The first scream came just before dawn.
Ethan was half-asleep on the couch, the bag resting against the wall within arm's reach, when the sound cut through the brownstone like glass breaking inside his skull. He bolted upright, heart hammering, disoriented for a breath before the scream came again—closer this time, raw and terrified.
Maya was already moving.
She crossed the room in bare feet, pulling on her jacket as she went, eyes sharp despite the hour. She didn't hesitate, didn't ask questions. She grabbed the bag from the table and shoved it into Ethan's hands.
"Stay with me," she said. "And don't touch it unless I tell you to."
They were out the door and down the stairs in seconds.
The street was washed in early-morning gray, the city holding its breath between night and day. A small crowd had gathered near the corner—half-dressed neighbors, a delivery driver frozen mid-step, someone on the phone whispering urgently.
At the center of it all lay a woman on the sidewalk.
She couldn't have been more than thirty. Blood soaked through her shirt, dark and spreading. A car sat half-mounted on the curb nearby, its windshield spiderwebbed, steam hissing from the hood.
Hit-and-run.
Ethan felt the world narrow.
Maya dropped to her knees beside the woman, hands already glowing faintly as she assessed the damage. Her jaw clenched.
"She's losing too much blood," Maya muttered. "Internal injuries. Trauma to the chest."
The woman gasped, eyes fluttering, lips trembling.
"Please," she whispered. "I don't want to—"
Her voice broke.
Ethan's breath hitched.
Maya looked up at him.
"No," he said instinctively, backing up a step. "You said—"
"I said don't touch it unless I tell you to," Maya replied, voice tight. "I'm telling you now."
Ethan's hands trembled as he opened the bag.
The darkness inside felt heavier than ever—dense, layered, like it had been waiting.
He swallowed hard.
"I don't know how," he whispered.
"You do," Maya said. "Think."
Ethan closed his eyes.
He pictured the woman standing. Breathing. Laughing at something stupid later in the day. He pictured her heart beating strong and steady, her blood where it belonged.
He reached into the bag.
His fingers met warmth.
He pulled out a small vial, glass cool against his skin, filled with liquid light that pulsed gently like a living thing.
Maya's breath caught. "That'll do."
Ethan knelt beside her and handed it over.
Maya uncorked the vial and poured a single drop onto the woman's chest. The light spread instantly, sinking into skin, bone, muscle. The wound closed before Ethan's eyes. Blood evaporated. Bruises faded like shadows at noon.
The woman gasped sharply and inhaled—deep, full, alive.
The crowd recoiled, stunned.
Someone whispered, "What the hell…"
The woman's eyes snapped open. She sat up, breathing hard, hands flying to her chest.
"I—" She stared at herself. "I was—"
Maya placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're okay," she said gently. "You're safe."
The woman nodded numbly, shock already overtaking memory.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Ethan felt a surge of relief so strong it made his knees weak.
He did it.
He saved her.
Then the bag pulsed again.
Harder this time.
Ethan staggered, clutching the strap as a sharp pain lanced through his chest. His vision blurred.
Maya's head snapped toward him. "Ethan?"
He gasped, dropping to one knee. The world tilted violently.
It felt like something was being pulled out of him—not blood, not breath, but something deeper. Something intangible but essential.
He cried out as the pain peaked, then receded just as abruptly.
Ethan slumped forward, shaking.
Maya caught him before he hit the pavement.
"What—what was that?" he panted.
Maya's face had gone pale.
"That," she said quietly, "is the cost."
Ethan stared at her, dread blooming in his chest. "Cost of what?"
"Creation," she replied. "The bag doesn't just give. It balances."
She helped him sit against a nearby wall, keeping her voice low as paramedics pushed through the crowd.
"Every miracle takes something," she continued. "Sometimes from the world. Sometimes from the wielder."
Ethan swallowed hard. "What did it take from me?"
Maya didn't answer right away.
She looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Not enough to kill you."
That wasn't reassuring.
The paramedics loaded the woman onto a stretcher, confusion written all over their faces. The crowd buzzed with whispered questions, phones raised, stories already forming.
Maya pulled Ethan to his feet.
"We can't stay," she said. "You just painted a target on yourself the size of the city."
Ethan nodded, still unsteady. His chest ached—not physically, but like something had been bruised inside him.
As they slipped away down a side street, Ethan glanced back once at the ambulance.
The woman was alive.
That mattered.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere else, something unseen had flinched.
Or smiled.
He looked down at the bag.
For the first time, he understood the truth beneath Maya's rules.
The bag didn't grant wishes.
It traded.
And if he wasn't careful, the price would be paid in pieces of himself he might never get back.