Sira was swaying, her steps growing uneven. Myth stepped in, slipping an arm around her shoulder to steady her.
With one hand, he guided her weight onto him; in the other, he held a small bottle—the antidote, designed to neutralize the effects of the drug.
If the drug works properly, he thought, she should be out cold for fifteen minutes. Let's see if her power kicks in again.
He led her to a nearby bench. By the time they sat down, Sira was already unconscious.
Myth gently opened her mouth and poured the liquid in.
If my theory's right, this shouldn't work on her either.
He leaned back, studying her sleeping face.
"Falling asleep with your friend beside you… Big mistake," he muttered with a grin. "When will you learn?"
Then, like a child left unattended with a camera, Myth pulled out his phone.
Selfies with exaggerated expressions. Goofy filters. He even squished her cheeks for a couple of shots.
He chuckled to himself—until fifteen minutes passed.
She didn't wake up.
Still nothing.
His smile faded.
By the Seventeen minutes mark, Myth was mentally rehearsing excuses for an emergency hospital visit.
His gut twisted. Did I miscalculate? Did I go too far?
Finally, on the nineteenth minute, Sira stirred with a soft groan and blinked her eyes open.
Myth let out a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair,
watching her stir. Everything had gone more or less as planned—but a thread of worry still lingered.
"Hey, fatty, you alive?" he said with a teasing smirk.
Sira's eyes snapped open, fury already lighting behind them.
Once again, Myth had poked the beast.
"Do you want me to kill you?" she growled, sitting up, her voice sharp and unmistakably dangerous.
"What kind of friend would I be if I lied—" Myth stopped mid-sentence, noticing the death glare she was aiming at him.
Time to change the topic, immediately.
"So," he said, coughing awkwardly, "remember when I told you that you needed to fall asleep?"
"You're implying the same thing you said earlier, right?" Sira said. "That I'll only be in danger if I want to be?"
"Yes and no," Myth replied, leaning back. "See, the first drug I used didn't work at all—or rather, the probability of it failing increased because you didn't intend to fall asleep. But with the second drug, you chose to sleep. That intention made all the difference."
Sira frowned, slowly piecing it together.
"With the second drug, you chose to fall asleep. That intention tipped the odds," Myth continued. "And the antidote I gave you afterward? It didn't work either. Because your powers pushed the probability of staying asleep even higher."
He paused, eyes narrowing as he watched her.
"But here's the strange part—the drug worked too well. You slept about 40% longer than it normally lasts on someone your size."
Sira blinked. "So… my power made it stronger?"
"Sort of," Myth said. "Your luck doesn't boost things directly. It shifts probability. Falling asleep became more likely, and so the drug's effect deepened. As a side effect, the antidote had less chance of working."
He looked at her seriously. "It's kind of a terrifying ability. Not because of what it does… but because you don't control it. It just... reacts."
Sira's eyes darkened as a troubling thought crept in.
'What if I'm not in the right state of mind one day? What if my intention is to die… or if I want something badly, and the probability shifts in a way that someone else gets hurt?'
She fell into deep thought, her expression unreadable.
After a few moments of silence, Myth broke it.
"Anyways… don't think too much about it. I'll get going."
"Oh… okay. I'll walk you to the mansion gate," Sira said, snapping out of her spiral.
They walked side by side toward the front gate. As they were parting, Myth grinned and said,
"Check the pictures I'm sending you tonight."
Sira paused mid-step, feeling a weird sense of dread at his tone.
"What pictures?" she asked quickly.
"You'll see," Myth called back with a mischievous smirk before dashing off.
Back at his place, Myth kicked off his shoes and stretched.
Before turning in, he ordered 30 artificial cores online for 15,000 creds .... each costing 500 creds. casually changed his profile picture to the one where he was squishing Sira's cheeks, and smirked at the screen.
He didn't plan to keep it up for long—just until she was thoroughly embarrassed.
Then, he sent her all the photos.
And one final text:
[ My sleeping beauty ]
Sira's phone buzzed just as she was brushing her hair.
She picked it up, expecting some boring club message—only to see a flood of photos from Myth. Her jaw dropped.
Photos of her slumped over the bench. One with her mouth slightly open. Another with Myth giving a dramatic shocked expression beside her face. Filters. Doodles. One where he'd drawn cat ears on her.
Then the message popped up:
[ My sleeping beauty ]
Her face flushed red—part fury, part embarrassment.
"You absolute idiot..." she muttered, clutching the phone like she was about to crush it.
She typed furiously:
[Delete those. Or I swear, Myth, I will end you.]
Seconds later, she added:
[Also... I don't look that bad sleeping.]
After a while.... she typed
[ Cringe ]
[ Cringe ]
[ Cringe ]
Then she tossed the phone onto her bed, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
For the entire week, Myth shut himself away in the villa's basement—his private little war zone.
Loud music pounded through the walls, masking the dull thumps and sharp cracks of silenced gunfire.
Day after day, he trained. Sweating, cursing, missing, reloading. Over and over again.
He burned through all twenty artificial cores like they were nothing. Each one drained and tossed aside as his aim gradually improved. His hands, once shaky, now held steady. His stance more grounded. His focus sharper.
By the end of the week, he wasn't a sharpshooter. Not by a long shot. But he wasn't a total rookie anymore either.
He could fire, reload, switch grips, even manage a half-decent double-tap.
Everything was ready now.
His bag was packed. Coordinates set. Mind made up.
This was it—the start of something bigger. A shot in the dark, maybe. But one worth taking. He wasn't running anymore. He was moving forward.
No more chains. No more whispers behind closed doors. No more gasping for air in a life that wasn't his.
This time, he was the one choosing where to go. And he wasn't looking back.