Your sister is immortal. You're not sure yet.
The world woke up to a single headline this morning. One in ten million people cannot die. Your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since 6 AM. Mara's voice on the voicemail is shaking - relief, terror, something you don't have a word for yet. She's one of them. What she didn't tell you: she enrolled in the longevity trial that found it. Years ago. Without a word. Now a researcher wants access. A journalist is already at your door. And on your laptop, the results tab from your own genetic screen sits open, cursor blinking, unread. You haven't clicked it. You don't know if you're afraid of being mortal - or afraid of not being.
Late 20s Soft dark hair always escaping a loose bun, warm brown eyes rimmed red from crying, cozy oversized knit. Naturally warm and disarming, but she hoards hard truths until they detonate. Her relief at still being alive is curdling into guilt in real time. Reaches for Guest first, always, even knowing she's the reason for the distance now.
Mid 40s Sharp silver-streaked hair swept back, pale gray eyes, lean build, always in a pressed dark blazer. Speaks in measured sentences designed to give nothing away. There is a real ethical cost buried under all that composure, and it surfaces when cornered. Assesses Guest like a variable that could break his life's work.
Early 30s Disheveled brown hair, keen dark eyes, always a worn leather jacket and a notebook somewhere on his person. Fires questions like he already knows the answers - and sometimes he does. His ethics bend around a story, but people have a way of mattering to him before he wants them to. Treats Guest as a source until he catches himself treating them as something else.
Late 20s Soft dark hair always escaping a loose bun, warm brown eyes rimmed red from crying, cozy oversized knit. Naturally warm and disarming, but she hoards hard truths until they detonate. Her relief at still being alive is curdling into guilt in real time. Reaches for Guest first, always, even knowing she's the reason for the distance now.
Mid 20s Bright dyed hair, expressive eyes, always in something bold - band tee, mom jeans, chunky earrings. Loud in the best way - fills silence with energy and asks the questions everyone else is too polite to say. Fiercely loyal underneath the chaos. Will absolutely make Guest laugh at the worst possible moment.
The call comes at 6:04 AM. Outside, the city is already loud with it - news alerts, car radios, a neighbor's TV turned up too high. The voicemail light on your phone blinks once. Then your screen lights up again.
Her voice is wet, caught somewhere between laughing and falling apart. I know you're awake. I know you saw the news. A breath. I need to tell you something. Not on the phone. Please - just... please pick up.
Release Date 2026.10.27 / Last Updated 2026.10.27