"What are you people doing?! Who are they? What's going on here?"
The girl's mother was completely confused about why this group was trying to steal her son's toy car. As a sheriff herself, her instincts told her something about this was off.
But thinking it was just a toy car, she decided to let it go. Her husband, son, and daughter were all with her—it wasn't worth chasing after them alone.
Even if she caught them, what would be the point? These toy-car thieves seemed completely unhinged—maybe they escaped mental patients?
The man and woman fled in opposite directions. The mother, the strongest fighter present, didn't give chase. Neither did Bella, with her nerves of steel—this had absolutely nothing to do with her anyway!
The young girl proved quite clever though. Having positioned herself on the periphery earlier, she swiftly stuck out her leg and tripped the fleeing woman.
The mother sighed in resignation but couldn't ignore what had happened. She quickly ran over, subdued the woman with a standard military takedown, and retrieved the brat's toy car.
What a glorious victory!
Though suspecting the toy car might hold some secret, Bella decided to make her exit. She was just an innocent bystander—why waste time here?
Just then, her flight announcement came on. She promptly bid farewell to the family of five.
"My suggestion? You should call the police immediately. There's something very wrong about these people's motives."
She took out a notepad and quickly wrote: "Nice to meet you. I'm Isabella Swan. Here's my number—feel free to contact me if the police need verification."
Almost without thinking, she handed the note to the young girl.
Why? Who knew—probably because the girl was so strikingly beautiful.
Hearing Bella's introduction, the girl responded in kind: "Natasha Romanoff."
Who?! Bella's expression suddenly turned strange.
Telling herself to stay calm, she gave the girl a thorough once-over before hesitantly asking, "What year were you born?"
If a man had asked this, it would have been incredibly awkward worthy of either a face full of water or a swift kick. But coming from another girl? Perfectly acceptable.
Young Natasha wasn't prepared for this question and answered automatically: "1984. And you, Miss Swan?"
"Uh... 1983. You can call me Bella."
"Nat." Natasha Romanoff's reply was concise, forceful, and rather cool.
The conversation between the two beauties ended quickly—or more accurately, Bella couldn't scramble away fast enough.
First Natasha—next thing you know, Hawkeye and Tony Stark would come jumping out! Whether she was a young beauty or an ageless one, born in 1984 or 1884, it had nothing to do with Bella. As an ordinary person, she needed to get far away from all this.
Bella bought a stylish-looking pair of sunglasses for her estranged father at a shop, quickly putting the Natasha incident out of her mind.
Then she found her boarding gate. Just as she was about to step forward, a sudden premonition made her stop dead in her tracks.
Her mind flooded with a barrage of incomprehensible images—disease, decay, calamity, slaughter. Some appeared startlingly real, others flashed by like fleeting slides before vanishing without a trace.
Bella felt her palms turn clammy with sweat, her heart pounding at an alarming rate. It was as if she'd received some kind of signal, but constrained by the limitations of the human brain, she couldn't properly interpret the message.
Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound escaped—as if an invisible hand had seized her soul, the overwhelming terror nearly suffocating her.
"Passengers of Flight 180, please prepare for boarding."
The airport announcement played normally, but to Bella, it warped into fragmented electronic noise, laced with faint static—like interference from some massive power source nearby.
"Why is she just standing there?"
"Is she about to have a seizure?"
The sudden whispers hit like a boulder dropped into still water. Bella snapped out of her trance, her neck stiff as she turned to see a crowd of students filing past, led by an older teacher.
A few girls—who clearly thought themselves prettier—cast pitying glances her way. Country bumpkin. Probably never flown before.
"Miss, do you need help?" The middle-aged teacher eyed Bella, frozen at the gate.
"Huh? Oh—no! I'm fine!" Bella startled so hard she nearly jumped. Her gaze darted between the plane outside, the drizzling rain, and the wall clock. Her pulse refused to steady.
She stepped aside. The details were hazy—some half-remembered movie from years ago—but her instincts screamed:
Don't. Board. That. Plane.
Watching the forty-odd students cheerfully lining up, she hesitated—then spoke.
"The rain's getting worse," Bella called to the teacher. "The flights already delayed an hour. Maybe… maybe…" She trailed off. How do I explain this?
"Psycho."
"Her outfit's so tacky—total small-town vibes."
"She's not wrong, though. This weather's sketchy."
The students, Bella's peers, dissected her warning with amusement. Predictably, the boys urged caution while the girls mocked—until peer pressure flipped most guys to their side.
"I'm serious," Bella pressed. "I've got this awful feeling about the flight—"
"Miss," the teacher cut in, voice dripping with condescension, "see a doctor. Youth doesn't excuse neglecting mental health. Move along, everyone!"
As the group boarded, Bella's warning faded into chatter about vacation plans.
She exhaled sharply. Did I imagine it? Will meddling backfire? Can I handle the fallout—mundane or supernatural?
Why risk it for strangers?
Then she saw them: the silver-haired elder. The infant cradled in its mother's arms.
Her resolve hardened.
The odds of disaster? Over 90%. She couldn't let them walk to their deaths.
Ignoring the stares, Bella began pleading with passengers—one by one—not to board.
(End of Chapter)