A gray dawn hung over the rundown roadside store as Ethan Nicolas stopped his black car, engine idling. Silence pressed between him and Ava Francis. His dark hair was neat, green eyes shadowed under his leather jacket, a red scratch bright on his neck. Ava gripped her duffel, freckles sharp on her tense face, hair loose. Ethan's claim that his mom, Linda, would join them had crumbled—no sign of her—and Ava's phone had exploded last night, WolfSnap's crash spitting sparks and glass. She hadn't told him, but her trust was thin.
Ethan muttered, "Need something." He stepped out, boots hitting gravel, and entered the store.
Ava's jaw tightened. What's he hiding? She stayed put. Soon, Ethan returned with two burner phones, prepaid, no SIMs. He tapped WolfSnap onto one, then handed it to her. "My contact's in it," he said, eyes meeting hers.
Ava grabbed it, brow creased. "You knew WolfSnap wrecked my phone," she snapped. "Sparks, glass—gone. You're trouble, Ethan. Where's your mom? What's this app?"
Ethan's scratch oozed faintly. "Mom's not here," he said, voice raw. "Dad's sick—bad fever. She's at the hospital."
Ava's anger softened, his words heavy. "Sorry about your dad," she said, sharp but kinder. "But WolfSnap? It's not normal. Why'd it ruin my phone?"
"Just an app," Ethan said, steady. "Runs too hot, fries phones. Bad design." He shrugged.
Ava exhaled, half-buying it, her edge easing. "Fix it, Ethan. It's dangerous."
"Trying," he said. "Get in."
They sped off, hills blurring past, silence thick. Ava glanced at his glowing scratch, uneasy. There's more.
---
By afternoon, they reached a quiet village, stone houses under heavy clouds. The orphanage sat at the edge—worn, silent. Ava blinked, caught off-guard. An orphanage? No one had mentioned it. Ethan parked, face taut. She followed, phone heavy.
A doctor met them, voice grim. "Mr. Nicolas, the kids are rough—fevers, rashes, spreading fast. No clue what's causing it. It's… wrong."
Ethan's throat tightened, scratch pulsing. Dad's fever. The doctor's words—no cause—matched his father's illness too well. He nodded. "What do they need?"
"Medicine, blankets, hands," the doctor said.
Ava's chest sank. She hadn't expected this. The ward was grim—cots packed with flushed kids, rashes creeping. She knelt by a girl, voice gentle. "Got a favorite toy?" The girl whispered, "Bunny." Ava smiled, wiping her brow. Ethan hauled crates, steady but tense, his eyes catching Ava's warmth, a quiet respect flickering. The day dragged, heavy with soft moans.
---
Night fell, the orphanage hushed, sorrow thick. Ava sat by a cot, watching Mira, four, Sam's twin sister, her tiny face pale as snow, rash vivid on her little neck, breaths faint, like a butterfly's wings slowing. Sam, also four, toddled in, small and hopeful, his big eyes sparkling with a toddler's unshaken faith, clutching a crumpled chocolate wrapper. He climbed onto the cot's edge beside Mira, holding her tiny hand, his voice soft and bubbly, as if she were just napping, ready to pop up and giggle with him.
"Hey, Mira," Sam said, his tone bright, like they were playing under a table. "When you gonna wake up to play with me? I miss you running after me!" He leaned closer, a shy smile tugging at his lips, his voice full of a toddler's hope. "Today, Ava gave us all chocolates. You were sleeping, so you didn't get one. I ate only half of mine, Mira—I saved the other half for you." He held up the wrapper, showing her the tiny piece inside, his eyes wide with pride. "When your fever's gone, we'll eat it together, okay? Like we share our cookies."
He paused, looking at the chocolate, then back at her, a shy smile blooming. "Oh, and John, he ate his chocolate super fast. Then he asked for my other half. So I gave him half of my part." His smile grew, bashful but pleased, like he'd done a big favor. Then he leaned close to Mira's ear, cupping his hand like it was their special secret, his voice dropping to a tiny whisper. "You told me you wish to marry John, remember? Now he will marry you—hmm, next Sunday, he promised me!" He pulled back, grinning softly, eyes twinkling with a toddler's dream. "You wake up fast, Mira, so you don't miss it."
Sam sat back, holding her hand, his voice softening, full of a child's boundless love. "Mira, you gotta get better soon.
He paused, tilting his head, then looked at Ava, his smile shy but trusting. "Ava, you stay here tonight, right? I'm gonna sleep." He held out the crumpled wrapper with the half chocolate, his little hands careful. "You should give this to Mira when she's woke up."
Ava's heart melted, his innocence tugging deep. She tilted her head, nodding like a kid playing along, her smile warm. "Got it, Sam. I'll keep it safe."
Sam's eyes narrowed, a toddler's doubt flickering, his voice small but serious. "Promise you'll give it to Mira? You won't eat it, right?"
Ava grinned, raising a hand like a solemn oath, her voice light. "I promise, Sam. It's Mira's chocolate—no nibbling."
Sam nodded, satisfied, then leaned back to Mira, his voice a soft chirp. "Mira, I gave your chocolate part to Ava. She'll give it to you." He giggled, waving his little hand. "Tatta, Mira!" He hopped off the cot and scampered away, his footsteps fading down the hall, a toddler's hope trailing behind him.
Ava held the chocolate, her heart aching with the purity of Sam's love—a tiny boy betting everything on his sister's smile.
Ethan stepped into the room, arms full of blankets, and froze. At Mira's head, a shadow loomed—tall, eyes like dying stars. Yeman, God of Death. Its chill sank into him, the scratch screaming.
---
To be continued…