"Don't worry, child. A kind warning isn't a crime. Even if it turns out to be wrong, that's okay. We don't curse others with ill intent—but we also won't let kind-hearted people be punished for it," said a chubby old man with white hair and a white beard, sitting beside Bella to comfort her.
He handed her a business card.
John Gray, Professor of History at Bard College, New York.
Bella didn't have a card, so she simply introduced herself:"Isabella Swan. You can call me Bella, Professor."
"Hello, Bella. You look very uneasy. Are you worried about getting in trouble with the authorities? I still know a few people—you don't need to be afraid."
Bella was deeply uneasy at that moment. After the adrenaline of trying to save people wore off, all that remained was fear. She knew better than anyone what kind of storm she might face next—something beauty, wealth, or social standing could not shield her from.
"You actually believe my nonsense?" she asked cautiously.
Many of the passengers had only half-believed her, driven more by a "better safe than sorry" mindset. Few had fully and openly supported her from the start.
The old man's gaze turned distant, his expression somewhat melancholy.
"You're in high school, right? Have you studied American history?"
American history? Bella inwardly scoffed at the thought. She could only vaguely recall things like the Cherry Blossom Axe of Washington or Lincoln the Vampire Hunter. She hadn't received much memory from the body's previous owner—and she'd only crossed over three days ago. She hadn't had time to crack open a textbook.
She had no idea what was even taught in U.S. history classes, so she answered vaguely, "I know a little."
"Our history carries original sin," the old man said quietly. "This land doesn't belong to us. Even the sky seems to hold a grudge against us. In 1821, in a small town in Idaho, every resident and gold miner died—without wounds, without warning. All 500 of them, gone in an instant. There are many such cases. The government blamed Native American revenge attacks, but I believe it was nature itself retaliating."
Bella thought the old man's theory came surprisingly close to the truth. No one really knew what "Death" was in the films.
"I think—" she began, but before she could finish her thought, a massive fireball erupted in the distant sky.
Two seconds later, a violent shockwave from the explosion slammed into the airport terminal windows with a deafening BOOM. Several passengers standing near the glass were thrown backward. Newspapers, water cups, and clothing flew through the air.
The light rain outside was now blown into the terminal by fierce wind. The once-shiny floor turned muddy. Bella could swear she caught a faint whiff of blood.
The room temperature dropped several degrees in an instant—but no one had time to think about the windows or floor.
Everyone—including Bella—just stared in stunned silence at the fireball raging in the sky, now plummeting toward the ground.
Some men dropped all pretense of composure, clutching their heads in disbelief. Women hugged their children, trying to shield them, though they themselves were trembling in fear.
"Oh God!"
"Mommy, I'm scared!"
"Don't be scared, baby, Mommy's here. I'm right here!"
The survivors in the terminal descended into silent panic.
Some kissed their crosses. Others slumped into their seats, stunned. Couples clung to each other, murmuring in awe that they had just escaped death.
The previously apologetic teacher who had begged the airport manager to let her and her students board again turned ghostly pale. Relief mixed with deep regret. If she had another chance, she swore she would've stopped everyone.
"I thought you said the plane was fine?! This is murder—do you understand?! MURDER! You pig! You're all killers!" the frail female teacher screamed as she grabbed the airport supervisor's tie. He had sworn up and down there was no issue with the plane. And now?
Was this what "fine" looked like? How was she supposed to explain this to the families of her deceased students?
The airport supervisor was just as stunned. The one who had insisted everything was okay was the pilot—and now the guy was probably dead.
Dead men face no lawsuits. But he, the living one, was now screwed.
"I saw it! I saw the whole scene—it was exactly the same as in my vision! The engine on the left caught fire, then an explosion, then flames rushed into the cabin. I saw you—you—and you—you all died! All of you died!" the scrawny male student shouted, still in a panic.
He kept insisting that he had foreseen it all. And to be honest, Bella found his ability fascinating. It was like he'd lived through it once already, then rewound time for himself alone. The way he described it, in vivid detail, felt incredibly real. It was completely different from Bella's own vague death premonitions.
Hers seemed more like a psychic or spiritual sense. But his was like a temporary "cheat mode."
Since someone else was drawing all the attention, Bella had no intention of stepping forward and exposing herself further.
Over a hundred people had died in the crash. Bella could still remember the faces of many of them: the female student who mocked her fashion, the corporate exec who called her a lunatic… Now, they were all gone.
At 9:25 AM, the plane took off. Then the explosion occurred.
Even though the airport dispatched search and rescue teams through the heavy rain, everyone was pessimistic about the outcome. In a situation like that, the chances of survival were almost nonexistent.
Global Airlines had already been under pressure due to poor management. Now, Flight 180's explosion dealt them a devastating blow. Whether it was mechanical failure or fuel ignition, nothing could stop this airline—founded in 1925—from spiraling into ruin.
Police, firefighters, the FBI, and hordes of journalists descended. They began bombarding the survivors with all kinds of questions—about religion, human rights, political views, even their favorite sports teams.
Among them, Bella, the frail student Alex, the black-haired young man Sam, and the brunette student Claire became the key focus of questioning.
A middle-aged man in a long wool coat showed them his badge. He introduced himself as Henry, a C1-level field supervisor for the Phoenix branch of the FBI. The name sounded a little cliché—probably fake.
The least suspicious of the group, Claire Redfield, was the first to be interviewed.
"Miss Redfield, I didn't see any prior interaction between you and Miss Swan. Can you explain why you supported her judgment?"
"It was a very strong sense of foreboding. I felt that if I boarded the plane, I would die. That's all."
"A premonition? That's it? Do you mind if I record that as-is?"
"Of course not."
(Chapter End)