Arista's Code

I was driven out of the villa's annex and dumped into a storage room.

The water was cut. The power was cut. In the dead of night, the entire city glittered with lights—except for my tiny room, sunk in total darkness.

The air in the storage room reeked of dust.

I lit a candle I'd dug out from a corner. The flame wavered.

It was cold. I opened the copy of the Criminal Code I always carried and draped it over my legs to keep warm.

Using what little battery my phone had left, I searched for the address of a nearby 24‑hour print shop.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Carmen.

A photo followed. She was in a brightly lit private hospital VIP ward, flashing a peace sign at the camera.

Carmen: [Arista, the doctor says my kidneys are failing and I need a relative to be matched.]

Carmen: [Relatives have the highest compatibility, you know. Arista, you're my sister. You wouldn't just watch me die, would you? Hehe.]

In the photo, she looked rosy and radiant, makeup flawless—nothing like a patient at all.

Before I could reply, a voice message from Benji came through.

His voice was low, stripped of any room for refusal, edged with cold brutality.

"Tomorrow morning at nine, show up at the Collins Corporation Rehabilitation Center, out in the suburbs. If you dare not show up, I'll have someone tie you up and bring you there. Arista, for Carmen's sake, I don't mind getting a little blood on my hands."

I listened, then calmly typed my reply.

Me: [Noted.]

Me: ['Blood on my hands,' by contextual analysis, refers to forcibly harvesting a human organ through violent means.]

Me: ['Tie you up and bring you there' refers to the commission of the crime of kidnapping.]

There was a long silence before a single message came back.

Benji: [You're insane. Tomorrow is the day you die.]

I turned off my phone and blew out the candle.

I didn't run.

With the printed documents in hand, I called the municipal criminal investigation unit.

"Officer, my name is Arista Collins. I am making a report of an illegal organ trafficking operation located at the Collins Corporation Rehabilitation Center in the suburbs.

"Tomorrow morning at nine, they plan to perform a forced live kidney extraction on me. I will enter voluntarily and provide real-time location data to assist law enforcement."

At eight-thirty the next morning, I arrived right on time at the entrance of the Collins Corporation Rehabilitation Center.

My adoptive mother was already waiting there, looking entirely justified in herself.

"At least you know your place," she said.

She looked me up and down, her eyes devoid of warmth.

"Don't look so gloomy. You should feel honored to save Carmen using your kidney. You should be grateful."

I said nothing and followed her inside.

Deep within the facility was a makeshift operating room.

The air reeked of disinfectant, but the equipment was crude.

Carmen lay on the hospital bed, leisurely playing on her phone. When she saw me enter, she immediately shoved it under her pillow and began to moan weakly.

Benji stood by the bed, a roll of medical restraints in his hand, staring at me coldly.

He lifted his chin and pointed to the empty bed beside hers.

"Are you going to lie down on your own," he asked, "or should I help you?"

He tossed a document in front of me.

"Sign this voluntary donation agreement, and we'll let bygones be bygones."