The Seven.

Chapter One

I was cold. That was the first thing. Not bone-deep, not yet. Just the kind of cold that sank into your skin after a ten-hour shift and a long walk home.

The sidewalk shimmered under the glow of tired streetlights, puddles catching hints of yellow as I stepped over them. My feet throbbed in my sneakers, the left one soaked through from a cracked sole. My name tag was still stuck to my jacket—Lily, smudged in black marker, crooked like it had given up halfway through the day.

I hated that jacket. I wore it every night.

I could still taste the burnt coffee on the back of my tongue. Still smell the fryer grease clinging to my hair.

Get home. Shower. Eat whatever's not molding in the fridge. Pretend to write your psych paper. Pass out by two. Cry later.

My backpack bounced against my spine with every step, heavy with textbooks and regret. A quiz was due at midnight. I'd meant to take it on my break, but a kid spilled their chocolate milk, and somehow it was my job to clean it.

Of course it was.

I didn't look up when I crossed the first street. I never did. The crosswalk sign hadn't changed, but the road was empty. Quiet.

So I walked. Hoodie up. Head down. Invisible.

Just two more blocks.

A flickering neon sign read OPEN like it was lying. The corner store window was covered in cracked posters for lottery tickets and missing pets. I passed a man muttering to himself, and pulled my earbuds in—not playing anything, just pretending.

No eye contact. Keep moving.

My breath puffed in the air, fogging briefly before disappearing. Everything felt far away. My skin. My thoughts. Like I was floating just slightly outside myself.

I barely noticed the second intersection.

Until the light hit me.

Bright. Sudden. Wrong.

A low roar filled my ears—tires screaming, brakes slamming, metal bending—

And then nothing.

No pain.

Just... pressure. And silence.

The ground was colder than it should've been. Rough against my cheek. My fingers twitched—once. Then stilled.

My mouth tried to move.

No sound.

My chest didn't rise. Didn't fall.

And somewhere, beneath the silence, a thought bloomed:

This is it.

Not like I'd always imagined. No dramatic flashbacks. No soft goodbye.

Just the quiet truth settling into my bones:

I'm dying.

I didn't feel scared. Not exactly. More like... cheated.

I still had homework. Still owed my landlord. Still had a half-written to-do list on my phone and unread texts from a mom who thought I was ignoring her on purpose.

And now?

Now, I was bleeding into the concrete and the stars didn't even blink.

I thought there would be more.

~

I thought there would be more.

Instead, there was grass.