Deadly Plan: How Will I Survive?

On the sleeper train, the young man on the opposite bunk was staring at me.

I felt a wave of fear and hesitated, unsure if I should call the conductor.

He leaned forward and said in a low, sinister tone, "You need to get rid of that scar by your eye, or you'll keep having bad luck."

I was stunned.

He was right; I'd been down on my luck for the past few years.

As I thought about it, I realized my misfortune had begun around the time I got this scar.

1

It was ten o'clock at night when I boarded the train, alone, with my suitcase.

The lights in the carriage were already off, and darkness filled the space.

Using the faint glow from my phone, I managed to find my bunk.

It was quiet.

I yawned, pulled the quilt over me, and tried to settle in for sleep. But just as I was about to drift off, a shiver ran through me.

I noticed the young man across from me had sat up and was staring intently in my direction.

He looked to be about twenty, with big, black-framed glasses. His beard was scruffy, and his hair was a mess. He had an unkempt appearance that made me uneasy.

I remembered all the recent news reports of women being harassed on night trains. Instantly, my drowsiness vanished. I gripped my quilt tightly and watched him warily.

He seemed oblivious to my discomfort and continued to stare, inching closer.

My muscles tensed, and I debated whether to call for the conductor. But before I could act, he spoke first. "You need to get rid of that scar by your eye, or you'll keep having bad luck."

I was taken aback, stunned into silence.

I never expected him to say such a thing.

Seeing I didn’t respond, he added, “Get it looked at as soon as you get off the train, or you’ll face serious trouble soon.”

I finally found my voice, "How do you know?"

He was right—I was on the brink of serious trouble.

Just before the New Year, my company had secured a major contract and tasked me with proofreading the details.

Somehow, I had made a critical error, miswriting an important price. Now, I was on my way to meet the client and fix the mistake.

If I couldn't resolve it, not only would my hopes of becoming a permanent employee be dashed, but I might also be held financially liable for millions of dollars.

In that case, my career could be over.

Seeing the shock on my face, the man seemed to know he had struck a nerve. He pushed his messy hair back and asked coolly, "That scar—it looks recent. When did you get it?"

By now, I had started to regain my composure.

He didn’t seem like the usual timid creep, so I decided to tell him the truth. “Last spring, my best friend was trimming my eyebrows, and accidentally hurt me.”

Linda Anderson, my college roommate, and I had been inseparable for over three years, closer than sisters.

She was skilled at makeup and always helped me with my eyebrows.

But this time, while trimming, she slipped and scratched me by mistake.

She cried out of guilt, and I tried to comfort her, saying it was just a minor injury and that I didn’t rely on my looks for anything important.

Luckily, the wound healed quickly, leaving only a faint scar, which I soon forgot about.

“I was right.”

The young man nodded as if he understood. Then, looking at me intensely, he said, “That cut fell right on your luck line. From that day, your good fortune vanished.”