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Chapter 117: Choice
Lucas's Perspective
The road stretched before him, quiet and endlessly empty, a ribbon of asphalt swallowed by night. The headlights carved out only a fraction of the darkness, twin beams cutting two pale tunnels through the void. Beyond that light, the world might as well have ceased to exist, and in a way, it felt as though it had. Lucas kept his hands steady on the wheel, though the grip was tighter than it needed to be, his fingers stiff, knuckles pale. He was driving, yes—steady, controlled—but his mind was far from this lonely stretch of highway. His thoughts spun elsewhere, circling a single name.
Erica.
He could still see the image of her tonight, etched so vividly into his brain it was as if she were sitting there in the passenger seat. The way she'd leaned forward, laughter spilling into the somewhat cramped corner of her room, her eyes alight in a way he rarely saw within the gray halls of school. She'd smiled more in those few hours than he had ever witnessed before—unguarded, radiant—her pale features brightened by something fierce and genuine.
She'd been different tonight. Not changed, exactly, but... more alive. Animated. She leaned over the table as they went over history notes, tossing out quick jokes and clever observations, fingers dancing as she pointed out key passages. Her voice had lifted and soared with a strange kind of joy, defying everything he knew about her condition. For a little while, she'd seemed untouched by it all.
But he couldn't erase the details that lingered in the margins, the truths she didn't mean for him to see. The faint rasp in her breaths when she laughed too hard. The brief, flickering tremor in her fingers as she passed him a pen, subtle but undeniable. She hid it well, so well that most people probably missed it. But Lucas had noticed. He always noticed. And the memory of it clung to him, heavy and immovable, like a stone lodged in his chest.
It haunted him, that contrast. That she could be so full of life on the outside, while slowly losing a quiet war inside. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.
In the show, it was different. In the show, she'd been someone else entirely—bitten, turned, reborn. No longer fragile, no longer bound to a body that betrayed her. Strong. Fast. Fearless. That fantasy mocked him now, because he knew with brutal clarity: this wasn't a tv show. This world did not hand out miracles without a price.
Fiction had a way of lying. Of romanticizing what, in truth, was nothing short of a gamble with death.
In the real world, you didn't always get a second act. And the numbers—God, the numbers didn't lie.
Fifty percent chance for a healthy adult, they said. A coin flip.
If you were young and strong, maybe the odds climbed to seventy. Even eighty, for the luckiest of the lucky.
But Erica? Erica, whose body was already frayed and failing? Someone who took each breath like it might be borrowed?
One percent. Maybe two. If the stars aligned and the universe decided, for once, not to be cruel—five. Five percent.
Five percent.
The number echoed inside his skull like a drumbeat he couldn't silence. Louder than the steady thrum of the car. Louder than the wind rushing past the windows. Five percent. A number so small it barely felt real, and yet so heavy it threatened to crush him.
His grip tightened around the wheel, knuckles paling. Was he really considering this? Was he really thinking of offering her that kind of chance—if you could even call it that?
And yet, how could he not?
Her laughter echoed in memory again, so real it seemed to fill the car. She had life in her like wildfire, and yet her own body dragged her down in chains.
She didn't deserve this slow unraveling. She didn't deserve to fade. She deserved something more. A chance to run, to fight, to feel strength in her bones instead of weakness. To live, not just survive.
But what was five percent? A lifeline or a noose? Was it possibility, or was it cruelty masquerading as hope?
From afar, estate lights flickered into view, faint halos breaking the horizon. The sight snapped him back into the present, just enough to slow the car, to make the familiar turn down the long drive. Yet his mind refused to quiet. The thoughts remained, as tangled as ever, tightened like knots around his chest.
Five percent.
Could he bear the weight of that decision if it meant losing her?
Or worse—could he live with himself if he did nothing, and watched her slip away anyway?
Lucas eased the car to a stop at the end of the drive. He cut the engine, the lights blinked out, and the silence poured in. It pressed against him, heavy and unyielding, leaving him alone with nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat.
Lucas sat there, unmoving, staring through the windshield at nothing. The question hung heavy in the air, impossible to outrun.
Five percent.
To try—or not to try.
And which choice would break him more?