The sterile white walls of the hospital room seemed to close in on Clyde, their starkness mocking his grief. He sat in the worn, vinyl chair, his eyes fixed on the lifeless form beneath the thin hospital sheet. The woman he's supposed to marry tomorrow was now a mere shell of her former self.

A single, fat tear rolled down his cheek, tracing a path through the stubble of his sharp chin. He was in dead silence, yet his mind was in a whirlwind of "what ifs" and "should haves". He replayed the accident over and over, searching for a moment where he could have intervened, where he could have prevented, anything at all, for a chance to change the tragic outcome.

Clyde had prepared everything for the wedding. The venue, the guests list, the honeymoon plan... and most of all, the wedding gown he specifically booked for her. Clyde had imagined the anticipation to see her walk down the aisle, to witness her beauty firsthand, to take her as his. But now, those dreams lay shattered, like a priceless vase fallen to the ground. Unfixable.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he stumbled to his feet, rushing to the bathroom. The cold tile against his skin offered little comfort as he poured all of his sickening guilt into the sink. Yet, no matter how much he did, it was still there, threatening to break him over and over.

Clyde returned to the room with heavy steps, but his legs stopped when he noticed something unusual. A shadowy figure, covered in a black long veil, stood beside her bed, as if belonging there. Clyde's heart raced - the last thing he needed was an intruder between him and her. But that figure, Death, read his mind with an outwardly haunting voice.

"I sometimes entertain myself," Death said, its tone flat despite the claim, "to witness what's supposed to be a beautiful future snatched away so unfairly... It's sad, to say the least."

Time seemed to stop as Clyde tried to make sense of everything. It was understandable that the grim reaper would be here, but its words earned his disapproval. His eyes narrowed, a wave of denial tearing him apart.

"She loves me!"

"... Does she?"

Those simple words struck Clyde instantly. The last remaining ground he was clinging to crumbled. Death looked at him with an unreadable expression, akin to pity. Clyde couldn't tell - that creature didn't have a face.

"I'll do anything, anything to prove that she could love me back! Even if I have to sell my soul, even if I have to go through hell, I'll fucking prove to you that what I feel for her is real!"

The silence continued. Clyde's breath came ragged with tension, his eyes daring Death for another confrontation. But the shadow figure just stood there, eyeing him with intensity before making its decision.

"Then, do you want to have a bet with me?"

Clyde's eyes snapped open with a rugged gasp as he felt his soul reenter his body. The sterile hospital room had transformed into a familiar gymnasium. Around him, a group of college students he once considered friends surrounded him. They looked younger, unchanged by time. Then he noticed the figure that made his breath hitch - her, the person he thought he'd never see again, alive and in front of him.

He was back in the past.

She was on the floor, her eyes puffy from tears and her hair tangled messily. Clyde remembered this moment all too well. He was the one who dragged her here, to the empty gymnasium in the afternoon, to have his group bully her for his own twisted pleasure. This was hell, he thought. He always regretted the things his younger self did to her. Experiencing it again with his present knowledge made him hate himself even more.

A comment from a tall, red-haired girl nearby snapped Clyde back to reality. It was Gemma, the girlfriend he dated just for image. While Clyde avoided physical violence, Gemma relished it. This girl loved to harm her, and another tidal wave of regret crushed him as he remembered how he used to let her have her way.

"Oh, look at what this bitch wears today. Shabby clothes, like usual. Hey, are you that poor you can't even afford cheap pants in a thrift store?"

The group laughed in unison, only Clyde remaining silent as he tried to grasp what was happening. Another person chimed in, a friend of his.

"You should be grateful Clyde is so generous to let you and your lowly mother live in his house. If it were me, I'd kick beggars to the road, where they belong."

Clyde's fist clenched, anger and guilt warring within him. Gemma noticed her lack of reaction and grew annoyed. She raised her hand, ready to slap her face.

"Bitch, are you even listening to us? You ugly, stupid girl—"

But a hand prevented it. Every eye in the room widened in shock to see it was Clyde, the very leader of the group, who intercepted the blow. He didn't care about their questioning looks or Gemma's furious frown. The most important thing in the world was right in front of him, and he'd be damned to let her slip away again.

Clyde crouched down to meet her eyes. His lips thinned, his mind hazy with uncertainty. How could he start? He never expected his redemption to begin at this moment, when everything between them was still broken beyond repair. His fingers tentatively reached toward her cheek, longing to feel the warmth pulse beneath her skin, to confirm she was alive, not the cold corpse he'd witnessed hours before.

"I..."