He stood in her living room like he owned the place, casually surveying her mismatched furniture and stack of old takeout boxes as if he was some art critic. She wanted to scream, but instead, she slumped into her chair, arms crossed, glaring at him.
"Alright, you've dragged yourself into my life uninvited, now start talking. What's this whole deal about? And why do you look like you're auditioning for a bad spy movie?"
He smirked, which only annoyed her more. "You're not wrong," he said, eyeing her messy kitchen like it was some metaphor for her life. "I'll keep it simple. The offer I made? It's very real. But you didn't think it would be as easy as 'get better and carry on,' did you?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Well, I was hoping for a little more detail and a lot less trench coat drama."
His smirk faded. "Here's the deal. If you want the treatment that'll cure your cancer, you have to give up your life."
Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn't expected it to hit that hard. "What do you mean, give up my life?"
"I mean exactly that. You'll be declared dead. Gone. No more phone calls, no more Instagram, no more awkward family dinners. As far as the world's concerned, you'll no longer exist."
She blinked at him, trying to process the weight of that. Declared dead? Just like that? She wouldn't even get to be at her own funeral.
"And I'm just supposed to go along with this like, 'Oh cool, I'm dead now. No big deal'? You're out of your mind."
He shrugged, completely unfazed by her sarcasm. "It's a choice. You either die from your illness, or we take care of that. But if you want to live, it comes with some strings attached."
"Oh, there's a shocker. Of course, there's a catch. Hit me with it, Patchy."
"The organization I work for," he began, pacing like he was delivering some grand speech, "isn't your run-of-the-mill charity. We're in the business of doing things no one else wants to touch. Black ops, mercenary work, covert missions—the dirty jobs."
She snorted. "Of course. It's always secret, shadowy organizations with their dirty little secrets. You guys must have a membership card and everything."
"Funny," he said dryly. "But here's the reality. We fix you up, train you, and in return, you work for us. You'll be trained to handle high-risk operations—combat, espionage, survival. When you've worked off your debt, you can retire. But until then, you belong to us."
She felt a cold pit form in her stomach. "And what exactly do you mean by 'work off the debt'? How long are we talking here?"
"As long as it takes," he replied with a maddeningly calm shrug. "Depends on how efficient you are."
"Oh, I'm super efficient," she quipped. "So basically, I have to go from stage-four cancer patient to James Bond with a lobotomy, and then maybe—maybe—I get to retire? Fantastic."
He ignored her snark. "There's another part. You'll be allowed to inform your parents, tell them the truth about your situation. They won't know where you are or what you're doing, but they'll know you're alive."
She exhaled in relief. If nothing else, her parents deserved to know the truth. "Okay, so at least I get that. What happens to them?"
"If you want, you can request protection for them. In case of any disaster—natural or man-made—they'll be taken care of. Safe."
She paused, digesting that. That was something. Knowing her parents would be safe... it made the whole thing feel a little less like an eternal prison sentence.
"And the catch?" she asked, sensing there was more. There was always more.
"Now that you know everything," he said, his eye narrowing, "you can't back out. You've heard the terms. You've heard the offer. If you decline, well... we can't have loose ends."
Her mouth fell open. "Wait, so now I don't even get a choice? You're saying if I say no, you'll... what? Off me?"
He gave her a long, steady look. "We don't take risks."
"Oh, how noble of you," she spat. "So, either I sign up for your weird murder club or I end up as some loose end in a ditch. Fantastic. I thought you were creepy before, but this really takes the cake."
"Like I said, it's your choice."
She stood up, pacing the small space in frustration. "This is so messed up. You show up at my door like some deranged door-to-door salesman offering a cancer cure, and now you're telling me I'm in too deep? I didn't even get time to read the fine print!"
"Life's not fair. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
She shot him a glare. "Oh, don't get all philosophical on me, Patchy. You're not Yoda. You're just some guy in a trench coat making terrible offers."
He stayed silent, watching her with that infuriating calmness, as if he knew that, eventually, she'd come around.
She stopped pacing and crossed her arms, letting out a long sigh. "And what if I say yes?"
"You'll get the treatment. And then, your new life begins."
There was a long pause. She hated this. She hated that she had been backed into a corner. But deep down, she knew the truth: she didn't want to die. Not yet.
"Fine," she said finally, her voice flat. "But don't expect me to send you a thank-you card."
"I never do," he said, that small smirk returning.
———————————————————————————————
A few days later, she found herself sitting on her parents' couch, wringing her hands nervously. Her parents were staring at her with a mix of confusion and concern, having just heard the insane story she'd never thought she'd have to tell.
"You're telling me," her mother began, voice quivering, "that you're going to be declared dead? That you're going to work for some... some... shadowy organization?"
Her father, normally calm, had gone pale. "You're not actually considering this, are you? There must be some other way."
Tears welled up in her mother's eyes. "We'll find another doctor. Another treatment. You don't have to—"
"There is no other way," she cut in gently. "This is it. This is the only way I can survive."
Her father stood up, pacing in disbelief. "But... this is insane. It's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting into."
"I know," she said, swallowing hard. "But I don't have a choice. And if I don't do this, I'll die. I can't put you through that again."
Her mother was already sobbing, and her father sat down heavily, his hands shaking. "We already lost your brother," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can't lose you too."
"You won't," she promised, her own voice trembling. "I'll still be alive. I just... I can't come back. Not for a long time. But I'll be safe. I promise."
They cried, they argued, they begged her to reconsider. But in the end, they knew they couldn't stop her. If this was the only way, they would have to accept it, no matter how much it hurt.
As she walked out in the pouring rain, she stood outside her old life, letting the cold droplets wash over her. It felt like the sky was rinsing away everything—the pain, the fear, the uncertainty. Her past, her illness, all of it seemed to dissolve in the downpour.
Her new life was about to begin. No more cancer. No more dying.
But the price had been steep. She had to leave everything behind, walk into the unknown with only her determination to survive.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let the rain soak her to the bone. Then she turned and walked forward—into her new reality, and into the shadows.