November 13, 2009 — Friday Night
Twenty minutes.
That was all it took to open the gates to hell.
The glow of my laptop washed my room in a sterile, icy blue. Lines of code blurred together as the final firewall crumbled, collapsing like a badly built wall. I should've stopped there. Any rational person would have. The smart move would've been to shut the laptop, wipe my tracks, and pretend I never saw the anomaly hiding behind those encrypted layers.
But curiosity is a vicious thing.
And when curiosity meets skill, it becomes dangerous.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
(Just a quick look. Five seconds. Then I'm done.)
I lied to myself easily. I was good at that.
The files opened.
The first image stole the air from my lungs.
Children.
Dozens of them.
Their faces were frozen in terror, eyes wide and hollow, staring directly into the camera like they were begging whoever was watching to save them. Bruises bloomed across their skin in ugly purples and sickly yellows, layered so thick it was impossible to tell which were new and which had already healed wrong.
My throat tightened.
I scrolled.
More files. More faces. Younger. Older. Some barely old enough to speak.
Then the videos started.
Screams burst from my speakers—raw, animal sounds that didn't belong in any human throat. I fumbled to turn the volume down, hands suddenly clumsy. Bodies moved on screen, but not enough. Pain lingered too long, stretched out like it was meant to be savored.
I pressed my palm to my mouth.
(This isn't real. It can't be.)
My room felt smaller. The walls pressed in, the blue light harsh and unforgiving.
(If I close the laptop now, maybe this will stop existing.)
I hovered over the power button.
Then I saw it.
A new file appeared at the top of the folder.
Uploaded: 1 minute ago.
My heartbeat stuttered.
I stared at the filename like it might bite me.
(Don't click it. Please don't click it.)
Every instinct screamed at me to stop.
I clicked it anyway.
The screen flickered.
A boy appeared.
Sixteen. Maybe younger. His face was pale, lips trembling, eyes red and glossy like he'd already cried himself empty. His hands shook violently as he held a knife—too large, too heavy, the blade gleaming under a harsh overhead light.
Behind him stood a man.
Tall. Broad. Calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
"Kill him," the man said, his voice sharp and almost playful, like he was asking for a favor instead of ordering a murder.
"Or next time," he added, tilting his head, "you'll be in his place."
The children sobbed in the background. Pleaded. Screamed.
The boy's grip tightened. His hands shook harder.
(No. No. No. This isn't happening.)
My chair screeched as I stood up too fast, crashing backward onto the floor. I didn't care. My chest burned, breath coming too quick, too shallow.
Coat. Phone. Hat.
Laptop closed.
Lights off.
Door shut.
(If I stay, I become complicit.)
And I refused to be another silent witness.
##The Abandoned Factory
The factory crouched at the edge of the city like a corpse that had never been buried.
Rust clawed at its metal bones, beams exposed and rotting. The windows were shattered, jagged edges catching faint moonlight like broken teeth. Rain dripped steadily from the ceiling, each drop echoing too loudly in the cavernous space.
(This place smells like death. That's never a good sign.)
Chains hung from overhead beams, swaying slightly even though there was no wind. Old machines sat abandoned, frozen mid-task, their shadows stretching across the concrete floor like reaching hands.
Then—
I saw him.
The boy from the video.
He stood near the center of the factory, smaller than he'd looked on-screen. Thinner. Fragile in a way that suggested the world had already taken more from him than it ever should've. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, damp with rain and sweat.
When he noticed me, his eyes widened.
He raised the knife.
"Don't come closer," he whispered, voice cracking. "He'll kill you too. Run."
(Poor kid. He thinks I'm the one in danger.)
"I'm okay," I said softly, raising my hands. "I'm here to help you."
I took a step closer. Then another. Slowly. Carefully.
When I reached him, I placed my hand on his head.
He collapsed instantly.
His knees gave out, knife clattering to the ground as silent sobs wracked his body. Tears slid down his face, endless and soundless, like he'd run out of energy to scream.
(You're safe. At least for now.)
A laugh echoed through the factory.
Slow.
Mocking.
"Well, well," a voice drawled. "So she finally sent you?"
My blood went cold.
He stepped into the light.
Tall. Broad shoulders. His eyes were empty in the worst way—like whatever humanity he'd once had had been carved out and discarded. His smile didn't reach his eyes. It didn't belong on a human face.
(Yep. Definitely a psychopath.)
"You think technology can destroy me?" he sneered. "What are you—five?"
I opened my mouth—
He lunged.
I shoved the boy aside just as the man closed the distance. My shoes slid across the slick concrete as his weight slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. Pain shot through my arms as I barely managed to block his strike.
He pressed forward relentlessly, forcing me back until my spine hit cold concrete.
I twisted, broke free, struck back hard enough to make him stagger.
Only for a second.
We collided again—grunts, gasps, rainwater and sweat mixing as we struggled for balance. He was strong. Faster than I expected. Each movement calculated, efficient.
My eyes flicked to the boy.
He was watching.
Waiting.
The man stepped in again, overconfident—and I used it. Redirected his movement just enough to throw him off balance.
That was all I needed.
I grabbed the boy's hand.
And we ran.
##The Rain
The city was drowning.
Rain poured from the sky like it was trying to erase everything beneath it. The blackout swallowed the streets whole, plunging alleys into darkness broken only by flickering streetlights.
Water splashed under our feet as we ran, lungs burning, shadows stretching behind us.
(Note to self: never wear slippery shoes during rescue missions.)
We didn't stop until we reached my apartment building.
The boy yanked his hand free.
"Who are you?!" he demanded, chest heaving. "Why did you save me? You could've died! Were you sent by some organization?"
(Wow. Trauma plus paranoia. Fantastic combo.)
"No," I snapped. "No organization. No orders."
I exhaled, then forced a crooked grin.
"I just save people. Doesn't always work out perfectly—but hey, I saved one handsome person tonight."
He stared at me like I'd completely lost my mind.
"You're a weirdo," he said flatly. "Name?"
(Progress. He didn't run.)
"Anna. Anna Smith. Fifteen."
"Ethan," he replied. "Sixteen."
Dark blue eyes met mine.
(Oh. Great. Why are his eyes pretty NOW.)
"So," I said far too cheerfully, "we're best friends now and we're gonna live together—"
"LIVE TOGETHER?!" he shouted. "Are you okay?!"
(Rude.)
"I JUST SAVED YOUR LIFE," I yelled back. "AND THIS IS HOW YOU TALK TO YOUR SAVIOR—"
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound was bright. Real. Completely out of place after everything.
(…why is that smile illegal.)
"You look cute when you're angry," he said.
Cute?
(I will throw him into the rain.)
"Oh, you are so dead," I muttered.
He raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay—sorry. Can we just… go to your place now?"
I turned toward the building.
(Idiot. Dangerous. Loud. Possibly adorable.)
"Follow me," I said.
And for the first time that night, a strange thought crossed my mind—
(Maybe saving him wasn't a mistake.)
-------
Narrator:
Well, well, well.
Curious, aren't you?
Want to know what happened after?
Why Ethan changed?
Why that night never truly let him go?
Maybe in the next chapter.
Of course.