As she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day kept circling in her mind like a broken record. She couldn't believe what had just happened. Had she really agreed to some shady old man's offer? Was she so exhausted from her illness that she'd willingly given up her future? Or was it his unnerving eye, the one gleaming from under that ridiculous patch, that had made her say yes? Her brain couldn't wrap itself around the ridiculousness of it all.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin, and groaned. What kind of idiot am I? It was one thing to be scared of dying—everyone was scared of dying. But that didn't mean you just went around accepting bizarre deals from weirdos in hospitals. Yet, here she was, having done exactly that.
As she replayed the encounter in her head, her annoyance grew. At first, she had blamed it on her illness—maybe she was delirious?But no, she had been perfectly clear-headed. No fever, no hallucinations. Then she thought about the soul-sucking exhaustion she felt. She had been running on fumes for weeks, just waiting for her body to finally quit on her. Maybe that's why she'd been so quick to agree to the old man's ridiculous deal. She didn't even have the energy to argue.
But the more she thought about it, the more her fury shifted from herself to him. That old bastard. He had practically preyed on her weakness. She pictured him as some kind of sadistic voyeur, feeding off other people's misery. Dangling hope in front of the terminally ill, just to see them squirm. She imagined him chuckling to himself every time someone took his offer, like a twisted game show host with life-and-death stakes.
Her hands clenched the blanket tightly, her knuckles white. What a load of crap. She couldn't believe she had fallen for it. She should have punched him in his smug face right then and there. Human embodiment of One Punch Man, she thought, smirking despite her anger. With the way I'm losing hair, I'm already halfway there. She tugged at a few thinning strands on her head, snorting at the image. She was Saitama, minus the super strength. Bald, sick, and so over it all.
Still, beneath the humour, the anger simmered. If I ever see him again, I swear...She tried to drift off, thinking of all the ways she would pummel him. The anger gave her something else to focus on, something that wasn't cancer, hospitals, or death.She wasn't sure when she finally fell asleep, but she woke up to the soft light of dawn filtering through her curtains. Her body still felt heavy with the familiar fatigue, but something else woke her—a faint sound.
Tap, tap, tap.
She blinked, still groggy. Was that her door?
Tap, tap, tap.
Her eyebrows furrowed as she sat up. Who knocks these days?She had a doorbell like any normal person. Nobody knocked anymore. What was this, the 1800s?
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" she growled, annoyed that someone had the audacity to disturb her morning.
She dragged herself out of bed, muttering under her breath, rubbing her eyes as she shuffled toward the door. "This better be good..."
She peeked through the peephole, and her stomach dropped. No way.
There he was. That 'man' from the hospital, standing casually in front of her door like this was some kind of normal visit. His eye patch, his trench coat, the whole intimidating package. This was not happening. This had officially gone from a tragic drama to a bad crime thriller.
Her brain scrambled for answers. How the hell did he know where I live? She'd never given him her name, let alone her address. Was he a stalker? A government agent? Some creepy old mercenary with a death wish?
The man tilted his head slightly, as if he knew she was standing on the other side of the door, watching him. "I think we owe each other a conversation," he called out through the door, his voice too casual for her liking.
She felt a surge of panic and then quickly flipped to anger. Screw this guy. She might have been dying, but she wasn't about to let some creepy old man push her around in her own home.
"Yeah, how about you screw off!" she shouted through the door.
There was a pause. She could almost hear him thinking. "I'll take that as a 'maybe,'" he said dryly.
She rolled her eyes. Of course, he was persistent. "No, take that as a 'get lost,'" she snapped.
"Look," he continued, his voice maddeningly calm, "I understand you're angry, but I'm not leaving until we talk. You agreed to my offer. I'm here to explain what happens next."
She hesitated. Damn it. He was right. She had agreed to his insane deal, didn't she? What was I thinking? Still, she wasn't about to let him waltz into her life like this.
"I didn't agree to you showing up at my door like a stalker," she said.
"Well, technically, you didn't say where I could and couldn't show up, so here we are."
She wanted to rip the door open and punch him. She imagined it for a moment, his surprise when she went full One Punch on him, knocking that smug look off his face.
But instead, she took a deep breath. There was no use in escalating this. She needed to know what the hell was going on. She unlatched the door but kept the chain on, cracking it open just enough to glare at him properly. "You've got two minutes to explain yourself."
He didn't flinch. "Fine."
She stared at him through the crack. His single eye was sharp, like he could see right through her. His posture relaxed, as if he wasn't standing outside a woman's door at an ungodly hour, delivering cryptic messages like it was just another Tuesday.
"The offer you agreed to," he began, "wasn't a joke. It wasn't a scam. I wasn't lying when I said I could give you a second chance at life. But there are conditions."
"Oh, there's a shocker," she muttered. "I'm not an idiot. Of course, there are conditions. Nobody hands out miracles for free."
He nodded, as if that much should've been obvious from the start. "If you accept the treatment, your life as you know it is over. You'll be dead to the world—officially. No family, no friends, no returning to your old life."
"Dead to the world?" she repeated, her eyes narrowing. "You mean faked death?"
He nodded. "Exactly. You'd be pronounced dead. No one would ever know the truth. From that point forward, you'd be part of something... different."
She stared at him, processing the absurdity of what he was saying. "And what's this 'different' thing? What's the catch?"
He met her gaze, his voice steady. "You become part of an organization that operates outside normal channels. Mercenary work, if you want to call it that. In exchange for your life, you serve them."
Mercenary work? She almost laughed. This had officially crossed into insane territory. "So, let me get this straight. You're saying I have to fake my death, disappear from everything and everyone, and then go off on some dangerous James Bond missions for the rest of my life?"
He didn't flinch. "Yes." She gawked at him for a moment, mouth slightly open. "Are you insane?"
He shrugged. "Some people would say so. But the offer stands. It's your choice."
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm even having this conversation."
"You wanted a way to live. I'm offering it. But it's not free. You knew that."
She felt a surge of anger again, but this time it was directed at herself. He was right. She had known there would be a price. She just hadn't expected it to be so... extreme.
"Why me?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Why not someone else?"
"You were dying," he said simply. "People who are desperate tend to listen. And you... well, you've got potential."
She barked out a laugh. "Potential? I'm literally falling apart here. What kind of potential is that?"
"You'd be surprised," he said cryptically.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm the storm in her head. This was insane. She was insane for even considering it. But the truth was, she was desperate. She didn't want to die. And here he was, offering her a way out. A terrible, dangerous, morally questionable way out—but a way out nonetheless.
Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at him. "Alright," she said. "I'll listen. But I'm not making any promises."
"Fair enough," he said, a small smirk creeping onto his face. "Let's talk."