chapter 9
Sadie didn’t die.
But the girl who arrived at our school—bright-eyed, convinced she was the hero of a story—didn’t come back the same.
Within a week, she was placed under professional care. The official explanation was stress-induced psychosis. Her speech became fragmented, her attention drifting to empty air as if she were tapping invisible buttons, trying to restart something that would never load again.
I visited once a month before graduation.
Roman waited in the car. He refused to enter the facility.
“Too many germs,” he said, though I knew the real reason was simpler: to him, Sadie wasn’t a person. She was a problem that had been removed.
Inside, Sadie sat quietly, supervised, eyes dull. When she saw me, her head snapped up.
“Sienna,” she rasped.
Then she laughed—thin and brittle.
“You cheated,” she whispered. “You hacked the game.”
“There was no game,” I said gently.
“There’s always a game,” she insisted, leaning forward. “He was the villain. I was the hero. That’s how the code is written.”
“Roman isn’t a villain,” I said, sitting near her, careful not to crowd her. “And he isn’t a hero. He’s just… someone who got hurt until he stopped trusting the world.”
Sadie’s stare sharpened.
“You hear it too,” she said. “The voice.”
I didn’t answer.
Her mouth curved like she’d found confirmation anyway.
“It told me why I failed,” she whispered. “It said the target was already conquered. Ownership value was one hundred percent before I even arrived.”
She giggled softly, like the idea delighted her and broke her at the same time.
“You own him,” she said. “You own the monster.”
I stood, smoothing my skirt.
“It didn’t cost me points,” I said quietly. “It cost me my life.”
Sadie blinked.
“I gave him mine,” I continued, “and he gave me his. That’s how love works. It’s not a transaction. It’s not a prize. It’s choosing each other—every day—until it becomes the only thing that feels real.”
I left her there staring at empty air, counting invisible currency like it could buy her a different ending.