Author note: Pls check out the prologue chapters before this, it helps the world-building a lot :)
*~Mirabelle's POV~*
"You have one year to live."
The paper trembled in my hand. My throat tightened, and my vision blurred until the ink ran together like weeping sores. Suddenly, I couldn't read. The seven basic words on the page were scrambled into an unrecognizable cipher. My grip weakened. My bag hit the floor, and my life spilled out—files, makeup, pens, everything.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" the doctor asked, reaching out.
I slapped his hands away, my own fingers shaking uncontrollably. His face twisted with sick pity. I stumbled, my knees buckling, but he caught me before I hit the tile and guided me into a chair.
"Nurse, we need water here!" he called out.
I sat like a statue, my gaze locked on that paper. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My entire existence had been etched into those seven ugly words. How was this possible? I
hadn't even lived yet. I hadn't truly loved. I was a twenty-year-old medical student with my whole career ahead of me.
The nurse appeared with a cup of water. I grabbed it, but instead of drinking, I shoved it aside and lunged for the doctor. I seized his white coat, bunching the fabric in my fists.
"No!" I screamed into his face, my voice cracking. "This is impossible! It's a mistake! What kind of hospital is this?"
"Miss Wayne, please," the doctor said softly. "You're a medical student. You understand how this works. You've seen the scans." He paused, his eyes heavy. "The cancer is terminal."
I recoiled as if he'd struck me. I stepped back, my heel crunching on the glass of the water cup I'd knocked over. A sharp, hot sting flared in my foot as a shard sliced through the skin, but the pain in my head was far sharper. I let out a cruel, jagged laugh. "Terminal? A lie. You're lying."
"Cancer doesn't always wait for symptoms to show its face," the doctor said. "I know it's too much to process right now, Miss Mirabelle. I'll give you a moment."
He walked away, leaving me alone in the sterile silence. A year? Twelve months? I bit my lip until I tasted blood, the metallic tang grounding me in a reality I wanted to set on fire. I didn't wait for him to come back. I grabbed my spilled belongings, leaving a trail of red droplets on the white tile, and bolted.
"This is a nightmare," I hissed, collapsing into the driver's seat of my car. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. The horn blared—a long, piercing wail that drew stares from passersby. I didn't care. Why me? After losing both my parents in that accident, my grandmother had poured everything into me. And this was how I repaid her? By dying?
My phone buzzed—a call from Grandma. I stared at the screen, my vision blurring with fresh tears, before I angrily switched the device off. I couldn't face her. I threw the car into gear and tore out of the parking lot, driving aimlessly. I sped blindly, nearly clipping a sedan at a junction. I slammed on the brakes, my chest heaving.
"Calm down, Mirabelle," I muttered, a sick, dry laugh escaping my throat. "Do you want to kill yourself before the cancer does?"
Then, I noticed it—a black car in the rearview mirror. It had been behind me since I left the hospital. It pulled into the lane beside me, slowing down. The driver was a shadow, a figure wearing a mask.
Under normal circumstances, I would have screamed. I would have called the police. But as I looked at the billboard across the street—a "perfect" family kissing, a life I would never have—the fear died. If it were a kidnapper, let them come. What was the point of fear for a dead woman?
I stared at the masked man for a heartbeat, challenging him, before I floored the accelerator. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to be the "goody two-shoes" medical student anymore. I wanted to disappear into the noise.
I drove until the smell of exhaust and cheap perfume replaced the sterile hospital scent. I pulled over near a neon-drenched block where a sudden, percussive crash of bass vibrated through the pavement. The sky had darkened to a bruised purple.
I stepped out of the car, bracing for the sharp sting of the glass cut in my foot—but it never came. I looked down, my breath catching. My skin was smooth. There wasn't a scratch, a scar, or even a drop of dried blood.
"This is impossible," I whispered, touching my heel. Nothing.
The day was a fever dream. A death sentence, a masked stalker, and now a miracle. I shook my head, pushing the confusion aside. If I were dying in a year, would a healed foot even matter? I needed to forget.
I pushed through the crowd and stepped inside the club.
The interior was a sensory assault—the musk of sweat, money scattered like confetti, and the sweet stench of expensive vodka. I stumbled toward the bar, claiming a stool and gripping the edge of the mahogany to steady my shaking hands.
"First time here?" the bartender asked, his hands a blur as he juggled glass and steel. "You look like you're irritated by every single thing in this room."
I forced a jagged smile. "Just give me the strongest thing you have. All of it."
"Are you sure?"
"Just pour it," I snapped.
He filled a glass with a dark, heavy liquid. I didn't hesitate. I gulped it down. It was liquid fire; it scorched my throat so violently I almost retched. My body screamed in protest, but I turned to him with watering eyes. "Pour me another one."
"No, ma'am. I can't do that."
Anger flared in my chest—hotter than the drink. I yanked out my ID and slammed a hundred-dollar bill onto the bar. "I'm an adult. You don't tell me what to do."
The bartender went silent, nodding slowly as he reached for the bottle. But just as I reached for the refill, a large, gloved hand snatched it away.
A shiver raced down my spine—a coldness that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. I turned, nearly falling off my stool.
It was him. The masked man from the road.
He didn't say a word as he drained my glass in one long, smooth swallow. Up close, he was terrifyingly tall, his broad shoulders encased in a sharp, expensive suit that looked wildly out of place in this den of sweat. He set the glass down with a hollow clack and turned to me. His eyes were icy blue, staring deep into my soul
"That's enough alcohol for you," he said. His voice was a low, vibrating rumble—like fire smoldering underground.
"Are you stalking me?" I demanded, my voice shaking. I yanked off one of my shoes, pointing the heel at him like a jagged dagger. "I said, ' Are you following me?"
He didn't flinch. He simply pulled out the stool next to me and sat down with a slow, predatory grace. He raised a brow, unimpressed by my "weapon."
"Do you even know me?" he asked.
"No, I don't!" I snapped, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He didn't respond. He simply turned away, gesturing to the bartender to refill the glass he'd stolen from me, as if he owned the room—and perhaps, my remaining time.