Chapter 2: Blocked by Fate and Fried by Guilt

The lightning came down like a sledgehammer, ready to turn me into a cautionary tale.

But the instant it saw the heroine perched on my head, it swerved away at the last second.

The lightning missed.

I stared at the smoking crater at my feet and slowly flipped off the sky. You wanna fry me? Try again, punk.

The lightning still wanted a piece of me, so I just hoisted the heroine even higher above my head. It had no choice but to back down.

The comment section lost its mind:

[Using the chosen one to block the lightning—someone actually did it!]

[The universe can’t strike, but can’t not strike either.]

[Nod for yes, shake for no—heroine, block that lightning! Go, go, go!]

[Hey, I have an idea—what if I invite a ghost to possess me during the trial?]

[After leveling up, is life even worth living?]

I sprawled on the ground, the heroine passed out cold beside me, while the comments scrolled by like I was trending for all the wrong reasons.

With a mess like this, I might as well enjoy the chaos while it lasts.

Sweat and rain trickled down my face, streaking dirt on my cheeks. My hands shook as I wiped the grit from my jaw. The grass was slick, the sky finally clearing, and I lay there sucking in breath as thunder rumbled off into the distance.

Then, as I stared straight at the comments, not blinking, the chat finally caught on:

[Hey, you can see us?]

I didn’t want to admit it.

I turned my head and saw the heroine curled up, silent as a secret.

How was I supposed to explain to the Silver Hollow Coven that I’d used their golden girl as a human lightning rod?

My stomach dropped. Explaining this to the Silver Hollow Coven was going to be worse than any detention I'd ever pulled.

The comments weren’t about to let me off the hook:

[Buy some apple cider vinegar and make her drink it.]

Vinegar? For what—my soul?

[Not much use, but it’ll help your conscience.]

Her eyes were closed—I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or dead.

Compensation? Out of the question. I was flat broke.

I started rehearsing which pose would look most dignified when I got chewed out. Should I cross my arms, go for the classic 'sorry' face, or make a run for it and blame fate? My palms were slick with sweat, and I kept shifting my weight from foot to foot, like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office.

The comments kept stirring the pot:

[Rub some oil on your ears—so when your coach grabs them, they’ll slip right off.]

...

In the end, I left the unconscious heroine behind and ran for it. I almost reached for her hand, but stopped. Some debts can’t be paid with words.

Before leaving, I eyed the dazzling enchanted gear on her. I resisted the urge to swipe anything.

Forget it—she earned it, taking the hit for me.

The comments approved:

[You still have morals.]

[If it were me, I’d not only take the gear, I’d turn the heroine’s body into a zombie tank.]

She was still lying there. I forced myself not to look back.

Compared to the comment section, I really am too soft-hearted.

The air felt heavy with guilt as I jogged away, my conscience prickling every step. I ducked past a battered Ford pickup at the edge of the lot, sneakers squelching in the mud. Behind me, the wind rustled through the trees, and I could almost hear my mom’s voice: "Did you at least say thank you?" Sometimes, I wished I was as heartless as the trolls in the chat.