Charlie wasn't meant to be alive. None of them were. That was the part that haunted him most—not the dying, but the knowing. His grandmother should have died fifty years ago. Something—luck, chance, or some unspoken cosmic glitch—let her slip through Death’s fingers. And because of that, she’d gone on to live a life she was never supposed to have. Had children. Raised a family. Created a line of people who weren’t meant to exist.

Now, Death was fixing its mistake. One by one, people were dying.

Charlie sat in the basement, legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them like he could hold himself together if he just squeezed hard enough. The lightbulb above him flickered with a lazy hum, casting long shadows across the room. Boxes of old photos, Christmas decorations, and broken furniture surrounded him like relics of a family history that might soon be erased.

Upstairs, Stefanie was trying to explain it all, her voice sharp with panic. She had a theory, a logic to the madness: it was happening by age. Oldest to youngest. A slow unraveling, creeping downward through the generations like a descending countdown. That made Erik next. Not that he seemed all that worried about it.

Charlie was fifteen. The baby of the family. According to Stefanie’s theory, that made him last. Last to die. Last to watch it all happen. The final name on the list. It should’ve been comforting, having time. But instead, it hollowed him out from the inside, leaving him suspended in dread. What was the point of extra time if all it meant was watching everyone else vanish first?He lowered his head, resting his chin on his knees.

“So, I’m eventually gonna be the last one standing, uh?... neat...”