As Julian leaned back in the chair, enjoying that strange, quiet thrill still buzzing inside him, his eyes wandered—and locked onto the large TV mounted on the wall, the black screen staring back at him, almost calling, "Switch me on. Feel me too."

  An idea sparked.

  He grabbed the remote and switched it on.

  He wanted to feel it—how much even the mundane things, like a movie or a song, had changed after his third wish.

  The screen flickered.

  His favorite song started. Heavy bass. Flashing colors.

  What a coincidence, he thought—but even that small thought vanished the moment the sound hit him.

  It slammed through him like a wave.

  His heart stumbled—then caught the rhythm and ran with it.

  Every emotion boiled inside him—fear, thrill, joy, anger—everything, except sorrow.

  The vibration alone sent his blood rushing—fast and reckless, like a bike pushed past its limit. And this was just the rhythm of the song.

  As his eyes focused on the dance and the beat, the rest of the room began to blur—until it felt like he was being pulled inside the TV itself.

  It didn’t feel like just a screen anymore.

  It felt real.

  He was standing in front of the live performance—watching them dance, hearing them sing, feeling the background music thundering through his chest.

  Julian was still lost inside the surge of sound and light, the excitement triggering adrenaline to flood his veins.

  Heat built inside him, thick and pressing. Sweat poured from his pores, slowly soaking his clothes—most of all under his arms, where it clung heavily to the fabric.

  His sweaty fingers, trembling, slipped—and accidentally pressed against the remote.

  The music channel flickered away—replaced by a News Channel.

  The sudden shift yanked him out of his illusion.

  He blinked, disoriented.

  The thick, sour smell of his own sweat filled the room.

  He sniffed reflexively, took a deep breath—but the scent was so familiar, he didn’t care.

  His eyes dropped to his hand—the sweaty thumb still resting on the remote.

  His lips twitched in annoyance.

  "Che," he muttered, already moving to switch it back to the music channel—

  But his thumb froze mid-press.

  His breath caught.

  On the TV screen—

  Julian’s picture filled the center of the monitor.

  A photo, probably ripped straight from one of his old social media pages.

  For a split second, he thought—Why is my picture on the news?

  Then his gaze widened—

  Beside his photo, another image appeared.

  The dead body of the biker.

  Laid out on the slick, rain-dark asphalt.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Julian stared at the screen, frozen.

  The news anchor’s voice rolled on, cold and unstoppable: "The missing victim’s phone was traced."

  "Even after a full reset," the anchor said, "the iPhone 25 Pro keeps a hidden tracking signal inside the hardware. That’s how the missing phone was traced—and linked to this man: Julian."

  The screen zoomed in on Julian’s picture, as if forcing the world to remember him.

  Seeing his picture zooming in, and hearing the anchor’s words,

  Julian’s body trembled.

  Unease crawled like cold insects under his skin.

  The inevitable—the thing he had always convinced himself would never happen—was happening.

  And all because of that cursed iPhone.

  Who would've thought—even after formatting it, that cursed iPhone 25 Pro would still leave a hidden trace behind.

  Julian’s chest tightened. His hand clenched around the remote, the plastic creaking under his grip.

  A cold coil of anxiety tightened inside him, harder with every breath.

  No sadness came. No regret.

  He had already sacrificed sorrow to Sofi for a wish.

  Instead, Julian’s survival instinct screamed inside his mind:

  I have to move.

  I have to get out.

  I have to hide before they find me.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Just then, a sharp notification sound from his iPhone snapped him out of his thoughts.

  His sweaty palm fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the phone.

  A new message blinked on the screen:

  [Julian, you are only a suspect of theft. Surrendering peacefully will make you suffer less. If you try to escape, we will confirm you as the murderer and close the case.— From Police]

  Julian stared at the message.

  His grip trembled, the sweat making the iPhone greasy and slick in his hand.

  For a long moment, he just stared.

  Then—an idea struck.

  He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled hard, releasing the turbid, heavy air from his chest.

  He wiped his greasy hands on his T-shirt, his face shifting—from shock to a new, sharp determination.

  A desperate hope.

  His voice broke the heavy air of the room: "Sofi... what is the equivalent sacrifice price to make myself completely unrelated to the biker's death case?”

  There was a pause—a second of mechanical silence, as if calculating.

  Then Sofi’s cold voice echoed from the iPhone speaker: "Julian, the equivalent sacrifice price to make yourself completely unrelated to the biker’s death case is—your middle finger from your left hand, and your first ten years of childhood memories.”

  Julian stood up from the chair.

  For a moment, his legs felt numb—as if all the blood had drained out, leaving them stiff and heavy like wood.

  Sofi’s words still echoed in his ears, like a thin needle sliding through his nerves.

  He stared down at his left middle finger.

  His throat tightened.

  He couldn’t do it.

  He couldn’t imagine doing it.

  His voice cracked slightly as he asked: "Sofi... can you change the sacrifice price?"

  A short silence.

  Then Sofi answered—cold, steady, unhesitating—like ice water splashed across his face: "The price, once mentioned, cannot be changed.”

  He placed his iPhone down on the desk, the device slipping slightly from his sweaty palm.

  Julian knew he couldn't hesitate anymore.

  Time was running out.

  Any moment, the police would come and arrest him.

  Better to sacrifice a finger—better to erase his childhood—than rot in prison for life.

  He gritted his teeth. Made his decision.

  This was it.

  Cutting off his own finger?

  He glanced toward the kitchen, his eyes cold and steady.

  He entered the kitchen, moving fast, his mind clawing for something—anything—to give him courage to cut his own finger.

  He yanked open the fridge, grabbed a cold beer bottle, hooked the cap off with his teeth, and poured the beer straight into his mouth.

  The sour, bitter smell filled the air, clinging not just to his tongue, but to his breath, his skin.

  The familiar bitterness washed through him, a thin layer of numbness rising over the fear crawling in his chest.

  Slightly drunk. Slightly braver.

  He set the empty bottle down with a soft clink.

  A short burp escaped his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Then turned back to the counter.

  Knives stood waiting in the holder.

  He grabbed a new, sharp kitchen knife—the cold metal flashing under the kitchen light.

  For a second, he caught his reflection in the blade—messy hair, wild sweaty face, trembling hands.

  He let out a dry hiccup, the sound echoing through the empty kitchen.

  He sank down into the chair, the seat swallowing him.

  A faint dizziness buzzed in his head, but time kept slipping past him, faster and faster.

  Weirdly, under all the fear, a sick excitement buzzed too—and the dizziness from the beer felt five times stronger than it should.

  It was like every cell in his body was jumping back and forth—between a laugh and a scream.

  A cold, broken laugh escaped him, sharp and ugly.

  He placed his left hand flat on the desk, palm facing upward.

  Gripped the knife in his right hand.

  Slowly, he curled his fingers into a loose fist—all except the middle finger standing straight.

  He stared at it.

  For a moment, it felt like the finger was cursing him. Fuck yourself.

  He shook his head, clearing the dizziness slightly.

  Tightened his grip on the knife.

  He stretched out his right hand, aiming to strike down fast—one clean cut to lessen the suffering.

  But the thought of cutting himself made his heart hammer against his ribs, fast and wild.

  He sucked in a deep breath—then forced his hand to move.

  The knife struck down—but at the last second, his body jerked away.

  The blade barely grazed his skin.

  He gasped, pulling back sharply, his chest heaving.

  Instinct screamed inside him, louder than any siren.

  He sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself.

  I have to.

  No other way.

  His gaze hardened, and the world around him blurred at the edges.

  He tightened his grip on the knife, until his knuckles turned white.

  Then he struck down again—harder this time, with full strength.

  But instinct screamed even louder.

  At the last second, he yanked his left hand off the desk—the fingers trembling violently.

  The knife slammed into empty wood with a heavy, hollow thud.

  His right hand buzzed from the impact, the vibration rattling up his wrist, a sharp, stinging pain shooting through his fingers.

  I can't.

  I can't.

  His chest heaved, every breath cracking his ribs like glass.

  False bravery crumbling inside him.

  Then—

  a distant sound.

  Siren wails echoed from the police cars in the bright, burning sunlight.

  Julian’s head snapped toward the window. The flashing red and blue lights smeared across the nearby street.

  No.

  He couldn't wait anymore.

  One last breath.

  He swallowed air into his lungs—filling them until the dizziness blurred his vision, until a twisted thrill buzzed inside his brain.

  Cut it.

  Cut it now.

  Suddenly, his gaze sharpened—and his right hand slammed the knife down onto his left middle finger with everything he had.

  A sickening crunch.

  A burst of white-hot pain tore up his arm.

  He screamed—

  "AHHHHHHH!"

  The sound ripped out of him, raw and broken.

  The severed finger dropped onto the desk, a crooked, bloody thing lying in a dark, spreading puddle.

  Blood poured from the stump of his hand, hot and wild, staining everything red.

  But Julian didn’t fall.

  Didn’t faint.

  He gritted his teeth, staggered back, clutching the bleeding mess with his other hand.

  With shaking limbs, he grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped it tightly around the stump—not to heal, but just to stop the bleeding.

  To keep himself from dying.

  Pain pulsed through him, sharp and steady—his left hand trembled, blood still seeping through the cloth.

  But without sorrow in him, he couldn’t even cry.

  He didn’t feel the grief—only the pain.

  He stumbled back to the desk, picked up the severed finger without hesitation, and placed it on the iPhone screen.

  His voice came low, rough, but clear. “Sofi, I wish to make myself completely unrelated to the biker’s death case.”

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  Five seconds.

  A black vertical crack split open across the iPhone screen—a mouth.

  Jagged, serrated teeth unfurled from the digital glass, and with a crunching sound that echoed through the room, it devoured the finger whole.

  No trace remained. No blood. No fragment. As if it had never existed.

  Julian stared.

  He had watched his own finger get eaten by a mouth with teeth inside a phone.

  His stomach twisted. A cold unease crawled under his skin like worms, slow and sick.

  But before he could think further, the mouth on the iPhone inhaled—and from the center of Julian’s eyebrows, a faint green wisp rose.

  His first ten years of childhood.

  It floated for a heartbeat—then was swallowed cleanly by the serrated, gnashing mouth on the screen.

  He didn’t even have time to watch what happened next.

  A splitting headache stabbed through his head—sharp and deep, just like the last time he sacrificed a part of his memory.

  He clutched his head—his still- bleeding, fingerless hand wrapped in a towel, pressed against his temple—and groaned.

  Double pain.

  Memory and body.

  Then the iPhone crackled again.

  The serrated mouth opened one last time—and spat out a small violet wisp.

  Not green.

  Not white.

  Violet. Like a drop of something forbidden.

  But unlike before, it didn’t drift toward Julian.

  It just… hovered.

  And the mouth vanished, the screen returning to its flawless, untouched surface.

  This time, the violet wisp didn’t float gently.

  It spun—fast—like a planet caught in its own orbit.

  Then—

  Boom.

  But there was no sound.

  It burst silently, like a star collapsing into itself.

  The aftermath rippled outward—a wave spreading from the center of the silent explosion, like a stone dropped in a still pond.

  The rings expanded—wide and endless—skipping past Julian—but not missing the world.

  They touched everything.

  Every person. Every digital device. Every document, database, and record. Every village. Every city. Every country. All over the world.

  No gap. No exception.

  Then—

  silence.