original Bella. She'd only been in this world for three days. No time to read anything.
She improvised.
"A bit."
"In our history, there's original sin woven into the soil. This land isn't ours. This sky resents us.
In 1821, in Idaho, every resident and prospector of a small town died—no wounds, no signs, no explanation. Five hundred people, dead in an instant. Cases like that exist all over. The government blamed Indian tribes. I believe it was nature's retaliation."
Bella thought the old man was closer to the truth than anyone. Whatever the "Death" from the movie really was—no one could explain it.
"I think—"
She didn't finish.
A massive fireball erupted across the distant sky.
Two seconds later, the shockwave slammed into the terminal windows with a deafening BOOM. Several passengers standing near the glass were thrown back. Newspapers, cups, hats—everything flew through the air.
Rain was sucked inside, blasting across the polished floor, which turned slick and muddy in seconds. Bella wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but she caught the faint scent of blood on the wind.
The temperature in the hall dropped several degrees instantly.
But no one cared about the glass—or the rain.
Every single person, Bella included, stared out the window in stunned silence, watching the fireball burn violently as it spiraled toward the ground.
Men abandoned their pride, clutching their heads.
Women hugged their children tight, trembling as they whispered comfort they didn't believe themselves.
"Oh God…"
"Mom, I'm scared!"
"It's okay, baby—mommy's right here, right here!"
The terminal descended into chaos—fear, relief, hysteria.
Some kissed crosses.
Some collapsed into seats.
Couples clung to each other, shaking at their near miss.
The teacher who'd earlier apologized to the airport supervisor—begging to still board the flight—went paper-white. Relief mixed with crushing regret. If she had another chance, she would've dragged everyone off that plane herself.
"You said the plane was fine! Fine?! This is murder! You murderer! You pig!"
She grabbed the supervisor's tie, screaming into his face.
He wasn't the one who swore the plane was safe. The pilot had—
—and now the pilot was very likely dead.
The dead can't be punished.
The living one—the supervisor—was screwed.
"I saw it! I saw everything! Exactly the way I remembered it!
The left engine caught fire, the explosion blasted flames into the cabin—
I saw you, and you, and you—
You were all dead! All of you were dead!"
Alex, the skinny student, kept shouting his visions. Bella thought his ability was bizarre—like he'd lived the sequence once, then rewound his personal timeline. The way he described it felt too real, completely different from her own death-sense.
Hers was pure intuition—something psychic, emotional.
His was like… a temporary cheat code.
If he wanted to absorb all the suspicion, Bella sure wasn't going to steal the spotlight.
Over a hundred people had died. Bella could still picture many of their faces—
The girls who mocked her outfit.
The executives who called her crazy.
All gone.
At 9:25 a.m., the plane took off.
Moments later, it exploded.
Even with rescue teams braving the storm, everyone knew the truth: survival was impossible.
Global Airlines was already collapsing from financial pressure. Now Flight 180 was the final blow. Whether it was an engine failure or a fuel explosion, nothing could stop the company—founded in 1925—from falling into the abyss.
Police, firefighters, FBI, and journalists descended one after another, bombarding the survivors with questions.
From religion to human rights, from politics to favorite sports teams.
Bella, Alex, the black-haired young man Sam, and the brunette student Claire became key interview targets.
A man in a long wool coat flashed his badge.
FBI, Phoenix Division. C1 field supervisor.
He introduced himself with a painfully generic—or fake—name: Henry.
The least suspicious, Claire Redfield, was questioned first.
"Miss Redfield, I didn't see you and Miss Swan interact earlier. Why did you support her?"
"A very strong sense of dread. If I boarded that plane, I'd die. That's all."
"Premonition? Nothing else? You don't mind if I write that down?"
"Go ahead."
Claire didn't flinch. She said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.