Chapter 35 — The Fall (consequences)
Clara ran.
Her shoes struck the polished floor in uneven beats, breath sharp, chest burning. She didn't look back. She couldn't.
Behind her, the celebration hall was already changing.
Phones were coming out. Voices were lowering. Faces were turning pale.
And somewhere above all that noise— lA call was being made.
The security officer stood frozen at the edge of the balcony, his hand trembling as he clutched his phone. He had seen it.
Not the fall.
The moment before it.
The girl in the hoodie.
The struggle.
The way Melissa's body had been thrown.
And the face— He would never forget that face.
"Principal Aiden," the man said urgently into the phone, his voice tight. "Sir—there's been an incident. I… I saw someone push a student from the balcony."
Outside the great hall, Principal Aiden had just stepped away from the noise.
Kingsley De'ora stood beside him.
The apology had barely ended. The congratulations hadn't even settled yet.
Then Aiden's expression changed.
"Slow down," Aiden said, already turning away from Kingsley. "Who did you see?"
The answer came quietly.
"…Julia Crescent."
Kingsley didn't speak.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't react.
He simply took out his phone.
One message, One name.
Find Julia Crescent. Immediately.
The message sent.
The trap began to close.
Aiden ended the call with clipped instructions and turned sharply— Only to find Kingsley already moving.
Their eyes met.
No words were needed.
Inside the hall, chaos was being restrained by teachers, but outside— The gears were turning.
Andrea's phone rang.
He listened.
Once.
Twice.
His jaw tightened.
"Understood," he said calmly.
The call ended.
He turned immediately and dialed another number.
"Dannon," Andrea said, voice low, controlled. "Release the men. She's on the move."
A pause.
Then—
"Yes," Dannon replied. "She won't get far."
Across the campus, doors were opening.
Engines were starting.
Orders were being passed quietly, efficiently.
No sirens.
No shouting.
Just movement.
.
.
.
.
.
Meanwhile—
Clara ran.
She cut through side corridors, slipped past a service stairwell, pulled the hood lower over her face. Her heart hammered so loudly it drowned out her thoughts.
She didn't know.
She didn't know that eyes were already watching her.
That messages were crossing networks she didn't even know existed.
That the city she thought she controlled had turned against her.
Her system stayed silent.
Too silent.
And for the first time since she arrived in this world—
Clara was running not from consequences—
But from hunters.
And the night was no longer hers.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The ambulance lights cut through the night like sharp, blinking scars.
Red.
Blue.
Red again.
Melissa lay still inside, strapped down, oxygen mask fogging faintly with each shallow breath. Blood had been wiped away, but the stains remained—on her uniform, in her hair, on the hands of the paramedic who refused to let go of her pulse.
She was alive.
Barely.
The siren wailed as the vehicle sped forward.
Behind it, another car followed closely.
Inside were Miss Irena, Violet, Jeff, and Emery.
No one spoke.
Violet's hands were clenched tightly in her lap, nails biting into her palms. Her mind replayed the image again and again—the still body, the blood, the unbearable quiet that followed the fall.
Jeff stared straight ahead, glasses slightly crooked, jaw locked so tight it hurt.
Emery had gone silent for once.
Miss Irena sat stiffly, eyes closed, whispering something under her breath—prayers, perhaps. Or apologies.
By the time they reached the hospital, nurses were already waiting.
Gurney wheels screeched against the floor as Melissa was rushed through sliding doors.
"Family only beyond this point."
Jeff took a step forward instinctively—then stopped.
Violet felt something twist painfully in her chest.
Family.
They waited.
Minutes stretched into an hour.
Finally, a doctor came out.
His expression was professional, but careful.
"The patient is stable," he said. "She survived the fall."
Violet exhaled sharply, her knees nearly giving out.
"She's currently in a coma," the doctor continued. "We induced it to prevent further brain stress. There's no severe head trauma, but the shock was… significant."
Jeff's voice cracked. "Will she wake up?"
The doctor hesitated—just long enough to hurt.
"We don't know when," he said honestly. "But she's alive. That's the important part."
Then, quieter:
"She has a fractured leg. A bad one. Surgery will be required."
Silence followed.
Miss Irena thanked the doctor quietly.
A call was made.
Melissa's parents arrived an hour later.
They didn't rush.
They didn't cry.
They didn't even ask to see her first.
"What do you mean she's unconscious?" her mother snapped, heels clicking sharply against the hospital floor. "Is she pretending again?"
Jeff's head snapped up.
The doctor frowned. "Ma'am, your daughter is in a medically induced coma—"
"A coma?" her father scoffed. "From a fall? How stupid do you have to be to fall off a balcony?"
Violet felt something cold crawl up her spine.
"She broke her leg," Miss Irena said tightly. "She could have died."
"And whose fault is that?" her mother shot back. "She's always causing trouble. Always dragging shame to this family."
Jeff's fists trembled.
"She's a child," Violet said suddenly.
Everyone turned.
Her voice was calm—but sharp enough to cut.
"She's your daughter," Violet continued, eyes locked on them. "She was pushed. She was hurt. And all you care about is how inconvenient it is for you."
Melissa's mother laughed harshly. "Don't act noble. If she hadn't been stupid, if she hadn't become friends with that crazy actress, she wouldn't be here, it's nobody's fault—"
"Enough."
Miss Irena stepped forward.
Her voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"You are in a hospital," she said coldly. "Your daughter is unconscious. If you cannot speak like parents—then don't speak at all."
Melissa's father clicked his tongue.
"Tch. Call us when she wakes up and decides to stop playing victim."
They turned.
And left.
Just like that.
Their footsteps faded down the corridor.
No hesitation.
No regret.
Violet stood frozen.
Jeff stared at the empty hallway, eyes burning behind his lenses.
Emery whispered, horrified, "They… just left?"
Miss Irena closed her eyes.
"Yes," she said quietly. "They did."
That night— pMelissa lay alone in her hospital bed.
Machines hummed softly around her, monitoring a life that stubbornly refused to disappear.
Her leg was casted.
Her face pale.
The perfume bottle shimmered quietly on the bedside table— in her dorm room.
But outside the hospital room, Violet stood for a long time.
She didn't go in.
She just watched through the glass.
For the first time, Violet understood something deeply unsettling.
Some people didn't fall because they were weak.
They fell— Because no one ever stood behind them.
And somewhere far away— The one responsible was still running.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Clara didn't stop running until the lights of Delavin Hotel filled her vision.
Her lungs burned. Her legs shook.
But she smiled.
She was safe.
That was what she believed as she swiped her card, rushed inside, and locked the door behind her.
The silence of the room wrapped around her.
Luxury. Soft carpet. Dim lights.
Safety.
She barely took two steps forward before— A sharp sting at her neck.
Cold fingers pressed something wet against her mouth.
Her scream died in her throat.
The room tilted.
The ceiling blurred.
And the last thing Clara saw was the chandelier melting into darkness.
When she woke up, pain came first.
Her wrists were tied.
Her head throbbed like it had been split open.
She was sitting on a chair in an unfamiliar room—bare, concrete, smelling faintly of iron and disinfectant.
Men stood around her.
Their faces were calm.
Professional.
One of them spoke.
"You should've stayed down."
Clara's breath hitched. "W—who are you?"
The man smiled without warmth.
"DE'ORA'S."
Her blood ran cold.
Another voice continued casually, as if discussing the weather.
"We were told to kill you."
A pause.
"Slowly, if possible."
Fear finally broke through.
"No—wait—listen—"
The first blow knocked the words out of her mouth.
Pain exploded across her ribs.
Then another.
And another.
They didn't rush.
They took their time.
Each kick deliberate. Each strike measured.
Not anger, Punishment.
Clara curled inward, gasping, choking on blood and tears.
System, she screamed internally. Do something!
Silence.
Her heart sank.
Then— A flicker.
A whisper.
Host… I can act.
Clara's vision swam.
Melissa's luck… it stabilized me.
Hope ignited.
Now, Clara thought desperately. "HYPNOTIZE".
The air shifted.
Subtle, Invisible.
The men hesitated.
Just a second too long.
Enough.
Clara wrenched herself free, crashing into one of them, scrambling blindly toward the door.
She didn't look back.
She ran.
Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone.
She didn't think.
She acted.
She turned on her location and called the one person who was now back under her control, thanks to Melissa.
"Christopher," she sobbed the moment he answered. "Help me… please… they're trying to kill me."
On the other end, his voice changed instantly.
"Where are you?" he demanded.
"I—I don't know—I'm running—"
"I'm coming," he said without hesitation.
The line went dead.
Christopher Delavin was already moving.
Clara burst out onto the street.
Cold air hit her lungs.
Lights blinded her.
She laughed breathlessly, hysterically.
"I'm out," she whispered. "I'm out—"
She stepped forward.
A horn blared.
Too close.
Too fast.
Impact tore through her body.
She didn't even have time to scream.
The world turned blurry
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
P
Inside the black car— Dannon's hands tightened on the wheel.
Andrea sat in the backseat, his face half-hidden by shadow.
They had seen her.
Running, Desperate, Broken.
"Boss," Dannon said quietly. "I see her."
Andrea didn't hesitate.
"FINISH IT."
The car surged forward.
Metal met flesh.
The body rolled.
And the car didn't stop.
Andrea looked away as they drove on.
Behind them, Clara lay motionless under the streetlights.
And somewhere in the distance— Sirens began to rise.
.
.
.
.
.
Christopher found her three minutes after the impact.
She lay twisted on the cold asphalt beneath the streetlights, blood dark against the road, her breath so shallow it barely fogged the air.
"Clara—!"
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking as he pulled her into his arms.
She was light.
Too light.
Her body was warm, but fading fast.
"Stay with me," he whispered urgently, panic cracking through his voice. "Please… stay with me."
He didn't question why he felt this way.
He didn't wonder if it made sense.
He loves her, He believes he is in love with her again.
That was all he knew.
Inside Clara's mind, the system flickered weakly.
Host… this is the limit.
The last fragments of Melissa's stolen luck surged once more—not to heal, not to reverse damage—but to preserve.
Her organs didn't fail completely.
Her heart didn't stop.
Her soul didn't slip away.
She was alive.
Barely.
A quarter of life, suspended on borrowed fortune.
Then— The system dimmed.
Its voice faded into nothing.
No commands.
No power.
Only silence.
Christopher didn't wait for an ambulance.
He carried her himself,placed her into his car,blood soaking into his coat as he drove fast.
By the time he burst through the emergency doors, his voice was hoarse from shouting her name.
"She's been hit by a car," he said breathlessly. "Please—help her—she's still breathing—"
Doctors rushed forward, Gurneys rolled, Doors slammed.
Christopher stood frozen, hands red, heart pounding so violently it hurt.
Minutes stretched into an eternity.
Finally, a doctor approached him, face grave.
"We stabilized her," the doctor said carefully.
Christopher exhaled sharply.
"But—"
The word cut deeper than any blade.
"Her internal injuries are severe," the doctor continued. "Her intestines are extensively damaged."
Christopher swallowed.
"And her kidneys," the doctor added quietly, "are failing. Both."
Christopher's world tilted.
"No…" he whispered. "There has to be something you can do."
The doctor hesitated.
"We checked," he said. "There are no compatible kidneys available in time."
Silence filled the hallway.
Christopher stared at the floor.
Then slowly—he pulled out his phone.
There was only one person left.
.
.
.
.
.
Far away from Migan City, in a house surrounded by quiet gardens and blooming trees—
A phone rang.
A man in his forties paused mid-step, frowning as he reached for it.
"Hello?" he answered calmly. "Nephew?"
On the other end, Christopher's voice broke.
"Uncle," he said desperately, words tumbling over each other. "Please— help me."
The man straightened.
The blossoms outside stirred in the wind.
And somewhere, far away, a fragile life hung in balance.