Chapter 9: The Girl with the Fake Grenade
Bright had many complaints about Emily.
She dragged him places without warning. She enjoyed making him uncomfortable. She had zero respect for personal space.
But the worst part?
She was utterly, dangerously unpredictable.
So when she said, "Let's hit the range," Bright didn't argue. By now, he'd learned that resisting only prolonged the suffering.
He still sucked at shooting—though he'd improved just enough that Emily insulted him slightly less. Small victories.
By the time they were heading back, Bright was already bracing for her usual critique.
"That was terrible," she said, casual as ever.
"You say that every time."
"You miss the easiest shots every time."
"I'm improving."
"Oh? From 'completely hopeless' to 'mildly pathetic'?"
Bright sighed, gripping his water bottle. "Can't you just say good job for once?"
Emily smirked. "Sure. Good job not accidentally shooting yourself."
Bright muttered something rude under his breath.
They were almost at the car when it happened.
Something small, round, and metallic flew toward them.
Bright's body reacted before his brain caught up.
He grabbed Emily by the arm, yanked her behind him, and braced himself.
The grenade hit the ground with a hollow thunk.
His pulse skyrocketed.
One second. Two—
Nothing.
No explosion. No fire.
Just… silence.
Bright cracked one eye open.
Emily was wheezing.
Not from fear.
From laughter.
Bright blinked, staring at the grenade. Then at her.
"…What," he said slowly, dangerously, "the actual hell?!"
Emily doubled over, clutching her stomach.
"Oh my god—your face—"
Bright's eye twitched.
He pointed at the grenade. "That. Is. NOT. FUNNY."
"It's a little funny."
Bright rubbed his temples, inhaling deeply through his nose. He needed a minute. Maybe two. Preferably somewhere far, far away from Emily.
"Do you just carry fake grenades around?!"
Emily wiped a tear from her eye, grin still wide. "Nah. I had someone throw it. More dramatic that way."
Bright's brain stalled.
"You orchestrated this?"
"Obviously."
"To test me?"
Emily straightened, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket.
"How else was I supposed to know if you'd protect me?"
Bright's brain officially short-circuited.
"EMILY."
"Yeah?"
"I hope you know I'm going to throw you into traffic."
Emily snorted. "Please. You like me too much for that."
Bright muttered several unflattering things under his breath. His heart was still hammering in his chest—faster than it should have been.
And then—
He noticed Emily had gone quiet.
Her smirk had faded, her eyes sharper now.
"You," she said softly, stepping closer, "you did it again."
Bright frowned. "Did what?"
Emily's fingers curled around his jacket, her grip tightening.
"You protected me."
Her voice was lower, more careful.
Bright's stomach twisted.
"The orphanage," she murmured. "That night… it was you."
Bright's entire world tilted sideways.
He never thought—never connected the dots.
Emily.
His Emily.
The little girl he'd shielded from a bullet all those years ago was the same girl who dragged him around, waved guns at strangers, and ruined his life on a daily basis.
How the hell had he not seen it?
Bright's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Huh."
Emily blinked, like she expected more.
Then she sighed—long and slow.
And kissed him.
Bright's mind flatlined.
It wasn't soft or careful. It was quick, messy, and entirely unexpected.
By the time his brain caught up, it was already over.
Emily pulled back, breath uneven.
"…Damn it."
Bright stood there, stunned.
His brain rebooted in slow motion.
Emily let go of his jacket, shoving her hands deep into her pockets like nothing had happened.
"Come on," she said casually, turning on her heel. "We should get out of here."
Bright blinked.
"I—what—"
Emily was already walking off.
Bright stared at her back for a solid five seconds while his brain continued buffering.
Finally, he forced himself to move, trailing after her like a malfunctioning robot.
One thought looped in his mind:
Emily was that Emily.
How the hell did I not know this?!