Until Twenty One

Chapter One

A soft hum filled the quiet interior of the Andrada family's sleek black sedan as it glided along the highway. Fourteen-year-old Camila Andrada sat in the backseat, her legs tucked to one side, eyes glued to her phone screen. A pop song played faintly over her earbuds, but her attention was elsewhere—scrolling through social media, lost in her own world.

Up front, her father, Zeon Andrada, a composed man in his late thirties with salt-and-pepper hair, was focused on the road. Beside him, her mother, Celestine, radiant even in her simplicity, chatted softly about their plans for dinner. The faint scent of her floral perfume filled the car, adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise cool evening.

Everything felt ordinary. Too ordinary.

As they approached an intersection, the faint glow of headlights flashed in the distance. Camila barely noticed, too absorbed in her phone to register her mother's sudden intake of breath.

"Zeon, watch—!" Celestine's voice cut off, swallowed by the deafening screech of tires.

Time slowed.

The impact came like a violent storm, a crushing force that sent the car spinning. Camila's phone flew from her hand, her body flung against the seatbelt as the world turned into chaos. Glass shattered, metal groaned, and then—a sudden, jarring stillness.

Silence.

Camila's head throbbed as she struggled to orient herself. The car was tilted awkwardly, smoke curling from the engine. Her vision blurred as she looked forward—her parents were slumped in their seats.

"Mom? Dad?" Her voice cracked, trembling.

No response.

A faint sound of sirens began to grow in the distance, but the minutes felt like hours. When the paramedics arrived, their voices were urgent, sharp against the quiet aftermath of the crash.

"37-year-old male, unresponsive. BP dropping fast—70 over 40."
"35-year-old female, severe head trauma. Pulse is weak, but we've got it—prepare for intubation!"
"What about the girl? Check her vitals!"

Camila felt hands on her, lifting her out of the car. Her body protested with aches, but she didn't care. "My parents," she whispered, her voice lost in the commotion. "Help them, please."

The flashing red and blue lights painted the scene in harsh, staccato bursts. Camila was placed onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. From her position, she could see her parents—her father's face pale and still, her mother's features obscured by the oxygen mask.

The ride to the hospital was a blur of beeping monitors and hurried voices.

Hospital

"Code trauma, ETA two minutes!" The paramedic's voice crackled through the radio, urgent and commanding. The ambulance careened into the hospital's emergency bay, its sirens blaring one last time before coming to a halt. The double doors at the rear of the vehicle swung open, revealing the frantic motion within.

"Let's move!" A team of medical staff in scrubs and gloves swarmed the scene, their movements efficient yet tense. The gurneys were pulled out one by one, starting with Zeon Andrada. His ashen face and motionless body sent a chill through the air.

"37-year-old male, suspected blunt force trauma to the chest and abdomen," one of the paramedics reported as they wheeled him in. "BP critically low—60 over 30. Possible internal bleeding."

A second team worked on Celestine Andrada, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her pale skin was smeared with blood, and the faint rise and fall of her chest seemed to grow slower by the second.