Chapter 1: That’s Gotta Hurt
Chapter 1: That's Gotta Hurt
Bright wasn't new to crappy situations.
Growing up in an orphanage meant dealing with questionable food, hand-me-down clothes, and occasional fistfights over the last decent blanket. But if you asked him yesterday what the worst thing about his life was, he probably would've said, "The food. Definitely the food."
Turns out, he was wrong.
Because getting shot? Yeah, that was way worse.
The Night Everything Changed
It started like any other night.
The orphanage was quiet, mostly because the head matron threatened to take away dinner if anyone so much as breathed too loudly after 9 PM. Bright, being the smart ten-year-old he was, had learned to keep his noise levels below "accidental fart" territory.
He laid in his bunk, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the steady snores of the other kids. His mind wandered to the usual stuff—what school would be like tomorrow, whether Matron Agnes would let them have extra bread at breakfast (probably not), and why Toby kept kicking the wall in his sleep like he was fighting off invisible monsters.
Then it happened.
BANG.
At first, Bright thought Toby finally kicked the wall too hard and broke something.
Then came the shouting.
Loud. Angry. Like someone was pissed off enough to tear the place apart.
The snoring stopped. Beds creaked as kids stirred.
"What was that?" a boy in the next bunk muttered groggily.
Bright sat up, ears straining. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. More yelling. A loud crash as if someone had knocked over furniture.
Then came the gunshot.
BANG.
His stomach dropped.
There was a beat of silence. Then all hell broke loose.
Kids started screaming. Some jumped out of their beds, tripping over each other in their rush to the door. Others just froze, their eyes wide, brains refusing to process what was happening.
Bright's pulse pounded in his ears. His first thought was—Was that real? Did someone just get shot?
His second thought came when he saw her.
A little girl, standing right in the middle of the hallway.
Emily.
She was six. Way too small to be in a situation like this. Her tiny hands gripped a stuffed bunny so hard her knuckles turned white. She wasn't running. She wasn't even breathing.
She was frozen.
And that was a problem.
Bright's instincts screamed at him to move. His brain yelled something about "GET HER OUT OF THERE, YOU IDIOT." But before his body could catch up, the front door slammed open.
Three men walked in.
They looked… wrong.
Like they weren't supposed to be here.
Their clothes were messy, jackets hanging off their shoulders like they couldn't be bothered to wear them properly. One guy was grinning too wide, his eyes glazed over, like he wasn't even seeing straight.
And then there were the guns.
Bright didn't know much about firearms, but he knew enough to realize that was a real freaking pistol in the guy's hand.
"Where's the stash?" the man in front slurred. His voice was too loud, like he didn't care who heard him. "Old man said they keep it here, right?"
Bright had no idea what he was talking about.
But the orphanage had nothing worth stealing.
Which meant these guys? They weren't here for money.
The tallest of the three—a bald guy with a scar down his cheek—looked around. His gaze landed on the kids. His lips curled. Like he found something funny.
"You think they saw our faces?" he asked.
Bright's stomach twisted.
Oh, hell no.
The guy with the gun snorted. "They're kids, who cares?"
"Still. Can't have loose ends."
The click of the gun cocking sent ice down Bright's spine.
He didn't get time to react before—
BANG.
The shot fired.
Straight at Emily.
And Bright?
He moved.
One second, he was standing still. The next, his body lunged forward.
Pain.
A white-hot burning sensation tore through his shoulder as he crashed into Emily, knocking her to the ground.
His mind blanked. His body screamed.
His head hit the floor, his vision tilting sideways. He barely felt the weight of Emily under him. His arms trembled as he held onto her, shielding her as best as he could.
Gunfire erupted around them.
The last thing he saw before his eyes slammed shut was the flash of red and blue lights outside the window.
Sirens.
Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't dead yet.
---
The Aftermath
When Bright woke up, the first thing he noticed was pain.
Like someone had replaced his entire left shoulder with a brick of fire.
The second thing he noticed? Beeping.
Bright's brain took a second to reboot. He blinked against the too-bright lights above him, trying to piece together what happened. Gunfire. Emily. Pain. Sirens.
Okay. So, either he was dead, or—
"Ah, you're awake."
Bright's head turned.
A man in a white coat stood by the bed, flipping through a clipboard. He looked… tired. Like someone who'd been awake way too long. His black-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, and his expression was neutral, but not unfriendly.
"You had us worried for a second," the man continued. "Took a bullet to the shoulder. Lost a lot of blood."
Bright just stared.
"...I got shot?"
The man sighed. "Yes. Which, in case you were wondering, isn't great for your health."
"Noted."
The doctor set the clipboard down. "I'm Dr. Roland."
Bright tried to sit up. Regretted it instantly.
Dr. Roland raised an eyebrow. "Easy, kid. You're stitched up, but if you move too much, I'm not guaranteeing those stitches will stay in place."
Bright swallowed. This was real.
Not a bad dream. Not some weird hallucination. He really got shot.
And then—Emily.
His heart lurched. "The girl—"
"She's fine." Dr. Roland's voice softened. "A little shaken up, but no injuries. She and the other kids were taken in by social services."
Bright let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Emily was safe.
But that didn't answer one important question.
"What about the guys who did it?"
Dr. Roland's jaw tightened. "Arrested."
That should've made Bright feel better. But somehow, it didn't.
He didn't know why, but something about the way Dr. Roland said it felt… off.
Like there was more to it than what he was telling him.
And Bright? He was too tired to ask.
For now.