Drip. Drip. Drip.
Damn it. Whose tap is running?
Riva lay in a dilapidated house. Dogs howled constantly outside.
She took a deep breath and smelled it—that putrid, damp odor found only in places untouched for years.
But what happened? How am I here?
She tried to remember. Walking home from work. Then—nothing. A blank wall where her memory should be.
She groaned and tried to move.
It felt like a truck had run her over. Her eyelids were heavy. Her breath came ragged. And a deep, bone-chilling pain shot through her abdomen.
She looked down.
Her pristine white shirt was soaked red.
Stabbed. I was stabbed.
Panic hit. Then training. She'd read somewhere—stay calm, find pressure, stop the bleeding.
She rummaged through her pockets. Nothing. Pat the floor. Nothing. Then her fingers found fabric—her scarf, lying in the dirt.
She grabbed it. Pressed it against the wound. Tied it tight.
Another wave of pain shot through her.
Stay awake. Stay alive.
Then she heard voices outside the half-lidded door.
"How is she now? It will be better if she dies. How many times have I told you to stop hanging with those people? But you never listen. Now see—they left you in this situation and ran off themselves."
A woman's voice. Cold. Unhurried.
Riva's blood ran cold.
They're back. The ones who stabbed me.
She couldn't move. Couldn't run. Was this really how she died?
I just graduated. There are things I want to achieve. Dreams I haven't fulfilled. My mother—she raised me alone after Dad died. I worked so hard. And now—
Hot tears blurred her eyes.
The gate creaked open.
Three people entered. An older man came forward and checked her pulse.
"She's still alive," he whispered. "Should we take her to the hospital?"
The woman's eyes went sharp. "Hospital? What hospital? Do you even hear yourself? If she survives, our son goes to jail."
She crouched down. Looked at Riva's wound.
"The wound is deep. Even if we took her, she'd die." Then she turned to the boy, eyes red with anger. "This is all your fault."
"Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted money. But she resisted. She tried to call the police. I panicked. I—I just stabbed her."
The older man—the father—snapped. He grabbed a stick from the floor.
The woman threw herself in front of the boy. "Don't beat him! He'll die! Now we can do nothing but bury her. Can you bear to see your only son go to jail?"
The man dropped the stick.
The boy cried. Snot ran down his nose.
"Now you know how to protect him?" the father said. "That girl was someone's daughter. Someone's child. And your son killed her. I warned you. I told you to stop him. But you said you'd talk to him."
The woman just cried harder.
Riva listened to all of this, barely conscious.
Can't they take this outside? Can't they let me die in peace?
Then she lost consciousness.
The woman crept toward her. Checked her pulse again.
Then jerked her hand back.
"She's dead."
The father crushed his cigarette under his foot. Checked for himself.
Nothing.
They buried her there. In the dirt floor. The father bowed three times in front of the grave.
"Forgive us. We know we're wrong. But we can't let our son go to jail."
He bowed in front of the grave and kowtowed three times before leaving with his wife and son. "Please forgive us. We know we are wrong, but as parents, we can't let our son go to jail."
The rain kept falling. The mud kept settling. The world moved on.
But somewhere far from here—in a place between dimensions—a notification flickered across a silver screen.
[Soul detected. Eligibility: Confirmed.]
[Assignment: Player Designation - Pending.]
[Awaiting arrival.]
Riva knew none of this.
She was dead.
Or so she thought.
---
Author here! If you like the story, please support me with reviews. Good or bad—I'm open to everything. QAQ. 0^0