When Ethan Cross walked out of the hospital with his death sentence tucked into an envelope, the first question that consumed him was—who could he tell?
Most people, faced with such devastating news, would instinctively run to their parents. But Ethan's family situation had always been complicated, and his parents were not the safe harbor they should have been.
His father, Richard Cross, and his mother, Anna Xu, had divorced when he was only five years old.
It had struck Ethan even then that life was strange. In society, almost every profession required training and examinations: driving demanded a license, teaching required certification, doctors trained for years before they were allowed to treat patients. But to become a parent? No test, no qualification—just a whim, an accident, and suddenly a life was brought into the world. Few adults, in their selfishness or chaos, ever stopped to ask if the child wanted to come.
Ethan's childhood had been far from happy. His earliest memories were painted not with warmth but with shouting matches. His parents' endless arguments were storms that never passed. He remembered small chairs and tables overturned, glass and ceramic shards scattered across the floor. He remembered curling up in a corner, covering his ears, pretending the noise couldn't reach him.
Eventually, it ended. One day, after yet another screaming fight, his parents went their separate ways.
During the divorce, Richard had argued fiercely against taking Ethan. He didn't want the responsibility. Having a child, he believed, would make it harder to remarry, harder to live the life he wanted. Only with the persuasion of Ethan's grandparents—who insisted that Ethan was needed to carry on the family line—was he kept in his father's household.
But "kept" did not mean loved.
A year later, Richard returned home with a new woman, made up heavily, smelling of perfume so thick it filled the small apartment. Two years later, Ethan had a new younger brother, the product of his father's second marriage.
In fairy tales, children with stepmothers suffered greatly. Ethan's life wasn't as dramatic, but the coldness was there. He learned to read moods, to tread carefully, to live quietly in the shadows. In his own home, he felt like an unwelcome guest.
His mother, Anna Xu, had not remarried. She worked as a train attendant, constantly traveling, constantly absent. She rented a small apartment near Ethan's school to ease her guilt, so he had somewhere to go when he couldn't bear his father's household. But even then, her visits were fleeting—every ten to fifteen days, she would appear briefly, then vanish again.
And so, gradually, Ethan grew into an outsider in his own family.
---
That afternoon, as he clutched the diagnosis report in his trembling hands, Ethan stood at the balcony of his home, staring at the utility corner. His father and stepmother were out at work. His younger brother was at school. The silence pressed down on him, broken only by the ticking of a wall clock.
His eyes drifted to the dusty telephone on the stand. He hesitated a long time before dialing a familiar landline number.
The call rang and rang. Finally, an old voice answered.
"Hello? Who is this?"
Ethan's throat tightened. Tears blurred his vision. "Grandpa… it's me. It's Ethan. I miss you."
George Cross's voice immediately brightened, his joy leaping across the crackling line. "Ethan! Oh, Ethan, Grandpa misses you too!"
In the background came the faint sound of him calling, "Margaret! Come quick, it's our Ethan on the phone!"
Soon, his grandmother's gentle voice chimed in, trembling with happiness. "Ethan, sweetheart, how are you? It's been too long."
Only here, only with them, did Ethan feel true affection. His summers and winters at their countryside home were some of the few times he had ever felt peace. There, in their simple house, he had found warmth, security, and a kind of love absent everywhere else in his life.
Trying to mask the quiver in his voice, Ethan said, "Grandpa, Grandma, I'll come see you this weekend."
George chuckled softly. "No need, child. You've got your studies. Focus on them. Come during summer vacation. We'll be waiting."
Ethan bit his lip. "Alright then. Please take care of yourselves. I… I have class now. I should go."
He hung up quickly, before the tears burst free.
He didn't have the courage to tell them the truth. Not them. They were the two people he loved most in the world. How could he inflict this pain on them, knowing they'd grieve endlessly?
How heartbroken they would be when the inevitable day came.
---
The shrill ring of the class bell startled him back into the present.
Ethan wiped at his eyes, trying to erase all trace of tears. He drew a deep breath, forced his face into calm, and returned to his seat as though nothing had happened.
The schedule on the blackboard showed two consecutive math classes.
Their math teacher, Ms. Wu—nicknamed the "Extinction Master" by her students—strode into the classroom, clutching her textbook. Strict, sharp-eyed, and unyielding, she tolerated no laziness in her class.
Math, however, had a unique effect on teenagers. Within five minutes, more than half the class was already dozing off, eyelids drooping as equations blurred together.
At Ethan's side, Ryan Lee waited until Ms. Wu turned to write on the board. Then, with practiced stealth, he slipped a copy of Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils from his desk and flipped it open.
The passage described the Eighteen Riders of Yan Yun charging like tigers, kicking up clouds of dust. Ryan's eyes gleamed with excitement.
Ethan leaned over and whispered urgently, "Son, are you crazy? Reading a novel during Extinction Master's class?"
Ryan grinned without looking up. "Math is death. Wuxia is life."
Ethan shook his head, straightening his posture. Normally, he would have been focused, hanging on every formula. But today, though his eyes stayed fixed on the board, the teacher's words didn't reach him. He saw only Ms. Wu's mouth moving.
It was as though the warmth of life was draining from him, leaving only emptiness.
Ryan was still lost in the fictional battle when he suddenly felt a chill crawl up his spine. He looked up—and froze under Ms. Wu's piercing gaze.
"Ryan Lee," she snapped. "Come solve this problem."
Groans rippled across the room. Everyone knew Ryan's math grades. Slowly, reluctantly, he shuffled to the board, chalk in hand, and stood frozen before the problem. The equations might as well have been written in another language.
Ms. Wu's voice was sharp. "With grades like yours, you dare to read novels in my class? You sit next to Ethan Cross—why don't you learn from him?"
Ryan muttered under his breath, "He's the one who bought me the book."
"Confiscated." Ms. Wu swooped down, snatched the novel from his desk, and pointed to the back of the room. "Go stand there. Listen carefully."
Then, turning back with a gentler tone, she said, "Ethan, come solve this problem. Show your classmates how it's done."
Usually, Ethan would have risen confidently, chalk already sketching out the solution in his mind.
But this time, when his name was called, he froze.
It felt like his soul was wandering elsewhere, pulled suddenly back into his frail body.
Slowly, he stood, walked to the board, and picked up the chalk. But instead of writing, he stared. The problem swam before his eyes.
In his mind, he didn't see numbers. He saw the diagnosis report. Those words: Incurable. Three months.
His lips trembled.
"Ethan?" Ms. Wu asked, concern replacing impatience.
He shook his head, voice cracking. "Teacher Wu… I don't know how."
The class gasped. Impossible. This was Ethan Cross, the pride of Class 9, the boy who could solve anything.
Ms. Wu herself blinked in disbelief. She had called on him precisely to show contrast, to highlight Ryan's laziness. But now, she stood speechless.
Ethan's shoulders shook. The chalk slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.
Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over uncontrollably.
The class buzzed in whispers.
"What? Ethan can't solve it? No way!"
"Is he crying? Over math?"
"Maybe Emily rejected him?"
Emily Watson, sitting nearby, widened her eyes in shock. Her heart twisted. She had never seen Ethan like this, so broken, so fragile. Something was terribly wrong.
"Ethan, it's okay," Ms. Wu said gently. "Go back to your seat."
Ethan shook his head, voice trembling. "Teacher Wu… may I go to the restroom?"
She hesitated, then sighed and nodded. For good students, there was always more leniency.
The moment Ethan stepped out into the corridor, his façade crumbled.
He leaned against the cold wall, sobbing, his whole body shaking.
Inside, his teachers and classmates carried on, oblivious to the ticking clock that haunted him.
Three months. Ninety days. Then the bond he felt with every teacher, every friend, every corner of this school would shatter forever.
Life and death would part them.
Never to meet again.
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