The message on my phone glares at me in the dim light of my room: "I can help you." Four words. Four simple words that shouldn't mean anything — yet, they've become everything.

I don't know who Kolbein is or how he found me, but I can't stop thinking about the possibility. What if, somehow, he's telling the truth?

I sit up in bed, my body heavy with the weight of my illness. My name is April, and at sixteen, I am fighting a disease that feels like it's winning. My life, full of dreams and potential, is slipping away, one day at a time. Dreams are my only escape — the one place where I feel whole again.

A vibration pulls me back to reality. My phone. A missed call from Chase. She calls every morning, usually around nine, but today it's barely seven. The early call makes me uneasy. Chase is my best friend, my constant lifeline to the world outside my room.

It's been two months since I last went to school. My illness isn't contagious, but fear and ignorance are. They've isolated me more effectively than my sickness ever could.

I stare at my phone, unsettled by Chase's unusual timing. Deciding to call her back, I press the button. The phone rings twice before her voice bursts through the speaker, brimming with excitement.

"April, guess what?" she says, her words spilling out like she can't contain them.

"Why are you calling so early?" I ask, curious and slightly amused.

"I missed you," Chase says softly. "And I felt bad for not visiting yesterday. But today, I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" I echo, curiosity flickering through the dull haze of my thoughts.

"Yes! I want to take you out," she declares, her excitement practically bursting through the phone.

For the first time in days, I feel a glimmer of hope. "Alright," I reply, my voice lighter, carrying a note of anticipation I hadn't felt in a long time.

I walk to the sink and splash icy water on my face. Staring into the mirror, I see the reflection of a life weathered far beyond its years. Lines that should belong to someone decades older are etched into my skin. It's not death I fear — it's leaving the people I love to grieve.

The doctors say I have three, maybe four months. My organs are failing. Still, I cling to hope — not for a miracle, but for the chance to leave behind something meaningful. Something more than memories of a girl who didn't live long enough.

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Kayden stepped into the street, moving through the thick crowd with mechanical focus. Each stride hit the cracked pavement with a force that made his worn boots echo. His palms began to sweat — eczema returning. As a kid, it always flared when he was anxious. Today he had forgotten his pocket towel. "Damn it," he muttered, wiping his hand on his jeans.

People jostled around him in a frantic rush. Most were jobless or near-homeless. Those still employed clung to what little security they had, rushing to work like their lives depended on it — because they did. Just a few kilometers away, opulence stood untouched. Million-dollar homes. Clean streets. No concern for the beggars or children sorting through trash here.

He slowed as he neared a cardboard shelter. The cat he'd been feeding sat there, surrounded by four newborn kittens. It was the only bright spot in his day. He laid out chicken scraps — half saved from his own soup.

Continuing toward the free zone, he passed shuttered shops and skeletal buildings. The wealthy didn't shop anymore — they ordered everything online, guarded by private armed couriers from the Assan Corporation, a militarized security company. Even dogs in rich neighborhoods drank cleaner water than the poor.

He turned a corner and caught murmurs from a café. Two women debated cryptocurrency prices. Every mention of cryptocurrency tugged at his nerves — it was the root of everything that had gone wrong.

One woman struggled to unlock her phone's cracked face scanner. "Our faces, our fingerprints, our lives — all belong to them now," she said. Her tone was bitter.

As Kayden walked past, he glimpsed the phone screen — digital values blinking like heartbeat monitors. Always rising and falling. Always out of reach.

He picked up his pace. The streets were loud and desperate. But somewhere, hidden behind all this, was a clue. A trace. Something that might lead him to Valentina.

And he couldn't afford to miss it.

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