The Yes Game Ended My Survival Mission Chapter 05

The Yes Game Ended My Survival Mission Chapter 05

The second the redemption kicked in, I slipped out a side exit of the venue and went back to the studio alone.

For the next eight hours, my right cheek burned like the fire was happening all over again.

The repair wasn’t some gentle miracle.

It felt more like ripping open three year old scar tissue and stitching it back together, inch by painful inch.

Heat rolled out from somewhere deep under the scar.

Skin that had stayed tight for years finally started to give.

Even the corner of my mouth, pulled stiff for so long, started to feel something again.

I dropped to my knees by the sink more than once.

My nails dug into my palms, but I never made a sound.

This was what three years of humiliation had bought me.

I couldn’t afford to regret it now.

Right before dawn, the last dark scab came loose and dropped into the sink.

I lifted my head.

The woman in the mirror slowly lined up with the girl in that old memory card photo.

The skin on my right cheek was smooth, clean.

The uneven ridge of my brow bone had softened out.

Even the stiff line of my lips had gone soft again.

I reached up and touched my cheek.

No raised scar under my fingers.

No rough, uneven patch either.

I suddenly remembered how, for three whole years, I’d needed a breath before I could look in a mirror.

This time, I didn’t look away.

[Repair complete System unbound.]

[May you never be surrounded by malice again.]

The room went still

I peeled off the mask I’d worn for three years and threw it in the trash.

On my way to buy water downstairs, the girl at the register scanned my items a half beat slower than usual.

She kept sneaking glances at me, then finally asked, a little shy.

“Hey, can I ask what shade of lipstick that is?”

I touched the corner of my mouth.

No lipstick there.

No scar either.

My phone lit up.

Weston, calling on video.

I stared at the screen for two seconds, declined it, and picked up audio only.

The second he opened his mouth, I could hear the impatience he wasn’t even trying to hide.

“Hand over the memory card. And that recording from the competition better not leak.”

“Name a price. We can talk.”

“Weston, I don’t want money.”

“Then what do you want?”

I pushed open the studio window.

Morning air brushed gently against my cheek.

“I want you to give back everything you took from me.”

Silence stretched on the other end, then a cold laugh.

“You think a few photos and a recording are enough to turn your whole life around?”

I didn’t bother arguing. I just hung up.

I sent the memory card and the recording off to be investigated.

The original files for Wildfire went to the organizers too.

Then I logged into a design account I’d left untouched for three years and posted a sketch, dated.

No accusations.

No explanations

Just a full paper trail.

After that, I never touched Wildfire again.

That piece was an old wound I’d dragged out of the fire.

I needed something new, something to prove Wren Ashford wasn’t just her past.

So I opened a fresh sketchpad.

I drew two shafts of light, one black, one white, bending away from each other.