One might argue that witnessing seeing something disintegrate could be an incredible experiment. However, for Preston Ellis, it was far from amazing. The sight of a tortured girl on the brink of death, with a purple substance oozing from her body, was all too familiar in a horror movie. The drops of the substance seemed to have melted away, resembling a spilled drink.

Preston stared in horror at the massive hole that had replaced the classroom floor—right where Ashley had been moments ago. The strange purple substance had burned through layer after layer, leaving behind a jagged pit that reeked of acid.

He turned to Oscar, who was already clutching his pistol, his knuckles white, before they sprinted toward the edge.

"Luke is going to kill us!" Oscar blurted.

"Dear God," Preston muttered, closing his eyes. "Please let hell have hot girls."

"Who else knows we have Ashley?" Oscar asked as they bolted down the stairs.

They tore through the building—wide halls echoing with every slap of their shoes—peering into trashed classrooms and hollow silence. No Ashley. Not in the bathrooms. Not even in the nurse's office, which they weren't supposed to enter but kicked open anyway.

"Greyson, Scarlett, and Luke, James, and Emma," Preston rattled off, barely pausing for breath.

They kicked open the next classroom door and stumbled into a cloud of smoke. A handful of Uden kids lounged around an open window with a torn screen, passing a joint between them like it just another Tuesday.

"Have you seen a short girl with glasses?" Preston asked, scanning the haze.

"The dyslexic one?" Mia replied, wobbling toward them with a lazy grin."She took off toward Simcoe. You two need to seriously chill. She's just some ugly girl."

Then, without warning, she lifted her navy crop-top over her face and collapsed backward onto the floor, giggling as her pink lace bra flashed under the light.

"You always wear cute bras," Preston said.

They burst out of the main entrance and sprinted for the SUV—time was bleeding fast, and if Luke or Greyson found out Ashley was gone, they were dead.

Mallory Jonz—better known as Tumbles—was hosing down the vehicle, standing beside a sudsy bucket and humming to herself.

"Tumbles, get in the car!" Preston yelled.

She turned and immediately tripped over the bucket, hitting the pavement with a wet slap.

Oscar sighed, kicked the bucket aside, grabbed her wrist, and snatched the keys from her hands.

Tumbles scrambled into the backseat, groaning. Preston slid into the passenger side as Oscar fumbled with the ignition, his hands trembling. The engine roared to life, and they peeled off down the highway, scanning every tree, sign, and shadow for a flash of ginger hair.

"We didn't kill her, right?" Oscar asked, glancing sideways.

Preston gripped the dashboard. "You saw it! She melted through the floor!"

His brain scrambled like a game crashing mid-level. None of this made sense, and none of it mattered—if Greyson found out they lost Ashley, they'd be done. Finished. Like actual game over.

The town emerged ahead, peeking through the veil of overgrown trees and tall grass along the highway. Preston scanned both sides, desperate for a glimpse of red hair, but nothing.

Tumbles leaned forward from the backseat, her eyebrows knitted. "Wait, did you guys murder someone?"

"Our hostage got away, and I'm pretty sure we're going to die," Preston said.

Oscar eased into a TD Bank lot, the tires crunching on the gravel as they crept closer to the town plaza. All around them, people wandering around or doing some type of task. There were people guarding stores to decrease theft of food or those delivering baby supplies to the daycare.

"You can turn invisible and not get in shit," Oscar spat, narrowing his eyes at him.

Preston automatically went invisible. When walking through the mess of The Bubble, the system seemed to be slowly repairing itself now that Greyson was the new mayor. There seemed to be less fighting, and now that people actually had jobs, barely anyone was walking around clueless.

They slipped into a narrow alley behind Coffee Culture, eyes darting between the café and the nearby daycare. Then, Preston froze—just ahead, a flash of ginger hair. He dropped his invisibility.

"There!" he shouted.

The bolted toward the girl. Tumbles tripped over her own feet and hit the pavement hard, while Oscar lunged forward and yanked the girl's shirt—only to spin her around and find a total stranger.

The girl shrieked and smacked him across the face storming off, leaving a red handprint on his cheek.

"Idiot," Tumbles grumbled, limping toward them.

"Hey, their hair and height were really close," Preston muttered.

His eyes drifted as a few girls walked past in skirts or cut-off shorts, laughing, chatting, existing. He was supposed to be tracking down their escaped hostage, but his brain had other priorities.

A sharp smack snapped him back.

"Focus, perv," Tumbles scolded, lowering her hand.

Oscar stifled a laugh as Preston rubbed his cheek, not unfamiliar with the sting. Once, he'd gotten caught sneaking into the girls' dorm to spy—Scarlett had found him, and Greyson launched him into a wall with his powers. He hadn't dared tried again.

"Cool off," Oscar muttered, stepping between them.

They couldn't let anyone find out Ashley had escaped. If she'd melted through the floor had that meant she burned through the chains too? That should've been impossible.

As they circled the outskirts of the plaza, Preston spotted familiar faces—Zane, Ilya, others from the meeting. They ducked away quickly. No way could they talk to them. No one could know they kidnapped Ashley. The secret hung by a thread.

"We have to tell Greyson," Tumbles whispered, nervously twisting her thumbs.

Preston's stomach tightened. Kids didn't just "mess up" around Greyson—not if they wanted to walk straight the next day. Losing Ashley wasn't a mistake. It was a death sentence.

He and Oscar locked eyes, then turned to stare at the white building in the distance. Greyson had been very clear: Ashley wasn't supposed to get away. But what were they supposed to do? She didn't run. She'd melted through solid flooring. How do you fix that?

The three approached the mayor's office, tension crackling between them. A crowd had clogged the front steps, all clustered near the doorway, chatting and blocking the way.

Oscar's hand jerked up before anyone could stop him. His finger slipped on the trigger.

Bang!

The crowd screamed and scattered, bodies crashing into each other as people dove out of the way.

"Move!" Oscar shouted.

They shoved through the gap left behind and thundered up the staircase. At the top, in a spacious room bathed in stale sunlight, Greyson sat alone in an oversized office chair.

"We've got a problem," Preston panted, still catching his breath. "Ashley... uh, how do I put this—she melted through the floor."

Greyson stared at the three with furrowed eyebrows. "Melted?" he repeated. "How?"

"There's a hole. In the classroom. Like straight through the tile and subfloor," Preston said, gesturing wildly like it might help explain the impossible. "She just dripped through it."

"Find Jason," Greyson snapped, chewing his pinky nail. "And bring that thing back to me."

Preston grabbed Tumbles' hand to keep her from stumbling down the stairs.

Outside, fate through them a bone—Jason sat on a bench, pale and hunched, with Bella across from him.

Even if he didn't know where Ashley was, Preston wasn't exactly upset about getting to Bella. The girl was gorgeous—though not Scarlett-level.

"We need your help," Oscar said, falling into his usual smooth-operator tone.

Preston glanced and Jason and flinched. The guy looked wrecked—eyes sunken, lips pale, like he was barely holding it together. Greyson must've done a number on him, especially after dropping the twin bomb.

"Have you seen your sister?" Oscar asked. "Or... whatever she is."

Bella's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you guys gave her captive?"

Before anyone could respond, her gaze drifted past them and froze.

"Wait..." she started.

Ashley stood a few feet away, perfectly intact. No bruises. No cuts. No raw skin where the purple substance had eaten through her. Her clothes were whole, clean. Even her glasses sat straight on her nose, like they'd never been knocked sideways.

Preston's breath snagged. Bodies didn't undo things like that. Whatever had dripped through floor wasn't supposed to be able to stand again. His brain reached for logic but came back empty.

"Hi, Jason," Ashley said with a soft smile.

Oscar raised his pistol and aimed it squarely at Ashley's chest, eyes narrowed, hands trembling.

Preston felt his stomach turn. Sure, Emma could heal people, but this? No scars. No bruising. Not even a tear in her clothes. Emma hadn't touched her.

"Put the gun down!" Jason snapped, wincing as he shifted.

Did he not see what she looked like before? Luke's torture didn't just disappear. He'd left people in hospitals for months.

Oscar hesitated, then slowly lowered the weapon. Ashley stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Jason like nothing had happened.

Preston's skin prickled. Up close, she didn't look healed—she looked untouched. Like whatever melted through the floor hadn't happened to a body at all.

"I thought she was the one Luke was torturing?" Tumbles whispered.

Preston didn't answer. He just stared. He'd watched her sink into the floor like melted wax. Now she was standing here, spotless, breathing, smiling.

Greyson needed to see this now. Not later. Now.

Seeing Ashley alive and physically unscathed was a relief, but not a comfort. Jason had been ready to break into whatever classroom held her, but now, back in their living room, she looked more haunted than injured. She stood ridged near the wall, her fingers trembling as she chewed them down to quick, her eyes narrowed.

From the kitchen, Bella shot a glance at Jason as she wrung on a cold cloth, then crossed the room to press it gently to his head.

Ashley had been retreating more often since they came back, disappearing in her room for hours, barely speaking. Whatever Luke had done to her, Jason didn't know the full extent. But he'd seen enough to know that when the time came, Luke would pay.

"It's going to be their fault," Ashley muttered again.

Jason lifted his head, the cloth slipping slightly as he studied her. Their fault? The weight in her tone made it sound more than a childish blame. Who was she talking about? And what had they done that haunted her so deeply?

Is it murder or a crime? It could be anyone in The Bubble who caused conflict, although there weren't many instances of that, aside from the occasional fights over toys or Greyson's own motives.

"Who are you talking about, Ashley?" Bella asked, breaking the tense silence.

Ashley glanced up at them, her face expressionless but her eyes dark with something unreadable. Then, without a word, she dropped her gaze and resumed slowly tracing her finger across the lines of a book.

"Ashley," Jason said gently, leaning forward despite the ache in his side. "Who is this person you keep talking about? Who's going to he at fault?"

For a moment, Jason thought he caught a flicker in her eye—something sharp and wild. But when he blinked, it was gone, only leaving the restless stare that made him wonder if it had been real or just his imagination.

Ashley's eyes snapped open, glowing a faint, eerie shade of purple eyes"The grower," she growled.

Jason frowned, confused. Did she mean a farmer? Was there much thing in The Bubble? O r was it something else—some kind of power like his burning light ability, or Cindy's teleportation?

"Grower?" he repeated. "What kind of grower? What does that even mean?"

Ashley closed her eyes and began rocking slowly from in her chair, whispering strange words under her breath. Her eyelids flickered between normal, and that unsettling purple glow.

Jason realized getting answers now was a lost cause—her mind was somewhere far away.

Adults disappearing is already bad enough, but now this mysterious grower sounded like a darker threat. Could they be the reason that everyone is trapped inside The Bubble? If Ashley meant a farmer—someone who could hopefully grow food—it might be the key to survival. But the way she said it didn't seen hopeful.

Jason's eyebrows furrowed. "Does this grower have a food supply? Something we can use?"

"Powerful," Ashley whispered suddenly. "I can feel it."

Jason tried to rise, but Bella's hand gently pressed down on his arm, holding him still. She gave a small, reassuring smile before crouching in front of Ashley, careful to avoid locking eyes.

"Is this from Luke?" Jason asked.

Without answering, Ashley stood and muttered,"I'm going out."

Before they could stop her, she slipped past them and disappeared through the screen door, leaving Jason and Bella frozen.

His birthday was just days away, but Jason barely noticed. Ashley's sudden obsession with Ty this "grower" unsettled him more than any celebration.

Was it connected to Uden—and what had happened the last time they brought her to Cindy and Melany? Both girls said Ashley's body had gone paralyzed before she was somehow, healed, but Jason wasn't sure he believed it was that simple.

Bella looked up at him. "What if it's not Uden? What if something else is behind all this?"

Jason stared back, the pieces slowly clicking in place. Maybe it wasn't Uden at all. That strange substance that had seeped into Ashley's knee—the same one no one could explain—might be twisting her mind.

He pushed himself unsteadily, gripping the back of the grey couch for support. With Bella's steady hand on his forearm, he stuffed toward the spot where Ashley had been reading.

His eyes caught a drawing she'd left behind—a stick figure with long, flowing black hair. If someone drew stick figures, it would just be a typical picture. Whatever was coming, it started with a girl.

"We need to find her," Jason said, steadying himself against the edge of the dining table.

"It's not just any girl with black hair," Bella sighed. "Ashley called her the grower—like it's a title. Like she's something more than a person."

The word grower gnawed at Jason's mind. Maybe it didn't mean farming at all. People grow in other ways—physically, emotionally, even unnaturally in The Bubble.

"Let's go," he said, rising with Bella's help.

If this were still the real world—the one before adults disappeared—Jason doubted he and Bella would've spoken. He remembered seeing her in the halls with her friends that had vanished. They had been partners once, possibly in the sixth grade, but that's all he could remember. Through this time, she has been one of his right hands.

Slowly exiting his house, they walked toward the white golf cart. The gas seemed to be decreasing in the few days they had been using it. Bella started it, speeding past kids on bikes or trying to drive their parents' car.

The streets had seemed oddly quiet, until the patrols appeared. Ryder, a guy Jason vaguely remembered from English class, stood on one side of the road, opposite a girl in a blazer from Uden Academy. As Bella slowed the golf cart to a crawl, the girl raised her hand in a silent command to stop.

"What's your reason for heading to town?" Ryder asked.

"We're looking for my stepsister," Jason said, though the words caught in his throat.

It felt wrong calling her that now, especially after learning the truth about his real twin brother.

The two guard exchanged a glance before the girl stepped aside, allowing them through. Jason wondered if this was something Greyson had ordered.

Bella guided the cart slowly around the plaza. Jason scanned the streets—storefronts now Jas guards stationed out front, and people barking orders.

The fountain, once a hangout spot, sat empty as two kids scrubbed algae from its sides. Every street they passed showed the same uneasy balance: children playing while others enforced control. It felt eerily calm, but Jason couldn't shake the feeling that it was more about containment than peace.

Bella stopped the cart in front of the water fountain and helped Jason out onto the sidewalk. It would take an entire search party to find Ashley, but he knew he had to do something, even if he would regret it later.

Jason exhaled sharply. "We need to talk to Greyson."

"Are you out of your mind?" Bella asked, eyes wide in disbelief.

"He might know something," Jason said, wincing.

As they headed toward the mayor's office, Jason spotted Zane nearby, a faint smile on his face and a collided gardening hose slung over his shoulder.

"Ashley... she kind of disintegrated," Jason said, struggling to find the right words. "And she's been saying some really weird things. We're going to talk to Greyson."

Zane silently fell in step beside them as they made their way to the mayor's office, each step slower than the last. Jason limped up the stairs, his body aching with every movement, and spotted Greyson inside with James and Scarlett.

Greyson sat behind the desk, eyebrows drawn tight and were lips pressed into a line. James brushed past them, practically sprinting from the floor as his glasses slid down his nose. Bella closed the door behind them, and both she and Zane released their hold on Jason.

Greyson leaned back, arms crossed. "What is it now, brother?" His sigh carried more irritation than concern.

"Ashley's gone," Jason said, his fingers curling around the edge of the chair. "She's talking about a grower. I think she's in danger.

Greyson snorted. "So?"

Jason's gut twisted with unease—if they found Ashley, Greyson wouldn't hesitate to try and kill her again. Something about her felt off, especially with the eerie absence of any wounds. That only made the situation more terrifying.

"A grower? Like a farmer?" Greyson snarled.

"We don't know!" Bella shot back.

Greyson's tone felt like a deliberate provocation, clearly uninterested to what had happened. It was obvious they wouldn't get any help from him—he had no interest in Ashley, nor any involvement in her situation.

Scarlett rolled her eyes, leaning against the the desk with a smirk. "It's clear something's wrong with Ashley," she said, crossing her arms with an eyebrow raised. "And it's connected to that substance, right?"

Jason nodded, realizing Scarlett always got straight to the point of what she wanted, unlike Greyson. She shot a smirk toward Greyson with a smirk, raising her eyebrows.

"Not so hard to say, huh?" Scarlett mocked.

Jason caught something in Greyson's reaction. Usually, when interrupted, Greyson masked his annoyance with a show of power—but this time, his gaze softened slightly instead of sharpening. It was impossible to ignore: Greyson was in love with Scarlett.

"I'm not sending anyone after that thing," Greyson said flatly. "We're busy focusing on building a contact system right now."

"Is that the system for emergencies?" Zane asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, but that thing's probably out of town, and frankly, it's not my problem," Greyson spat.

Did Greyson even know if these were traps? It seemed likely, but Jason was determined to avoid another encounter that ended with him slammed against the wall.

As they turned to leave, James waited outside, hunched over his laptop, pulling up some unfamiliar software. From a distance, Jason couldn't tell what James was working on, but it was unlike anything he'd seen before.

Stick had always been lean—hence his nickname. At school, his wiry frame gave him an edge on the court, his fingertips brushing the basketball hoop with ease. But now, instead of chasing dunks or victories, he was driving through the outskirts of town.

He drove down the narrow highway, scanning side to side. Abandoned cars lined the shoulder, driven into nearby fields where half-wilted crops still clung to life, or crashed into other vehicles.

Henry, Finn, and a guy named Andrew Carters were crammed into the SUV with him, each silent and knowing this wasn't going to be an empty supply run. Most of the vehicles they passed were useless now, their batteries long dead.

Henry leaned forward, scanning the horizon. "If Luke wanted a clean job, he'd do it himself," he muttered. "We're just meat."

Finn slumped in the backseat, fingers fidgeting with his seatbelt. "I still don't get why everyone over the age of fifteen vanished," he whispered. "It's like the world flipped and we're leftovers."

Andrew glanced nervously at Stick. "And now we're looking for some purple junk Luke said was important. Nothing makes sense now."

Stick silently agreed—working for Luke had become more of a burden than a duty. Not long ago, he'd been assigned to guard the town's liquor store, where people now rotated through. At least there, they were allowed on drink, something to take the edge off. He missed it more than he cared to admit.

"Dude, turn around," Henry said, leaning forward in the passenger seat. "You took the wrong road."

Stick slammed a tight U-turn and sped away.

A figure appeared in the middle of the road. He didn't react fast enough. The sickening thud came before he even saw her.

Andrew screamed. Stick slammed the brakes. The SUV skidded to a stop.

One by one, they climbed out of the SUV, their faces pale. Vickie's body lay crumpled on the pavement, unmoving.

Stick stared, heart pounding, trying to remember the lifeless girl in front of him. She hadn't stood out much—always sat in the middle row. The last time he remembered speaking to her was during a chemistry project, just before the adults vanished. They'd mixed chemicals to create a fizzy reaction—now, all he could see was blood seeping from her head.

Finn crouched beside her, placing two fingers against her neck. His shoulders tensed. After a moment, he looked up—watery eyes, lips pressed in a hard line—then dropped his gaze and sank to his knees.

Stick felt his stomach twist. He had hit her, and he hadn't even seen her until it was too late.

"We need to hide her," Stick whispered.

Vicki was still lying on her side, thick, red blood oozing from a gash on her head, and her eyes were still wide open. Her left arm was covered in bloody scrapes, causing Henry to grab her arm and drag her into a nearby ditch.

Henry didn't hesitate. "If we don't, Luke will know."

Stick hesitated, but followed, gripping Vicki's legs to help Henry lift her. He noticed her left leg hung limply, sagging more than the right.

The sick feeling in his stomach twisted tighter with every step toward the ditch. Hiding a body was beyond anything he imagined—yet he felt trapped. Boys like him, the ones who looked perfect on the outside, weren't meant to have anything on their records that could shatter their dreams of scholarship and a future.

The ditch stretched alongside the cornfield, its bank lined with leafless trees that clawed at the bright sky. As they trudged through the brittle, dead grass, Stick noticed a thin ribbon of stagnant water pooling at the bottom.

Without another word, they lifted Vickie's body and dropped it into the shallow, murky water before sprinting back to the SUV.

"Get in!" Henry hissed at Andrew and Finn.

For a moment, Andrew and Finn froze, their eyes wide filled with shock and pale faces betraying the fear clawing at their throats. Slowly, they shuffled toward the SUV, each step heavy.

Without hesitation, Stick slammed the SUV into reverse, spinning it around to speed a way from the scene. His heart pounded as he floored the gas pedal, adrenaline mixing with gnawing fear—if Greyson and Luke found out what happened, there'd be no escaping consequence.

Stick's eyes darted nervously to ever shadow and corner, haunted by the fear that Vickie's ghost might return to torment him. Between the eerie disappearances of anyone over fifteen and the strange supernatural powers some people now wielded, the world felt like a nightmare he couldn't escape,

Suddenly, Stick slammed on the brakes, bringing the SUV to a jarring halt in the middle of the highway. Around them loomed St. Mary's Hospital on one side and Paradise Hotel on the other.

"Luke said the hospital was first," Henry muttered, glancing back at Finn and Andrew.

Stick's hands trembled as he stepped out of the SUV, the handle of a kitchen knife pressed against his thigh through his pocket. It was standard now—everyone carried a weapon. Not because of wild animals; those were gone. It was people they were afraid of.

They moved cautiously toward St. Mary's Hospital, its parking garage packed with abandoned cars. The entrance gate meant for vehicles was stuck halfway open, leaving just enough room for them to slip through.

As they approached the automatic front doors, Stick glanced inside—the main floor was empty. The reception desks sat untouched, elevators still. No voices, no footsteps. Just silence.

"Split up and check the halls. Use the elevators if they still have power," Henry said, his voice tight.

Stick rushed to the nearest elevators and jabbed the button for the second floor. As the doors slid open with a sluggish groan, he stepped inside and clutched the metal railing, his heart thudding and his palms thick with sweat.

When the elevator dinged and the doors parted again, a sharp electronic beep echoed across the hallway. He stepped out, knife raised, eyes scanning every shadow as he crept forward.

Tall windows lined the hallway, offering a view of the fresh cut lawn and cracked pavement beyond. On the left, the abandoned reception desk was barely visible through the glass.

He stepped into a nearby patient room, its sterile white walls cold and unwelcoming. A blue curtain hung limply across the middle of the space. With his knife raised and hand trembling, he pulled it back.

He was met by the steady beep of a heart monitor echoing the silent room. It startled him. Who was it monitoring? And why was it still running?

He stared at the machine, unnerved by its rhythmic persistence, before suddenly shoving it to the floor. It crashed against the tile, shattering in a burst of sparks and plastic.

The silence pressed down on him, heavier than any sound. His heart raced. He had hit her. Vickie. The thought clawed at him—there was no undoing it.

The memory of her crumpled body on the road ate at him. Blood and broken bones. Panic surged, hot and choking. Luke would kill him if he found out. Scarlett and Greyson would hear about it. Everyone would.

He bolted out of the room and hurried down the sterile hallway, glancing into identical rooms lined with white walls, tiny accessible bathroom, and a faded blue curtains. Some held forgotten remnants—a cluster of balloons, scattered books there.

His fingers closed around a tangled bunch of helium balloons, absurd and fragile, but somehow a lifeline against the storm inside him.

In the last room, Stick noticed a nightstand with photographs—an older man smiling with his children. Beside the pictures lay a dead iPhone. He picked it up and pressed the power button repeatedly, but the screen stayed dark.

Suddenly, a voice whispered behind him. "Why didn't you stop?"

He spun around, heart hammering, and there she stood—Vickie. Exactly as he'd seen her after the accident. Her scraped arms were raw and bloody, her head wound severe against pale skin, the dried blood dark and crusted.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, desperate to convince himself that this wasn't real—that it wasn't his fault. She hadn't moved out of the way; anyone driving that fast would have hit her.

But when he darted to open his eyes again, Vickie was still there, her cold stare fixed on him, unmoving and unforgiving.

"You're responsible," her voice was as cold as ice.

Her words shoved him backward, his heart pounding wildly as his back slammed into wall. He refused to accept the blame—she was the one standing in the road, wasn't she?

But just like, she vanished. He spun around, searching the empty room, but she was nowhere to be found. Had she disappeared like the others? He remembered—Vickie was only fourteen, her birthday not until September. It was still early May. So why was he seeing her now?

Shaking his head, the cold truth settled inside him: she was dead.

He bolted from the room, clutching the knife in one hand and tangled balloons in the other, then slammed the elevator's button down.

To his right, a blank wall stretched beside a row of hospital chairs and a small table cluttered with brochures—pamphlets about health conditions and a rehab centre for addiction.

The elevator dinged open, but Stick's trembling fingers pressed the button again and again desperately. He leaned his forehead against the elevator wall, sinking slowly to a crouch as Vickie's accusation echoed in his mind.

None of it was his fault—he told himself—but the words rang hollow, drowning him in a tidal wave of guilt.

As the elevator door slid open, Stick's eyes landed on Henry standing near the main entrance, casually scanning the empty lobby.

Henry's indifferent expression sent a through him—he'd already brushed off their part in the murder, acting like it was no big deal.

But, Stick couldn't push the blame onto anyone else. It had been an accident—no one's fault. Maybe it was just a cruel twist of fate, or even a suicide.

He sank into one of the green lobby chairs and drew a shaky breath. It wasn't his fault, was it?

It seems Ashley isn't herself and Stick has a fault on his back. This will definitely cause some change.
-Lexi