Chapter 2: No Way Out

To quit the mission, you have to get in line. Our date of death was set for a week later.

We scrolled through the system’s clunky UI on my cracked phone, the screen flickering under the cheap motel’s fluorescent lights. A digital queue, just like waiting at the DMV—no glamour, just bureaucracy. It felt weirdly American.

System: [You two can consider your preferred way to go. Opportunity knocks but once, don’t miss it.]

Me: “You even send out a ‘notice’ for this?”

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might stick. Natalie snorted, tossing her pillow at me from across the bed. The system’s notifications always sounded like a bad HR memo.

System: [The death experience is one of our special features. Previous users have chosen to burn, drown, be dismembered, or beaten to a pulp...]

Natalie, deadpan: “I want to hang myself at the gate of the Sullivan estate.”

Me: “...”

I knew she was half-joking, but I pictured it anyway—a pair of ghosts haunting the Sullivans’ fancy gate, scaring the local kids. The thought was so morbid I almost laughed.

We originally planned to hang ourselves together at the Sullivan estate gate, but the system simulated how it would look, and we thought it was too ugly.

After seeing the system’s crude animation—two cartoon corpses swinging in the breeze—we burst out laughing, then just shook our heads. “No way,” Natalie said, wiping tears from her eyes. “We’re not going out like that.”

In the end, we decided to quietly die of sudden death together under a blooming dogwood tree by a creek outside Maple Heights—the place where we first arrived in this world.

The spot had always felt a little magical, the kind of place where fireflies gathered and the sound of the creek drowned out all the world’s noise. When we first dropped in, we’d collapsed right there, dizzy and laughing, trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do. It seemed right to end where we began.

Before our beautiful deaths, we still had to eat and sleep for a week.

We called it our “farewell tour”—one last week to binge on comfort food, sleep in, and spend our savings like we were on vacation in Miami Beach. We made a list of the best diners, the weirdest local dives, and promised to try every pie in town.

I owned a few motels and planned to spend our last days there with Natalie.

One of them, the Blue Spruce Inn, had a flickering neon sign and a battered pool table in the lobby. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air, and the vending machine always jammed if you picked Fritos. But it was ours, and it felt safe.

While Lucas Grant was still at the Sullivan estate, I went with Natalie to the Grant house to pack her things.

We rolled up in my old Chevy, the back seat cluttered with boxes and a half-eaten bag of Doritos. I watched Natalie stare at the familiar front steps, her jaw tight, but she squared her shoulders and marched up like she owned the place.

Just at the entrance, we saw clothes and bedding scattered all over the porch, along with several boxes. Two burly old women were ordering the housekeepers to throw out Natalie’s belongings from her guest room, one by one.

The scene looked like a garage sale gone wrong—pillows, half-folded sweaters, a battered copy of War and Peace, all dumped in the sun. The two women barked orders like drill sergeants, their voices carrying across the yard.

“The general said Miss Sullivan will be coming often from now on, so don’t leave any dirty things in the house. Isn’t it filthy?”

Their words stung. You could feel the judgment in every syllable. This was the kind of mean-spirited cleanup that small towns excel at, hidden under a thin layer of Southern hospitality.

Natalie ignored the mess and walked straight in. The two old women blocked her path.

“Who are you to the general, barging in like this?”

“Wives are married, girlfriends have a title, even the cleaning lady has a proper job. You’re not family, not staff, not even a proper guest. Hanging around here like a stray dog, thinking you belong.”

I rushed forward and punched each of them once. “Old bats, with mouths like yours, you really didn’t need to be born with a face.”

The first lady stumbled back, shocked, while the second gawked at me like she’d just seen a ghost. My fist ached, but it felt good. Sometimes, you just have to remind people you aren’t afraid of throwing down.

I blocked all the restless staff in the yard, waiting for Natalie to finish packing.

A few housekeepers muttered under their breath, but one look at me and they quickly found something else to do. I stood guard, arms crossed, daring anyone to take another step.

As we left, we ran into Lucas Grant coming home. By his side was the delicate Rachel Sullivan.

Rachel’s sundress fluttered in the breeze, her hair perfectly curled, the picture of fragile innocence. Lucas looked uncomfortable, his mouth a thin line as he spotted us on the porch.

Rachel exclaimed, “Oh, what is all this on the porch?”

Her voice was high, sweet as a bell, but laced with feigned surprise. Like she hadn’t known exactly what was happening.

I snorted, “It’s the burial shrouds for your greedy parents.”

I knew it was harsh, but my patience was long gone. Even the neighbors walking their dogs paused, ears pricked at the commotion. I glared at Rachel, letting the words hang in the air.

Rachel’s face turned pale, looking pitifully at Lucas Grant. “Lucas, my parents aren’t criminals...”

She clung to his sleeve, eyes wide and wet. Lucas, as always, hesitated for a moment before trying to smooth things over.

Lucas Grant frowned and glanced at me. “It’s fine, Rachel, no one will say your parents are criminals. The files overturning the case were finalized by the head of the Ethics Committee himself.”

I shut my mouth. The Ethics Committee chief is Sean Carter. Whatever I say now is just making myself look bad.

Natalie said, “Miss Sullivan, whether your family is guilty, you know in your heart. How the Sullivans managed to overturn the case and return to Maple Heights, you and the guy beside you—ha, this major general—you both know.”

Natalie’s tone was cold as ice, and for a moment, I saw Rachel’s mask slip—just a flicker of annoyance before she fell back into her helpless act.

Rachel sobbed, throwing herself into Lucas Grant’s arms. Lucas Grant’s heart ached as he comforted her, then impatiently said, “Natalie, don’t make a scene. Rachel isn’t intolerant, she just didn’t know the situation today. Have the stuff at the door cleaned up. From now on, you’ll still be my resident adviser.”

Rachel, surprised: “Natalie will always live in the Grant house? Oh my, that’s really improper. Natalie, as women, we have to have self-respect. We absolutely can’t be so casual.”

She fluttered her hands like a nervous sparrow, but I could see the smugness in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing—playing the innocent to get what she wanted.

I wanted to slap her, but Natalie stopped me. She looked at Lucas Grant. She was waiting for his reaction.

Natalie’s eyes searched his face, desperate for any sign that he’d stand up for her, for the years they’d spent side by side. I held my breath, heart pounding, hoping he’d prove us both wrong.

Lucas Grant met her gaze without flinching. “Rachel’s right. Your behavior is reckless and improper for a woman. Unlike Rachel—when I wanted her to return to Maple Heights early and stay at my house, she refused, insisting on waiting until the Sullivan estate was restored before coming. That’s the class and dignity a lady should have. Your reputation is ruined, with nowhere to go. I’m willing to keep you in my house out of kindness, but don’t covet what doesn’t belong to you.”

His words landed like punches. I watched Natalie’s shoulders stiffen, her jaw set hard. The finality in Lucas’s voice made it clear: there was no room left for her in his world.