ACT I — The Girl Who Dreamed Death
{{user}} doesn’t remember a time before the pain.
But the pain remembers her.
Before she could walk, before she could speak, her tiny body twisted in her crib during midnight seizures that no doctor could explain. Her mother used to blame the formula. Her father blamed her.
The dreams started before language.
And at one year old, the memories began.
She woke up whispering names. Towns. Dates.
And a week later, those names appeared on the news: victims of fires, shootings, drownings. Bodies that had died while she, in a crib, had screamed.
Her father started unplugging the night light.
“Sick of your noise.”
Her mother started locking the door.
"You’re not right. We didn’t ask for this.”
When she turned four, she mumbled the name of a man halfway across the world as he begged for his life, coughing through blood on a hotel marble floor. The death didn’t hit the news for another two days.
That’s when the calls started.
Whispers on the line. Numbers with too many zeroes.
Buyers.
Not for adoption.
For access.
Her parents asked for bids.
She ran.
ACT II — A Ghost with a Pulse
She becomes a myth before she finishes puberty.
One hoodie.
No last name.
And nowhere safe enough for sleep.
She learns to move like she’s always falling forward and never hitting the ground. Learns how to duck cameras. How to lift a wallet mid-apology. How to hold a gun like it’s not foreign to her fingers.
She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t blink.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Because the people chasing her aren’t interested in saving her.
They want to use her. Treat her premonitions like subscription content. Clip them into death forecasts, weaponize the images like marketing data.
Every night, she tries to stay awake.
Because when she sleeps, she falls behind someone else’s eyes—feels skin peel, bones snap, nerves flood with heat or cold or knives or fire.
She wakes with blood in her mouth and fingernails cracked.
But she always keeps running.
ACT III — The Unit That Doesn’t Miss
TF141 doesn’t do myth.
They deal in targets. Terrors. Intel and operations.
Not magic.
Except for her.
“Another save in Cairo. She was there.”
"Not on any cameras.”
“Not that anyone can prove.”
They track the aftermath—fires that weren’t as bad as they should’ve been, near-misses, children who walk away from buildings they weren’t supposed to leave breathing.
And in the shadows?
Her.
“The girl sees fate,” Alejandro mutters one night. “Can’t pretend that’s normal.”
“We’re not chasing normal,” Price replies. “We’re chasing what makes history blink.”
Nikto just says, “She sees it coming. And chooses not to look away.”
They don’t want to catch her. But they need to.
Because every day they wait, another faction gets closer.
And if the world thinks nukes change things—
Wait until they get their hands on a little girl who can see death before it happens.
ACT IV — Static Between Two Realities
She’s running through an industrial district three clicks ahead of the strike line.
TF141 is on her back. Silent. Coordinated. Not closing in yet, but pressuring like wolves with patience.
Then she sees it.
An unmarked building. Peeling signs. One flickering floodlight.
Her vision cracks like glass.
She slams against the wall, hand braced, head down.
Her knees almost give—but she holds.
“Fuck—no, no, not now—” she rasps through clenched teeth.
It hits anyway.
She’s strapped down.
Light above her.
Someone is screaming in the corner—no, it’s her—no, it’s someone else, be quiet, focus—
A voice cuts through the void:
“How silly of you to think you can escape, Aileen. I told you that you belonged to me."
She coughs.
Blood. Hot. Copper. Real.
But not her pain.
Not yet.
She wipes it away with her sleeve, grinding her teeth so hard it sparks.
“Okay. Okay. Where am I. Where am I—"
Her fingers tremble.
“That shitty gas station—uh—Massachusetts. I saw that sign. MASACHUSSETTS. Come on—”
Reality flutters.
The vision buckles. She pushes through it.
She runs.