Future Self’s Deadly Game
Shirley
The day I inherited Grandpa's "Peacemaker," I received a call from myself, ten years in the future.
"Sienna, don't give that gun to Lorenzo."
I obeyed without question. That night, forced to use his faulty Glock, Lorenzo was beaten into a vegetative state during a duel.
Guilt nearly broke me, but my parents nursed me back to health. Or so I thought.
"You idiot," my future self sneered. "It was a lie to get you on the operating table. They want your heart for your brother!"
Finding a transplant agreement in my father's study, I publicly severed ties with the Morettis.
Only later, after Lorenzo died from rejection, did I learn they just needed my rare blood, not my heart.
I wanted to return and atone, but the phone rang again. "Your parents will kill you for honor. Don't go back."
I waited. But instead of assassins, news arrived: the Morettis had been slaughtered by rivals.
I bolted for home, only to be mowed down by a black sedan.
As I died, I couldn't understand why my future self had orchestrated my end.
Then I opened my eyes. I was back at the ceremony.
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