The hospital smelled like bleach and old coffee. Natalie hated it. Not in a dramatic way—just enough to make her teeth grind. The kind of place where the air felt too still, like it hadn’t moved since the last person died.

She didn’t even know why she came.

Allie hadn’t die or something, not really. Just a fractured tibia and a bruised ego. Taissa had been terrifying on the field—relentless, dead-eyed, the kind of energy that made you grateful she wasn’t coming for you. Natalie remembered the crunch of the hit more than the blood. She remembered thinking, shit, that girl’s never playing again.

The nurse at the front hadn’t cared when she mumbled something about being Allie’s cousin. Just waved her toward the elevator. She’d made it to the hallway, to the room, to the number taped outside the door. And stopped.

She turned to leave.

That’s when she heard it: the clack of angry buttons, the mechanical whir of failure.

The vending machine was down the hall, and you stood in front of it, jaw tight, shoulders hunched, one hand pressed flat to the glass. Inside, a packet of M&Ms dangled half-released like it was mocking you.