The Yes Game Ended My Survival Mission Chapter 09

The Yes Game Ended My Survival Mission Chapter 09

After the truth about the fire got out, Wildfire’s award got pulled.

The years Sienna had spent building her image as some brilliant, kindhearted girl collapsed right along with

She’d once packed her livestream room with flowers and light up signs, crying about being betrayed by a

friend.

That same account got banned from the platform not long after.

Under her old pinned video, nothing was left but rows of comments.

[Stolen fire always finds its way back to you.]

Right before they took her in, she was still shouting.

“Wren already has everything. So what if I took one thing?”

What she hated was never the fact that I healed.

What she hated was that even after I’d been scarred, silenced, and pushed into the shadows, the second I picked up a pencil again, she still couldn’t beat me.

The studio’s partners walked away one by one.

Weston’s brand launch, six months in the making, got pulled overnight.

I gave that news one glance and closed the tab.

Solène’s new collection moved into full production.

August opened the bottom drawer of the archive and pulled out a black opal from the rejected pile.

Cracks ran across the whole surface.

One wrong move and it could shatter for good.

“This one’s been sitting here six years. Nobody’s had the nerve to touch it.”

He slid the box across to me.

“I was going to keep holding onto it. Maybe you can find it a place.”

I looked at the black opal and thought of the bolted door three years back.

“Use it for the centerpiece”

Over the next two days, I sketched more than a dozen versions.

On the third morning, I brought August the one I liked best.

He picked up a red pen and crossed out half of it without hesitating.

“Too much feeling. The structure can’t hold it.”

“Redo it.”

I stared at the page full of red circles for a second.

“Sterling, you ever going to figure out how to compliment someone?”

“I have.”

He slid a hot cup of coffee across to me.

“That last door you drew was good.”

“Everything else needs work.”

“That counts as a compliment?”

I laughed, half annoyed, and took the sketch back to fix it.

August was almost brutal about design.

He never softened a word.

But every time he pointed out a problem, he left a workable fix sitting right next to it.

He never just tossed out “redo it” and walked off.

By the fourth draft, I stopped trying to hide the crack in the opal.

Instead, I traced along the fracture with a thin line of platinum, shaping it into a door left open.

Light spilled out from inside the stone.

Like a sliver of daylight at the far end of a fire.

I named it Exit.

The day of the final shoot, the model had a sudden allergic reaction.

So I ended up wearing the centerpiece myself for the last set of photos.

The clasp caught behind my right ear.

I tried twice, fingers going a little stiff

That used to be the worst part of the scar

For three years, even when Weston fixed my mask for me, I’d turn my face away without thinking.

August stood off to the side

“Want me to call the stylist over?”

I paused, then swept my hair over my left shoulder.

“Can you clasp it for me?”

He didn’t reach out right away.

“Can I touch it?”

I gave a small nod.

August’s fingers moved around my ear, gentle.

Like he was handling something priceless

The second the cold clasp clicked shut, the studio lights came on.

Exit settled against my chest

Light from the cracks fell across my whole, healed cheek

After the shoot, August stared at the final photos for a long time

“Why isn’t the door locked?”

I took the necklace off and set it back in its box

“Because I already got out.”

He never brought up the fire again.

Just had an assistant carry Exit to the main display case.