Category: English

My piano practice was getting me evicted from every apartment complex in the city, so I did something drastic. I bought a “Ghost Condo.” It’s a dirt-cheap unit in a high-end building on the outskirts of town where wealthy families stash their ancestors’ ashes to avoid buying expensive cemetery plots. The whole building is dead silent. Literally. I’m the only living resident. I can bang on the keys however I want. One night, I was deep in the zone, shredding through a piece, when a roar exploded from the empty air behind me: “You suck! The fourth measure is wrong, wrong, WRONG!” I froze, the hair on my arms standing up. “Uh… Care to demonstrate, Master Ghost?” 1 I practice twelve hours a day. No landlord could tolerate me. Then a realtor told me about “The Spire.” It’s a high-rise out in the sticks. Rent was pennies, amenities were top-tier, and the neighbors? They were all in urns. At first, I thought “no living neighbors” was a sales pitch. But when I moved in, the silence was heavy. The garage was empty. The hallways echoed. The security guard looked at me like I was an alien. Even DoorDash drivers refused to deliver to the lobby. I asked the guard, “Hey, I thought these units were sold out. Why haven’t I seen a single soul?” The guard blew a smoke ring, looking bored. “They’re all full.” “You’re joking. I haven’t seen a ghost of a person.” “Ghosts don’t cast shadows, kid.” I shivered. “Excuse me?” “I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “But the owners bought these units to store cremated remains. It’s cheaper than a mausoleum plot. You and I? We’re the only things with a pulse in here.” Ghost Condos. I thought about it for a second and grinned. Perfect. No noise complaints. I could play until my fingers bled. “If you get scared, call the front desk,” the guard muttered, thinking I was crazy. 2 Scared? I didn’t have time to be scared. The Sterling Symphony was holding auditions in a month. I wanted to be a pianist there more than I wanted to breathe. My professor always said, “Harper, your technique is flawless, but you lack… soul.” That invisible, intangible “soul.” “Listen to Elias Thorne,” he’d say. “That man didn’t just play; he bled into the keys.” Elias Thorne. The former prodigy of the Sterling Symphony. He debuted as a teen genius, sold out global tours, and was the god of the classical world. But geniuses burn out. He developed severe mental health issues, retired early, and jumped off a hotel roof six months ago. He was only twenty-six. The audition piece was his signature track: Opus of Dreams. I cranked my speakers, blasting Thorne’s recording, then tried to replicate it. Night fell. The complex was pitch black, save for my lone window. I was pouring my heart into the keys when a voice barked right in my ear: “Annoying! The fourth measure is wrong! Wrong! WRONG!” I spun around. The door was locked. The room was empty. I walked to the balcony. Just the wind and a few flickering streetlights. “Who’s there?” I shouted. A crow flew past. Silence returned. Hallucinations. Great. I need sleep. I sat back down. Focus, Harper. I played the first few bars. “You could play it a hundred times and it’ll still be trash! STOP!” This time, the voice was clear. A man’s voice. Deep, angry, and right next to me. “Who are you?” I stammered, gripping the bench. “Does it matter? Listening to you butcher this song every night is torture. I’m losing my mind.” Excuse me? I graduated with honors. I’m not trash. “If you don’t know music, shut up,” I snapped at the air. “The fourth measure is exactly what’s on the sheet music.” The air went silent. See? A pretender. I put my foot on the pedal. “If you didn’t play it wrong,” the voice sneered, “then the sheet music is wrong.” I paused. Even I felt the disconnect. I could never capture the flavor Elias Thorne had. “This is the official score from the Symphony…” Clink. A piano key depressed. By itself. My hands were in my lap. Clink. Clink. I watched in horror and awe as the keys began to dance. Invisible fingers were running across the ivory. It was Opus of Dreams. My eyes saw nothing, but my ears saw everything. The power, the aggression, the sorrow. It was a live performance that eclipsed any recording I’d ever heard. The song ended. The room vibrated with the aftershocks. A long, heavy sigh echoed in the room. “Did… did you play that?” I whispered. “Who else? Casper the Friendly Ghost?” The voice snapped. 3 “Okay, fine,” he huffed. “I’m a ghost.” “A piano-playing ghost?” I reached out. My hand passed through cold air. “Scared?” “No.” “Liar.” I wasn’t lying. The fear was gone, replaced by awe. “That was incredible,” I said sincerely. “Master… can you teach me?” “Why are you obsessed with this song?” “I’m auditioning for the Sterling Symphony.” “Hah,” he scoffed. “If you can’t hear the difference between what I played and what you played, don’t bother. Go home.” He started playing again. I closed my eyes, dissecting every note. He was right. The sheet music was wrong. His interpretation had subtle shifts in tempo and dynamics that the paper didn’t capture. It was the “soul” I was missing. When he finished, I clapped. “Stop,” he commanded coldly. “Hands are for playing, not clapping.” What a grump. “You. Play it.” I took a deep breath. I channeled his anger, his power. For the first time, the music felt alive under my fingers. When I finished, silence filled the room. “Are you… Elias Thorne?” I asked into the void. Silence. “Hey! Mr. Grumpy? You leave?” He was gone. 4 The next day, my professor was stunned. “Harper, you finally unlocked it.” I was convinced the ghost was Elias Thorne. The style was identical. And Elias had died six months ago. It made sense he’d be haunting a high-end urn depository. I asked the guard who owned unit 502—the apartment right across from mine. He checked the log. “Surname is Thorne.” I jumped. “Thorne! I knew it!” The guard rolled his eyes. “Weirdo.” I ran up to 502 and knocked. “Elias? Thank you.” No answer. It was daytime; ghosts probably sleep. I wrote a note on a Post-it: Thank you. Can we meet again tonight? I slid it under the door of 502. That night, I practiced with renewed fire. “Hey, are you here?” “Did I improve?” “Mr. Grumpy?” Nothing. 5 I woke up to sunlight streaming in. I walked to my piano and froze. The Post-it note was sticking to the fallboard of my piano. Thank you. Can we meet again tonight? I turned it over. On the back, in scribbled handwriting: You improved. He was here. Over the next few days, we established a routine. I slid a note under 502; the next morning, I’d find critique on the back. “Softer on the left hand.” “More pedal.” “Too much hesitation.” One night, I was feeling brave. “Mr. Grumpy, I know you’re there. Why won’t you talk to me?” “Should I burn some spirit money for you? Or maybe a paper piano?” “GET OUT!” The roar shook the room. He was back. “Mr. Grumpy…” “Who is your teacher?” he snapped. “Your phrasing is small. Petty.” “But everyone wants the next Elias Thorne…” “Why be another Elias? Be yourself.” “Here. Left hand stronger. Like this.” The keys moved. I pulled out my phone and hit record. “I’m leaving,” he said abruptly after an hour. “Goodbye… best teacher ever?” I waved at the air. From the hallway, a voice drifted back. “Mr. Grumpy is fine. I approve.” I slept with headphones on, listening to the recording. It was a treasure. But listening closely, I realized something. The living Elias Thorne played with majesty. This ghost played with rage. Like he was trying to punch through a wall.

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The moment my roommate, Phoebe Davis, learned I had three guys waiting in the wings—a solid, well-curated roster of backups—she let out a laugh that was half-joke, half-condescending snicker. “Honestly, I feel bad for your future husband,” Phoebe said, swiping through TikTok on her phone. “He’s going to drain his 401k just for the down payment on a wife who’s already been driven around the block a few times.” I considered this for a moment. She wasn’t wrong, but the delivery was pure Phoebe—snide and dripping with manufactured innocence. “You know what?” I offered, shrugging. “I could always transfer one of them to you.” Phoebe’s eyes, glued to the screen of her phone, widened instantly. 1 “I… I don’t know about that,” she stammered, her gaze darting everywhere but at me. Then, the air around us shimmered with an imagined text overlay—a phenomenon I’d grown numb to, but one that Phoebe seemed utterly reliant on. [OMG PHOEBE! Don’t even hesitate! Skylar’s backups aren’t just anyone!] [A Wall Street CEO, a Biker Bad Boy, and a Boston Trust Fund Prince—all ripped, all rich, all prime quality. This is the stuff of fantasies!] [Heh, the thought of Phoebe getting all the fish Skylar carefully baited is just so delicious.] [I’m already craving the scene where Phoebe brings her whole harem to rub it in Skylar’s face, watching the look of wild regret on the villainess’s face! Get it, girlie!] Phoebe’s expression cycled through shock, disbelief, and finally, settled on a look of utter, greedy ecstasy. “You have three guys on rotation, right?” she declared, her tone suddenly booming with the confidence of a shopper at a luxury outlet. “I want all of them.” I let out a soft, appreciative chuckle. “Three at once might give you indigestion,” I said, leaning back. “Let’s start with one. Once you’ve secured him completely, then we can talk about the other two.” Phoebe hesitated, then nodded sharply. “Fine. But don’t you dare regret this later.” “No regrets,” I promised. “One backup for ten thousand dollars. Cash only.” Her jaw dropped. “Wait, you’re charging me? Ten grand? Are you serious? Just go rob a bank!” I remained cool, unbothered. “Oh. In that case, let’s forget I offered.” The imaginary comments immediately flared up in a panic: [NO, PHOEBE! Don’t let this opportunity slip! This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal!] [These men are worth billions, you idiot! Ten thousand dollars is nothing! You’ll be swimming in ten million once you reel them in!] [Skylar is so shortsighted, it’s sickening. A poor girl with no class. If she knew she was trading a multi-billionaire for ten grand, she’d be clawing at the walls with regret!] Phoebe swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the ceiling where the imaginary words hovered. “Fine,” she conceded, her voice a strained whisper. “Ten thousand. Deal.” 2 It took Phoebe a week to scrape the cash together. In the meantime, I had carefully selected which of my current prospects I would pass on—the fish I was ready to release back into the stream. “Ashton Lennox, 21 years old, six-foot-two, eight-pack abs,” I recited, handing her a burner phone and a gaming console account. “He’s a student at the university across town, from a very average background. We met playing this game.” I continued my detailed briefing, every word a subtle lie designed to maintain the narrative I’d created. “He occasionally buys me takeout coffee—the gifts never cost more than thirty bucks. His parents’ messy divorce left him with serious attachment issues. He’s very sensitive and needs constant reassurance.” I looked her dead in the eye, offering the full customer-service rundown. “I’ve established myself as the ‘Gentle, Understanding Older Woman.’ You have to maintain that persona and give him all the security he craves.” [Hahaha, the villainess still thinks the main guy is just a poor college student. Our Ashton is just testing her—he hates gold-diggers, so he acts broke!] [To think Skylar spent all that time only to get a few cheap coffee orders, and our girl Phoebe gets everything for free! I can’t stop laughing!] Phoebe’s lips curled into a smug half-smile. The moment the accounts were hers, she changed the passwords. She gave me a pointed, triumphant look. “Skylar, when I’ve got this guy secured, you’re going to be so sorry you let him go.” I smiled sweetly. “I won’t regret it. I only hope you don’t.” Phoebe just scoffed, dismissing me. She immediately logged in and began chatting with “Ashton.” For the next few weeks, Phoebe was inseparable from her phone, either texting him or playing the game with him. The imaginary commentary confirmed that things were going well: Ashton hadn’t noticed the switch. Phoebe, guided by the online cheerleaders, was slowly erasing my digital footprint and meticulously executing the seduction plan. A fortnight later, Phoebe walked into our dorm room. The first thing I noticed was the dazzling sparkle on her neck—a massive diamond necklace. She immediately noticed my stare, tossing her head back with a triumphant smirk. “Ashton bought me this necklace,” she announced. “I looked it up online. It’s worth over two million dollars.” I nodded slowly, offering a simple, “It’s beautiful.” Phoebe sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t get men,” she mused. “You’re so much prettier and smarter than I am, and you were with him for so long. All he ever got you was a few cheap coffees. I’m just average and a little clumsy, and we’ve only been talking for two weeks, but he sends me this million-dollar piece. Why do you think that is?” What else could I say? “Because,” I explained, my voice flat, “he was pretending to be broke the entire time he was talking to me.” 3 I knew Ashton was rich. Of course I did. That’s why I pursued him in the first place. We’d met on a high-stakes mobile game. That game had two kinds of players: whales who drop tens of thousands of dollars without a second thought, and people like me who hustle to sell account boosts for cash. Ashton was the former. I was the latter. The moment I saw his game avatar, clad in gear that would cost six figures in real money, I knew he was no ordinary catch. A once-in-a-lifetime sight. I immediately began my calculated pursuit. Daily dungeon runs, sweet morning and goodnight texts, endless concerned inquiries. I waited patiently, and one night, after he poured out a sob story about the ‘pain of his unstable childhood,’ I solidified my persona as the ‘Gentle, Understanding Older Woman’—the one stable, maternal figure he needed. The needy, emotionally starved boy was securely hooked. Perhaps he feared that everyone who got close to him only wanted his money. Ashton had adopted the cover of a cash-strapped, average college student with poor grades and a plain appearance. He’d often play the pitiful victim, asking me in a small, vulnerable voice, “Babe, am I really worth your love, being so ordinary? I’m so scared you’ll meet the real me, be disappointed, and just… leave.” I’d be silently rolling my eyes at his full complement of custom, god-tier game gear. For a rich guy, dropping a million in a mobile game is probably like dropping a hundred bucks for a normal person—they don’t even notice the cost. He hadn’t even realized how badly he’d exposed himself. But I’d reply with syrupy sweetness: “Never. In my heart, you are the most special little puppy. I could never leave you.” Ashton seemed determined to maintain the ‘broke’ narrative. He was incredibly cheap. His coffee orders were from no-name chains, and his gifts were usually nine-ninety-nine-and-free-shipping junk from Amazon. But his sweet talk was on point, he consistently carried me in the game, and he’d occasionally send me scorching-hot, borderline-explicit photos of his abs. For a while, I genuinely liked him. Until one time. I was rushing to a gig on my scooter when I crashed into a road barrier. My right leg was fractured, and a kind stranger rushed me to the ER. The x-rays, the hospital stay, the follow-up physical therapy—it came to over twenty thousand dollars. I was desperate. I took a picture of myself in the hospital bed, looking pathetic, and reached out to Ashton. “Babe, can you lend me some cash? I promise I’ll pay you back the second I’m better!” His response? Silence. For an entire month, Ashton did not reply. Luckily, I found a new prospect who covered the hospital bill. Otherwise, I might have been permanently disabled. It was only after I was fully recovered and discharged that Ashton resumed our chat, acting as if nothing had happened—daily good mornings, constant life updates. The jerk. Why didn’t he just wait for me to die and then send flowers to my grave? I wanted to dump him then and there. But I couldn’t find the right moment. You don’t just casually break up with a guy who can crush you socially or financially without a second thought. A messy exit could have serious repercussions. So I played along, performing affection while shifting my focus to other men in my portfolio. Maybe he sensed the chill. Ashton’s neediness and possessiveness exploded. He started relentlessly pushing for us to meet in person. Absolutely not. Online life is one thing. It can’t contaminate my real-world hustle. I was trying to figure out how to put him off when Phoebe, my convenient roommate, stepped up. She’d taken this spoiled, demanding idiot off my hands. Perfect. If she could actually manage to get money out of Ashton, that was her skill, not my loss. At least I had secured ten thousand dollars, cold hard cash. Since my low-key attitude failed to provoke her, Phoebe dropped the topic of the necklace. “By the way, Ashton wants to meet up in person,” she said, her eyes flicking to mine. “He said to bring all my roommates—he wants to treat us to dinner and get to know you guys.” She slowly twisted the knife. “Skylar, you’re free the day after tomorrow, right?” [Awww, finally, the highly anticipated confrontation! Will Skylar break down?] [The villainess thinks he’s an ordinary guy, but when she sees our Ashton is a total Greek god in person, she’s going to be absolutely demolished!] [Oh, but I’m worried. What if Skylar decides she wants him back? What if she tries to steal him from our girl?] [Relax! Ashton is clearly obsessed with Phoebe now. Even if he knows the truth, he’ll choose her without hesitation!] [If Skylar tries anything, Ashton will protect Phoebe and crush her!] 4 I was ready to decline. But then Phoebe mentioned it. Ashton was bringing a welcome gift for each roommate. A solid gold chain for everyone. I immediately canceled my plans. Damn capitalism! The day of the dinner, I wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, no makeup, and chose the seat furthest from the head of the table. I wanted zero attention. Phoebe was the star. When Ashton walked in, I glanced up. Pale skin, perfect, chiseled features. An aura of cool, detached entitlement that only comes with obscene wealth. Yes, I thought. Definitely a guy who can drop a million in a mobile game without blinking. After my momentary appraisal, I went back to looking at my phone. Ashton’s eyes lingered on me for a second, then quickly moved on. Phoebe rushed to greet him, all fake sweetness. “You’re late, sweetie! Punishment: you have to peel all my shrimp for me later.” She reached out to take his hand. He subtly sidestepped the touch. “My apologies for the delay,” Ashton said with a faint smile. “I brought some gifts for everyone. Thank you all for taking care of my girlfriend.” He turned to Phoebe. “Sweetie, will you introduce me to your roommates?” “Of course.” Phoebe went down the line, but when she got to me, she paused, a venomous smile playing on her lips. “And this is Skylar Rhodes. The campus queen. Beautiful, smart, and a long line of admirers. She’s famous for juggling three guys at once, so she’s pretty talented.” Ashton froze. “Three…?” I looked up, meeting his intense, dark gaze. I gave him a calm, casual smile. “Correction. Only two now.” Ashton stared at me, his eyes wide and unblinking. The atmosphere turned instantly arctic. Luckily, the waiter chose that moment to serve the main course, easing the tension. During the meal, Phoebe worked overtime to show off their ‘relationship,’ demanding Ashton feed her and peel her shrimp. I kept my head down, hunched in the corner, casually eating and texting on my phone. Suddenly, my phone was snatched out of my hand. I looked up. Ashton was standing over me, his face disturbingly calm. “Why are you on your phone the whole time? Is the food not to your liking?” The nerve of this guy. Zero boundaries. I frowned, simply holding out my hand, silently demanding my phone back. Ashton ignored me, instead glancing down at the screen. “What’s so interesting? Can I see?” The vibe was getting seriously weird. Phoebe, looking confused, chimed in hesitantly. “Skylar always eats lightly, Ashton. Just ignore her, let’s keep eating.” He didn’t acknowledge her. He just kept his unsettling gaze on me, then asked, each word distinct and loaded: “Who, exactly, are you texting?” Uh oh. Even the thickest person at the table should have noticed the shift. Phoebe’s voice was trembling. “Ashton, what is the meaning of this? You’ve been staring at Skylar since you walked in! You won’t even talk to me! Do you even want to be with me anymore?” Ashton looked at her with pure, cold disdain. He tsked softly. He didn’t even bother to explain. He just delivered a sharp command: “Ten seconds. Take your roommates and leave. I’ll let this slide. Otherwise… you won’t want to know the consequences of my bad mood.” Phoebe’s eyes welled up, but her two other, more self-preserving roommates quickly pulled her away, practically dragging her out of the restaurant. I considered a swift exit, but Ashton was already standing in front of me, blocking the path. His eyes were red, and his voice cracked with a wounded sound. “It’s just us now. Can you explain?” He sounded genuinely heartbroken. “Why did you give the account to your roommate? Why did you dump me? You said I was your good little puppy, your most special one! Why did you have other backups behind my back?” Ashton’s questions came faster and louder. He slammed my phone onto the table in front of me. “Is it because of this ‘(872) 422-xxxx Ryder Jensen, the Race Car God’? Is this jerk hitting on you? You’ve been texting him nonstop since I walked in!” He was panting now. “I saw he sent you a bunch of chest selfies! That shameless loser, hitting on another man’s girlfriend! What does he have that I don’t? Skylar, say something!”

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I am a Professional Estate Clearer, specializing in tidying up the lives the recently deceased left behind. I had just finished my most intimate and difficult assignment: sorting the belongings of my own deceased husband. That’s when I found it. His phone gallery. Hundreds of photos of his “perfect mythology”—the woman he idealized—Vivian. And not a single one of me. Tears streaming, I went to delete the only photo we had together—a forced, blurry shot from a charity gala where I was looking at him with desperate adoration and he was looking everywhere else. Just as my thumb hovered over the ‘confirm delete’ prompt, a notification flashed. A VIP alert for Devon Stonebrook’s StreamPulse channel. He was live. He tilted his head toward the camera, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “What are you crying for?” The live chat exploded: DEVON IS BACK! But all I could see was the familiar, chilling background behind him: His own wake. He blinked slowly. “I hear you deleted that awful photo of me from my phone?” My hand trembling, I slammed the ‘Send Gift’ button, spending a thousand dollars on a Titan Drop virtual gift. His spectral image seemed to solidify. “Send ten more,” he whispered, the sound crackling through the cheap phone speaker. “And I’ll tell you who killed me.” But just as the killer’s name was finally spoken, his stream suddenly cut to black. A cold hand seized my throat from behind. “Who told you to be a busybody?” 1 I, Sloane Stonebrook, Professional Estate Clearer, stood paralyzed in the empty, echoey center of Devon’s Austin apartment. Around me were several open cardboard boxes, labeled with clinical precision: “Wardrobe,” “Media,” “Electronics.” Three days ago, my husband-by-contract, Devon Stonebrook, had died in what the police officially categorized as a bizarre, high-speed accident. But I knew the car. It was a custom-modified Aston Martin, a monster of engineering built to handle any curve, any sudden shock. Would it really lose control? I picked up the black phone from the coffee table. The lock screen demanded a passcode. His birthday? No. His favorite number sequence? Incorrect. My breath hitched. My heart hammered a sudden, frantic rhythm against my ribs. Could it be? I closed my eyes, took a shallow gulp of air, and keyed in my birthday. Click. The screen unlocked. I felt like a thief breaking into a vault that belonged to my own life. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t control, I tapped the Photos icon. My finger slid across the screen, and the images began to stream past like a cruel, cinematic reel. It was all her. Vivian Alistair. The Vivian, the unreachable standard, Devon’s perfect mythology. She was laughing into the sun, her long hair catching the light; she was pouting artfully, a soft crease of calculated petulance between her brows; she was leaning languidly in a café in Florence, the baroque architecture a blurred backdrop to her flawless poise. Every angle, every light, every precious moment—collected, curated, and cherished. Then the gallery hit the end. The final photo. The gala. Me, staring at him with undisguised need. Him, looking impatient, annoyed by my proximity. I was the footnote. The pathetic punchline to a seven-year joke. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the warm, stinging liquid found its way down my cheeks anyway. Seven years. Over two thousand days of cautious proximity, tentative steps, and silent hopes—all of it reduced to this single, miserable photo, eclipsed by the hundreds of dazzling portraits of the woman he truly wanted. I took a shuddering breath, my finger hovering over our picture. Long press. Delete. A cold confirmation box popped up: DELETE PHOTO? Just as my thumb descended, a sharp, metallic “Ding-dong!” cut through the silence. My eyes flew open. The notification bar at the top of the screen screamed: VIP ALERT: Devon Stonebrook is LIVE! Tap to view! Devon Stonebrook? Live? A virus? A sick hacker? Or was the grief finally making me hallucinate? My fingers moved on their own, driven by a panicked, out-of-control momentum. I hammered the push notification. The screen switched instantly, and the image that filled it brought the air to a screeching halt in my lungs. The background… It was his wake. The official photo—Devon’s handsome face with that familiar, slightly detached smile—stared out from the mantelpiece. And right beneath it, in the center of the somber, flower-laden room, sat Devon. He was wearing the same black dress shirt from the night of the crash, legs casually crossed, an air of complete, unnerving ease about him. Then, he slowly turned his head. The camera focused on his face. I could see the slight shadow cast by his eyelashes. Devon Stonebrook. He tilted his head just slightly, his eyes, across the screen, across the veil of death, piercing directly into mine. He spoke, his voice transmitted through the phone’s speaker, strangely flat. “What are you crying for?” WWHHRR! The tight, strained cord of my sanity snapped. The comments section below the stream, previously dormant, exploded into a torrential flood of text: NO WAY! Devon’s ghost?! IM CALLING A PRIEST Is this Deepfake AI? The quality is insane! Look at the background! It’s the f***ing FUNERAL HOME! Devon, that’s YOUR PICTURE behind you! WTF is this? HACKER! Has to be a hacker with a sick sense of humor! Nah, that’s him. The smirk, the *vibe*… Live Viewer Count: One million… two million… three million… it’s going parabolic! WHERE IS HE LOOKING? The torrent of text swallowed the screen, a chaotic mix of disbelief and panic that fractured Devon’s face into a mosaic of shocked typefaces. His own wake. His own coffin perhaps just off-camera. And him, sitting there, tilting his head, asking me “what are you crying for?” A crushing, icy terror, heavy with the scent of death, clamped around my windpipe. My entire body began to tremble uncontrollably. A cold sweat instantly soaked the back of my dress, clinging to my skin. “Ding-dong!” Another notification! System Alert: Devon Stonebrook has sent you a Private Message! He… he was messaging me? My heart slammed against my ribs. With a spasm of morbid curiosity, I tapped the alert. The chat box popped up. Devon Stonebrook: I hear you deleted that awful photo of me from my phone? “Ah!” I flung the phone across the room. It hit the cold hardwood floor with a sharp thwack. But the figure in the black shirt, framed by the rigid backdrop of his own death, stayed frozen on the shattered screen, tilting his head, waiting for my answer. The comments continued to scroll. The fear was a tide, washing over my already battered nerves. Delete the photo? How could he possibly know? How could he know what I did just now, alone, in this room? The realization was a spike of ice driven into my skull: It wasn’t a hacker. It wasn’t a sick joke. It was him. Devon Stonebrook was back. In a way that defied every law of physics, every piece of human understanding. And he knew exactly what I had done. He was watching me. Even in death, even as a ghost, he had to torment me. An overwhelming nausea mixed with a white-hot resentment surged up my throat. Seven years of quiet devotion, and my reward was a phone full of Vivian Alistair. Now, even my last shred of pathetic dignity was to be trampled by his specter? Why? A desperate, reckless rage, the kind that only comes when you have nothing left to lose, finally smashed through the dam of my fear. I lunged for the phone. Devon’s spectral smile, viewed through the hairline crack in the screen, seemed to deepen. I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting blood. With a final, desperate resolve, I stabbed the ‘Gift’ icon. The list popped up. My eyes locked onto the most expensive, most ridiculous icon—the virtual rocket, a digital bonfire of golden flames, the Titan Drop, priced at ten thousand dollars. To hell with the money. To hell with sanity. To hell with life and death. With all the force of my shattered world, my finger came down hard. User “Sloane S.” sends a ‘Titan Drop’ to Devon Stonebrook! The manic scroll of the live chat seemed to pause for a fraction of a second. Then, the explosion was a million times louder: HOLY SHIT! Who is Sloane S? Is that his wife/assistant? A Titan Drop on a GHOST STREAM?! This is peak internet! Sloane, tell us what’s going on! In the center of the frame, the man in the black shirt, Devon, slowly straightened. The playful arc of his mouth grew sharper, colder. Then he spoke. The sound was low, commanding, impossible to ignore. “Sloane.” He used my name, the one he rarely spoke even in life. “Send ten more.” He tilted his head again, his eyes locking onto my terrified face beyond the lens. “Ten more Titan Drops,” he dictated, his voice dropping to a seductive, chilling whisper. “And I’ll tell you—” He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the panic build. “—who killed me.” Boom! The room tilted. The chat went completely insane. TEN? That’s $100K! Murder? Devon’s death wasn’t an accident?! SLOANE, DO IT! We need the truth! A ghost promising to solve his own murder… I’m buying popcorn! Ten drops? One hundred thousand dollars. My entire, carefully hoarded savings. He was using me. Using the sad, desperate remnants of my attachment to him. The absurdity, the blinding rage of being played, mixed with the sickening lure of those four words: Who killed me? Logic screamed: He’s a ghost! A trick! Get out! But a deeper, more primal obsession: Seven years of waiting for him to notice me, and this is the only answer I get? For the price of my entire life savings? I stared into the screen. I saw the calculation, the exploitation, the mockery of my quiet devotion. Then my phone vibrated, a sharp, physical jolt. A new message alert. Devon Stonebrook: NOW. Hurry. Hurry. He was rushing me. There was no time to think. Blood rushed to my head, burning away the last of my hesitation. To hell with logic. To hell with my savings. To hell with a hundred thousand dollars. I needed to know. With a kind of suicidal desperation, my finger slammed the golden rocket icon again and again. Two! Three! Four! … The stream count soared past five million viewers. The chat was a blur of my name, the gift icon, and accusations against Devon. Five! Six! Seven! My finger was numb. Devon’s eyes remained fixed on my face, cold but now holding a flicker of something else… Focused attention? Waiting? Eight! Nine! One left. My finger hovered, confirming the zeros in my bank account. The final drop. I’d be starting over from scratch. I closed my eyes and slammed down with all my strength. User “Sloane S.” sends a ‘Titan Drop’ to Devon Stonebrook! x10!!! A million people seemed to hold their breath. Devon slowly rose to his feet. He took a step forward, his image growing larger on the screen, as if he were trying to escape the frame. He leaned in, his lips parted. His voice, low and clear, filled the room: “It was—”

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I suddenly started seeing numbers floating above the heads of everyone at my elite prep school. My fiancé, who treats me like I’m invisible? [99] My cold, aloof lab partner, the Campus King? [99+] As the designated “Villainess” of this story, I have plenty of self-awareness. Those numbers are definitely hate scores. That is, until the delicate “White Lotus” Heroine discovered I was secretly funding her tuition. The number above her head instantly exploded into a bright red [100+]. At the same time, a barrage of livestream comments—like a Twitch chat—detonated in front of my eyes. [Omg Wifey! She’s so good, so cute. Her skin is so pale, if you bit her it would stay red for hours, right?] [LMAO, our baby girl really thinks her fiancé likes the Heroine? That man has been down bad for Wifey since day one. Just touch his face, watch him melt.] I couldn’t believe it. I reached out and gently poked my fiancé’s cheek. The next second, the guy who usually has a temper like a stick of dynamite suddenly went silent. The number above his head glitched out like crazy. It finally settled on [∞]. [Hehe, Wifey knows what that symbol means, right? My love for you is infinite…] 1 When the numbers first appeared, I was begging Julian, the school’s golden boy, to tutor me. Even though this is a private prep school for the 1%, the academic pressure is insane. Most kids have been building their Ivy League portfolios since freshman year. If they’re staying stateside, they’re already doing college-level work. And then there’s me. The daughter of a “New Money” tycoon. My dad used his checkbook to brute-force my way in. I’m constantly drowning in coursework. I’m not exactly a genius, so I had to beg Julian—wealthy, brilliant, and untouchable—for help. Julian was in the middle of reading some obscure foreign medical journal. He frowned, his long, pianist fingers taking my tragic exam paper. He started explaining from the very first multiple-choice question. I was zoning out, listening to the whispers in the classroom. I couldn’t hear the exact words, but I knew they were roasting me. Julian’s dad is the Mayor. His grandpa is some retired D.C. bigshot. His mom owns a massive pharmaceutical empire. Julian himself already has patents pending. Nobody dares to disturb him when he’s reading. Except me, the tacky rich girl with nothing but money. I didn’t want to bother him. I actually tried to hire a few scholarship students to tutor me. I offered to pay for their tuition, living expenses, textbooks, and even nutrition supplements. All I asked was for them to explain a few math problems when they were free. My dad might be uneducated, but he respects smart people. He’s obsessed with my grades. But somehow, my private offer got leaked. The school Discord server tore me apart. Hundreds of messages. They said I had zero self-awareness, clinging to Julian. When he ignored me, I tried to buy the scholarship kids. The other rich kids called me condescending. “Who wants her charity? We all have money.” So, publicly, I announced I stopped the funding. But privately? I was still secretly sponsoring one girl who was in the same grade as me. 2 The noise in the classroom got louder. I felt eyes burning holes in my back. It felt like a physical heat. My neck prickled. My ears turned hot. Does everyone love Julian that much? I felt like I was about to spontaneously combust from the stares. Afraid of getting roasted online again, I hesitated. “Julian, maybe I should just study by myself…” I’d ask him later when fewer people were around. But the second I spoke, a bright [98] popped up over his head. I rubbed my eyes. “Julian, there’s a number on your head.” “If you don’t want to listen, just leave. Don’t make excuses,” Julian snapped, running a hand through his hair, revealing his perfect forehead. His side profile was sharp, nose straight—literally a masterpiece. “No, it’s not that I don’t want to listen, it’s just…” I grabbed his hand in a panic. I wanted to tell him I needed this. He’s the only one who explains things simply enough for my smooth brain to grasp. But his face flushed red, and he shook my hand off. His wet, puppy-dog eyes glared at me in disbelief. The number above his head flickered between [98-99]. “If you want someone else to teach you, then stop messing with me.” Am I that scary? I looked around. Everyone had numbers. 50, 82, 95… I went silent. I took a deep breath and awkwardly let go of Julian’s wrist. Okay, so the numbers represent Hate. Makes sense. Nobody here really likes me. I pouted. My mood tanked. Suddenly, a loud voice cut through the crowd. Chase was surrounded by his entourage. He was leaning back in his chair, uniform tie loose, looking like he didn’t care about anything. I let out a breath. Good, my “fiancé” didn’t see me. After my dad hit the jackpot, he somehow connected with the ultra-elite Sterling family. Chase Sterling. His name sounds preppy, but his personality is pure phosphorus—highly flammable and toxic. I know he looks down on me. He usually ignores me completely. When I first transferred here, I was eating instant noodles in the stairwell when I heard him talking. “Chase, I heard your fiancée, Winnie, transferred in. Want me to look out for her?” a guy asked. Through the crack in the door, I saw Chase leaning against the railing. His voice was deep, magnetic, and dripping with impatience. “Look out for what? Her dad put you next to her because he’s afraid she’s too dumb for the curriculum. She’s so high-maintenance.” “If I drove my car over 60 she’d probably cry. I’m gonna wreck this engagement sooner or later.” “If you want to babysit her, you can have her.” Excuse me? I was fuming. I leaned too close to the door. Creak. I stumbled out, crashing right into Chase’s line of sight. He had a cigarette between his lips, looking arrogant as hell. But when he saw me, he froze. I turned and ran. Behind me, someone laughed. “Who was that?” “Your fiancée, Mr. Sterling.” “Oh.” Chase held the cigarette until it burned his fingers. He flinched and tossed it in the trash. “I’m quitting.” She looked so small. Soft and pale. If we kissed, would the smoke make her cough? … Thinking about the trash he talked back then made me angry all over again. Dad said to wait a bit on the engagement. So, I kept my distance. Chase seemed bored until Claire transferred into our class. Suddenly, he was energized. She was the only girl he’d talk to. Right now, he had a [98] over his head as he glanced at me from across the room. His tongue pressed against his cheek, a sharp canine tooth flashing. I shivered. So scary. If he hates the engagement, why hasn’t he canceled it? Does he want to torture me first? … “Stop looking at her. Or I’ll gouge your eyes out.” Chase stared blankly at the girl in front of him. Her clothes were faded, but her vibe was clean and sharp. It was just her eyes—always looking at things she couldn’t have. “What’s wrong with looking?” Claire looked down at her worn-out sneakers, her tone light. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? She won’t even look at you, but she’s secretly sponsoring me. She texts me encouraging messages every night.” Chase thought about how Winnie sent Claire cute photos of her day. Meanwhile, Chase had been posting on his story for a year about being “lonely” and wanting a travel buddy. Winnie never liked a single post. She probably had him muted. He wanted to scream. 3 During the long break, I ran into Claire outside the bathroom again. She was washing her hands, head down. Long lashes, gentle almond eyes, loose strands of hair. She looked perfect. Almost too perfect. Like she was posing. Ever since she transferred to our class, I run into her every time I go to the bathroom. Once or twice is a coincidence. Every time? Is she blocking me? Because of Chase? I pressed my lips together and summoned my courage to stand next to her. Claire kept washing. Her movements got stiff. I washed faster. When she finished, she stood there, texting on her old phone. She sent a text. Ding. My phone buzzed in my pocket. She sent another. Ding. My face burned. Does she know? Claire transferred a year ago. She was one of the scholarship kids I targeted. Later, I set up an anonymous scholarship fund for the group, but I sponsored Claire directly. Her family situation was awful. She had a brother, and her parents treated her like dirt. I was terrified she’d drop out. Looking at the [98] hate score above her head… I wanted to pretend nothing was happening. Being sponsored by your love rival hurts your pride, right? I couldn’t ruin her focus. But then, Claire called my personal number. The one I gave her for “emergencies only.” She’d never used it before. My ringtone blasted through the silence. My scalp tingled. I felt Claire’s gaze burning into me. “Winnie, your phone is ringing. Aren’t you going to answer?” she asked, her voice thoughtful. I couldn’t hide anymore. I took out my phone with shaking hands. The moment I answered, the number above Claire’s head went berserk. [99]… [100]… [100+] [DING! Villainess System Online. Mission Activated: Please execute the bullying of the Heroine immediately!] Huh? My eyes widened. I hung up. The Villainess System explained that the numbers represent the intensity of the characters’ feelings toward me. The higher the excitement, the higher the number. As the villainess, I have to drive the plot. If I complete the missions, I get a “Clearance Gift Pack.” I asked weakly, [What happens if I don’t?] The System was ruthless: [Then the host receives the Death Gift Pack. Car crash? Cancer? Jumping off a building? It’s a random draw!] I clenched my tiny fist. I stood on my tiptoes and summoned all my strength to grab the Heroine by the collar. “Don’t leave after school… You stay… and h-help me… with my homework!” Since I offended Julian, and Claire is smart, maybe she can tutor me? “Meet me after school” was the most villainous line I could think of. TV dramas always use it. But I’m barely 5’1″. Claire is 5’7″. She towered over me. She stared at me, eyes calm, lashes fluttering. I panicked. I remembered the rumors. Even though Claire is a scholarship student at the bottom of the social food chain, the rich bullies leave her alone. Why? Because she’s a genius in the lab. Even the TAs respect her. And physically? She destroys people in P.E. She dominates every sport. I stared at her lean, muscular arms. She could probably fold me like a lawn chair. So, to boost my courage, I leaned in closer. Close enough to smell the lemon soap on her collar. Her eyes were amber? Wow. Main character energy. Even her pupils are pretty. Claire blinked. Her breathing slowed down. She whispered. “Okay. I’ll stay.” She seemed intimidated by my aura. She couldn’t even look me in the eye. Even the number on her head flickered in fear. I went to let go, but the bathroom door swung open. A girl walked in, saw us, and froze. She covered her face. “Sorry to interrupt!” Then she ran away, giggling manically. The System praised me: [The Heroine’s emotions are turbulent! Great start, Host!] I nodded proudly. That night, the school forum exploded. [BREAKING NEWS: Winnie from Class A was caught cornering Goddess Claire in the bathroom requesting a KISS?!] [OMG. Where are her morals? Where is the dignity? WHERE IS THE VIDEO LINK?!] Eh? I was confused. I thought I was playing the villain. Why do they think I’m a pervert? 4 With Claire tutoring me, my grades actually improved. She broke everything down step-by-step. It was way better than Julian’s abstract genius method. I finally enjoyed studying. After midterms, the System issued a new mission. [You are a Villainess! Why are you studying so hard? You should be punching the Heroine and stepping on rivals! Steal all the men!] It said the plot required the Heroine to be bullied so badly that the Second Male Lead (Julian) would pity her. His pity would make me jealous, leading me to force Julian to date me, isolating the Heroine further. I couldn’t imagine Claire crying and looking at the sky. She’d probably just dunk on someone and tell them to get lost. But the System said the core task was simple: [Date the Second Male Lead!] [Complete Phase 2 to unlock the Livestream Chat. The audience will drop plot hints!] I nodded. I’m rich, but I have no friends. I was a slow kid. I used to buy snacks for everyone to make them like me. They’d eat my snacks and call me “stupid cash cow” behind my back. Dad transferred me here hoping for better peers. Instead, they just called me “New Money trash.” I asked the System seriously, “Will the audience like me? Can I make friends?” The System looked at my small face and big eyes. [Guaranteed. If anyone roasts you, I’ll hack their account.]

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My dad’s secretary accused me of knocking over her expensive perfume. Dad’s face was cold. “Since the kid messed up, let the mother take the punishment.” He shoved my mom into the giant porcelain jar in the corner of the living room. I stood on my tiptoes, trying to reach the rim, but it was too high. From inside, I heard Mom humming softly, just like she used to when she tucked me in. I cried, slapping the cold ceramic. “Mommy! Cici can’t reach you! Cici is sorry!” “Your mom isn’t coming out to play the victim herself, so she taught you to use a sob story?” Dad sneered. “Fine. Let her stay in there a few more days!” Dad and his secretary laughed in the living room, their glasses clinking together. Ding-ding-dang-dang. It sounded like Mom’s wind chimes. The humming inside the jar got quieter and quieter until all that was left was the sound of dripping. Drip. Drip. Three days later, the police smashed the jar open. Everyone recoiled in horror. Dad walked in, his arm around his secretary’s waist. Her belly was round, like she’d swallowed a beach ball. “Where’s your mother? Still playing the victim?” Dad asked. I looked down at the red puddle at the bottom of the shattered jar and whispered: “Daddy, Mommy broke.” 1 When Grandma and Grandpa came knocking, I was on my knees with a rag, trying to wipe up the red water seeping from the bottom of the jar. Grandma covered her nose. “Cici, where are your parents? Why does it smell so bad in here?” I pointed a small finger at the giant porcelain jar. “Mommy is sleeping in there.” Grandpa’s face turned gray. He walked over, but the moment his hand touched the rim, he yanked it back like he’d been burned. “This jar…” Grandpa’s voice trembled. Grandma snatched me up, her nails digging into my arm. “Who put your mother in there?” “Daddy,” I mumbled, staring at my shoes. “He said Cici was bad, so Mommy had to take responsibility.” Grandpa grabbed a crowbar to pry the lid off. The screws popped one by one—snap, snap—sounding just like when Mom used to unwrap candy for me. When the lid finally came off, Grandma screamed and stumbled backward. I stood on my tiptoes to peek inside. Mom was curled up at the bottom, soaked through, like a ragdoll left out in the rain. Her white dress had turned pink. Her fingers were pruned and wrinkled, and her nails were packed with porcelain shards. “Why isn’t Mommy waking up?” I reached out to touch her. Grandma slapped my hand away and pulled me into a crushing hug. Her heart was beating so fast it hurt my ears. “Oh God… oh God…” Grandpa fell to his knees, retching over the side of the jar. When the police officers arrived, they covered Mom with a white sheet. They asked me questions, but I just stared at the red stain left at the bottom of the jar. “When will Mommy dry out?” I asked the nice officer. “Once the water dries, she’ll wake up, right?” The officer’s eyes turned red. Grandma, hands shaking, dialed Dad’s number. “You animal! Get your ass back here! Your wife…” Dad’s laughter crackled through the phone. “Mom, cut the act. Is Sarah trying to guilt-trip me into coming back? Tell her playing dead won’t work.” In the background, I heard the secretary’s whiny voice: “Ken, baby, I want strawberries…” “Your wife is really dead! She’s in that jar!” Grandpa snatched the phone and roared. “Dad, why are you playing along with her nonsense?” Dad’s voice turned icy. “There are air holes at the bottom. A couple of days won’t kill her. Let her reflect. When she learns to raise our kid right, she can come out.” The line went dead. When the coroner tried to take Mom away, I clung to the jar, refusing to let go. “Don’t take her!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face. “Mommy just needs to dry out! Last time my doll got wet, Mommy used the hairdryer…” Grandma pried my fingers loose. Her tears fell on my face, hot and stinging. “Cici, baby… Mommy… Mommy went to the sky to be a star.” I looked out the window. It wasn’t dark yet. No stars. “Then when is she coming home?” No one answered. A police officer picked up a small bottle from the jar. It had a skull and crossbones on the label. “Preliminary assessment suggests a strong alkaline solution caused…” Grandma lunged for the bottle. “It’s that slut! That’s the perfume she sprays every day!” Grandpa held her back, his eyes bloodshot. “Just wait until that animal gets back…” I crouched on the floor, picking up the porcelain shards that had fallen from Mom’s fingernails. One piece, two pieces, three pieces… If I glue them back together, Mommy will come home, right? 2 The night the relatives took Mom away, Dad finally called back. Grandma answered with red, swollen eyes. Before she could speak, Dad’s impatient voice cut through. “Mom, are you done with the drama?” “Your wife is dead!” Grandma’s voice was raspy. “The coroner said she was suffocated and burned alive…” “Enough.” Dad cut her off. “I was just joking around. I let her out ages ago. She’s hiding because she’s jealous of Jenny, isn’t she?” A woman’s giggle floated through the phone, like nails on a chalkboard. “Ken, is Sarah still mad at me?” Dad’s voice instantly turned tender. “Ignore her. Just throwing a tantrum.” I stood on my toes, trying to reach the phone. “Daddy, Mommy melted in the jar. She…” “Shut up!” Dad yelled at me. “Learning to lie at your age? Your mother taught you this!” He hung up. Grandma held me and wept. Her tears hit my neck, hotter than boiling water. The next day, Dad’s secretary, Jenny, showed up. She was wearing Mom’s favorite lavender dress. Her high heels clacked on the floor, sounding like knives scraping bone. “Ken sent me to get some files.” She smiled and touched my head. “Cici, you’ve grown.” I hid behind Grandma. This lady smelled sweet, exactly like the smell that drifted out of the jar at the end. Grandma blocked the bedroom door. “Get out!” Jenny didn’t get mad. Instead, she pulled a fancy candy box from her bag. “Cici, your daddy asked me to give this to you.” Inside were colorful star-shaped candies, just like the ones Mom used to buy. “When is Daddy coming home?” I whispered. “When your mommy admits she was wrong.” She crouched down, her perfume overwhelming me. “Cici, do you want a little brother?” Grandma slapped the candy box out of her hand and shoved Jenny toward the door. “Monster! You pair of monsters!” That night, Dad called again. “Mom, send Cici over to stay for a few days.” His voice was cold. “I need to personally teach her what honesty means.” Grandma hugged me tight. “Over my dead body!” “Don’t force my hand.” Dad paused. “Don’t forget, the deed to the old house is in my name.” After the call, Grandma wouldn’t stop shaking. She stroked my face. “Cici, don’t be scared. Grandma is here.” But I knew Grandma was terrified. When she packed my bag, her hands shook so bad she couldn’t even button my shirt. The next morning, Dad sent people to pick me up. They locked Grandma in her room so she couldn’t follow. In the black sedan, Jenny hugged me a little too tightly. “Cici, you’re going to have a little brother soon. Aren’t you happy?” I fiddled with the hem of my dress. “When is Mommy coming home?” “Your mommy doesn’t want you anymore.” She whispered in my ear. “She ran off with another man. That’s why she made you lie about the jar.” The car pulled up to a big, beautiful house. Dad stood at the door, his gaze colder than the winter wind. “Do you know what you did wrong?” he asked. I shook my head. “Mommy really melted in the jar.” Dad’s face turned scary. He dragged me to the basement, with Jenny giggling behind us. The basement was filled with glass cases containing preserved animals. “Do you know why they’re here?” Dad pointed to a white rabbit specimen. “Because they loved to lie.” Jenny handed him a syringe. “Ken, kids need discipline. One shot and she’ll behave.” I scrambled backward, my back hitting the cold glass case. “Last chance,” Dad said, watching Jenny raise the needle. “Where is your mother?” “In the jar…” My tears hit the floor. “Mommy really melted in the jar…” As the needle pierced my skin, I saw Jenny rubbing her belly, smiling at me. “When your little brother is born, we’ll let your mommy come back, okay?” But Grandma said Mommy wasn’t coming back. 3 The moment the liquid from the syringe entered my vein, my eyelids felt heavy as lead. Dad carried me to the sofa, gently combing my hair with his fingers. He hadn’t touched me like this in a long time. The last time was when I had a fever; Mom held me all night while Dad sat by the bed reading stories. “Cici, be a good girl. Just sleep, and it’ll be okay.” His voice was gentle, like the old Daddy. I fought to keep my eyes open. “Daddy… Mommy really…” His fingers suddenly clamped onto my jaw. “Still lying?” Dad’s smile vanished instantly. “Where is she hiding? Did she teach you to say these lies?” It hurt so much I cried, but I didn’t dare make a sound. Dad hated crying. Jenny walked over with warm milk. “Ken, don’t be mad. Kids need patience.” She held the milk to my lips. The sweet, cloying smell reminded me of the scent drifting from the jar. I clamped my mouth shut. Milk spilled onto my pajamas, hot and sticky against my skin. “Disobedient!” Dad suddenly grabbed my left hand and slammed it onto the coffee table. “Which hand knocked over the perfume? This one?” Click. His lighter flared. The blue flame licked my fingertips. I screamed in agony, but Dad clamped his hand over my mouth. His palm smelled faintly of tobacco. I used to love that smell. “Shhh…” He whispered in my ear. “Cici is brave, right? It’s just a burn. Better than the lies your mother taught you.” Jenny giggled nearby. “Ken, you’re so strict.” My finger bubbled up, like the skin on the porridge Mom used to make when it cooled down. Dad let go and pulled a velvet box from the drawer. “I was going to give this to you for your birthday.” He opened it to reveal a silver bracelet. “But you can have it early.” I curled into the corner of the sofa, terrified to move. “Hand.” Dad commanded. When he snapped the bracelet on, pain shot through me. The inside was lined with tiny steel spikes. With every pulse of my wrist, they dug deeper into my flesh. “I had this custom-made.” He stroked my face. “Every time you lie, it digs deeper.” Drops of blood trickled down the silver chain, blooming like small red flowers on the beige sofa. Jenny frowned suddenly. “Ken, she doesn’t look right…” Dad finally noticed my lips were turning purple. He ripped open my collar. The area around the injection site had turned a terrifying grey-blue. “What did you give her?” Dad roared, grabbing Jenny by the collar. “J-Just a normal sedative…” Jenny’s face went pale. “Maybe… maybe it reacted with the milk…” As Dad scooped me up and ran out the door, I heard Jenny screaming, “Ken! My baby…” The emergency room lights were blinding. The doctor said ten more minutes and my heart would have stopped. Dad held my hand the whole time. His hand was shaking. “Cici, Daddy didn’t mean to.” His eyes were red. “Just admit you lied, and Daddy will take you home right now.” I stared at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. They looked like Mom’s eyes in the end. “Daddy…” I whispered. “When Mommy was in the jar… did it hurt this much too?” His hand went limp. 4 The hospital smelled like harsh chemicals. Dad sat by the bed peeling an apple. The skin spiraled down in one long strip, like the scarves Mom used to knit for me. “Cici,” he sliced the apple into small chunks. “When your brother is born, Daddy will let your mom take care of him…” I stared at the IV needle in the back of my hand. “Mommy doesn’t want a brother.” “Nonsense!” Dad pinched my chin. “Why are you such a liar now? Did she ruin you that much?” Before he could finish, the door swung open. Two police officers walked in. One was holding a clear evidence bag containing the perfume bottle Grandma found in the jar. “Mr. Sterling, we need to talk.” The officer’s face was grim. “About your wife’s death.” Dad froze, unable to process it. “What?” The officer placed a tablet on the bedside table. On the screen was a paused video. The date stamp was the night Mom was put in the jar. In the video, Jenny was sneaking around the jar, pouring something from the perfume bottle into the air holes. “According to the coroner’s report,” the officer pointed at the screen, “The deceased had traces of strong alkaline corrosion in her trachea, consistent with the contents of this bottle.” The officer pulled out another bag containing shreds of lavender fabric found in Mom’s grip. “Fibers found under the victim’s fingernails match the brand frequently worn by the suspect.” Dad laughed abruptly. A manic sound. “Ridiculous! How much did Sarah pay you? Even the cops are in on her skit?” He snatched the tablet and smashed it on the floor. The screen spiderwebbed. Dad spun around and pointed a shaking finger at me. “Did your mom put you up to this? Using the police to scare me?” His eyes were terrifyingly red, like a cornered beast. The officer stepped between us. “The child needs rest. Please come to the station to assist with the investigation.” “Assist my ass!” Dad loosened his tie. “I’m going to find Sarah right now and show you all who the liar is!” He stormed out, nearly colliding with Jenny, who was running in panicked. “Ken! Why are they looking for me…” She froze when she saw the police. The officer flashed his badge. “Ms. Jenny Miller, please come with us.” Jenny went white. She grabbed Dad’s arm. “Ken! I’m carrying your son!” Dad instinctively comforted her. “Don’t be scared. I’ll find that woman!” The room fell silent. I looked out the window at a passing cloud. Mom said when people die, they become clouds. The officer crouched down and gently held my bandaged hand. “Cici, your mom…” “I know,” I pointed at the cloud. “Mommy is right there.” The officer’s eyes welled up. He patted my head and pulled a phone from his briefcase. “We found this at the bottom of the jar. It was your mom’s.” The screen was cracked, but it still lit up. The wallpaper was a photo of Mom and me. She was hugging me, smiling so gently. The officer opened the call log. The last call was to Dad. Duration: 3 minutes and 27 seconds. It was the night she was put in the jar. I suddenly remembered the humming and the dripping sounds from the jar. That wasn’t Mom singing. That was the sound coming from Dad’s phone after he answered—Jenny’s giggles and their intimate noises, playing through the speaker into the jar. The officer opened the messages. The last text sent to Dad: [The air holes are blocked. Help me.] Sent: 2:17 AM. Unread. No reply. Dad snatched the phone. Staring at the message, his eyes looked like they were going to bleed. His face drained of all color. He nearly collapsed. “No, this is impossible…”

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There’s a photo on my mom’s fireplace mantle that still haunts me. It’s from six years ago, Thanksgiving dinner. We’re all in it. My mom, my dad, both my sisters, their husbands, and me. Everyone’s smiling. You’d think we were a Hallmark card family. But if you zoom in, and really look close, you’ll see it. I’m sitting just slightly off to the side. Like I didn’t belong even back then. Like I was already being slowly pushed out of frame. My name’s Jasper. I’m 32. I run a small but successful IT consulting business. Just me and a few freelancers I’ve worked with for years. Nothing flashy, but I’ve worked hard for every dime. I’ve always been the quiet one in the family. Not shy, but not loud either. The dependable one. The one who never asked for anything, who picked up the check when no one else reached for it. The one who listened to everyone’s problems but kept his own locked away in a mental drawer somewhere between Dad’s passive-aggressive comments and Mom pretending not to notice. 1 I’m the youngest of three. My oldest sister, Meredith, is 38. She’s a storm in heels—loud, intense, commanding a room the moment she enters. She married Brett six years ago, and let’s just say, Brett is a walking red flag wrapped in a golf polo. Job hopper, risk-taker, wannabe entrepreneur with a trail of failed ventures and maxed-out credit cards in his wake. He’s the kind of guy who calls himself a “visionary” because he once tried to start a kombucha subscription box. Spoiler: it never launched. Meredith, of course, stands by him like he’s the second coming of Steve Jobs, except with worse taste in sneakers. Then there’s Leila, the middle child. She’s 35 and a nurse, married to a chill guy named Aaron. They’re… fine. Quiet, like me, but more passive. Leila doesn’t stir the pot unless she has to. But Meredith? She’s the chef, the cook, and the waiter when it comes to stirring drama. And lately, it’s been boiling. Our parents, especially Mom, dote on Meredith. Maybe it’s because she gave them their first grandchild. Maybe it’s because she talks the loudest. Or maybe it’s just easier to agree with her than to push back. Either way, she’s always gotten her way. When she and Brett bought a house they couldn’t afford three years ago, guess who helped out with the down payment? Yep. Yours truly. Not because I was asked directly, but because Mom called and said, “Meredith’s just so stressed, honey. They’re in over their heads. If you could just spot them a little something to get through the closing, it would mean the world to her.” And to me, I sent them $10,000. I didn’t even get a thank-you text. That was the first drop in the bucket. The latest one? A few months ago, Brett apparently took out some sketchy high-interest loan to fund his latest “business idea”—something about crypto vending machines. Don’t ask. It bombed within weeks. Now they’re underwater with a debt collector on their backs and, surprise surprise, Meredith calls Mom crying that they’re going to lose the house unless someone steps in. Mom calls me again. “Jasper, sweetheart, they’re desperate. The kids can’t lose their home.” I felt it in my gut. This wasn’t just a plea. This was an expectation. Like I was some emergency ATM the family could tap whenever someone else made a reckless decision. Like I didn’t have my own life. My own limits. So I said no. I said it calmly. Firmly. Respectfully. But no. And just like that, something shifted. It wasn’t a blowout. No yelling, no screaming. Just cold silence. A group chat that went dormant. Invites I didn’t get. Calls that went unanswered. I’d see photos on Facebook of family dinners I wasn’t told about. Leila reached out once, awkwardly, to say she didn’t want to get in the middle. I understood. But it still stung. Then came Mom’s birthday. Every year, we go out to this mid-range Italian restaurant she loves. Nothing fancy, but tradition. It’s always the same: round table in the back, too much wine, way too many toasts, and a bill that somehow always lands in front of me. This year, I hesitated. I wasn’t going to go. But then I thought, maybe things had cooled down. Maybe I was overthinking. So I showed up, clean-shaven, button-up shirt, a bottle of wine from a local vineyard as a gift. The second I walked in, I knew something was off. Meredith glanced at me like I’d tracked mud into a museum. Brett didn’t even look up from his phone. Leila gave me a half-smile, and Aaron nodded. Mom hugged me, but it felt performative. Like she was acting for an audience. We sat. We ordered. The conversation buzzed around me but never included me. When I did try to chime in, Meredith would immediately redirect it. I became background noise at my own mother’s birthday. Then came dessert. And with it, the moment that would burn into my memory like a scar. We were halfway through some tiramisu when Meredith stood up and tapped her fork against her glass. “I just want to make a quick toast,” she said, clinking the side of her wine glass like a self-appointed queen. Everyone quieted down. “To family,” she began. “To those who lift us up, and to those who kick us while we’re down.” There was an awkward laugh. She smiled, tight-lipped, venom in her eyes. “And to those who forget what loyalty means. To those who turn their backs on blood when it matters most.” She turned, full body, toward me. “You’re no longer part of this family, Jasper. Not in my eyes. Not in Brett’s. And honestly, I doubt in anyone’s.” I didn’t flinch. Not at first. I just stared at her, blinking once. Twice. The table was dead silent. Everyone was looking at me. And then, like it was a scene from a bad sitcom, people clapped. Leila didn’t. Aaron didn’t. But the rest? Mom. Dad. Even the waiter, who I think was just confused, gave a polite little “heh” and walked off. I didn’t say anything. I stood up, nodded, and pulled out my wallet. “Happy birthday, Mom,” I said softly, placing the wine bottle in front of her. Then I handed the server my card. He walked off, and I walked toward the door. My chest was tight, my hands clammy, but I wasn’t going to cry. Not here. I was halfway to the exit when I heard footsteps behind me. “Excuse me, sir?” It was the manager, holding my card. “It was declined.” I froze. Slowly turned around. The whole table was looking at me again. Waiting. The applause was gone. Just silence. I looked at the card. I looked at them. And I smiled. I simply stood up straighter, tucked my wallet back into my pocket, and walked out the front door. No explanation. No argument. Just silence. I didn’t cry in the car. I didn’t scream. I didn’t punch the steering wheel. I just sat there in the driver’s seat of my Camry, staring at the dashboard, the cold digital clock blinking 9:47 PM over and over like it was trying to taunt me. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a play I hadn’t agreed to start in. Like I’d been handed a role—family scapegoat—and everyone else had learned their lines except me. My card hadn’t declined. I checked my bank app five minutes after pulling out of the lot. It was fine. Balance untouched. No notifications. No fraud alerts. I even called the bank just to be sure. The rep on the other end told me my card was active and functioning. No holds. No issues. Which meant only one thing. Someone at that restaurant, likely with the same last name as me, had told the manager to lie. To humiliate me. To make me feel like I didn’t even have the right to pay. Like I was nothing. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling fan chopping the darkness above me like it was slicing time into meaningless fragments. My brain played the scene over and over again: the toast, the applause, the smirk on Brett’s face. That smug, leech-like smile that said, “I won.” That night, something snapped in me. Not a rage. Not even bitterness. Just clarity. A dull, heavy click in my chest like a safe door swinging shut. I was done being the nice guy. But before I could make any moves, things somehow got worse. The first message came the next morning. From my mom. “I hope you’re not planning on coming to Easter brunch. It’s going to be too tense with everyone. Maybe take some space.” Take some space? I laughed out loud reading it. Space. That’s all I’d ever given them. Space to make mistakes. Space to take advantage of me. Space to pretend I didn’t exist unless my wallet was involved. Then came the second message. From Leila. “Hey. I don’t agree with how that went down. Just wanted you to know. I’m sorry. Aaron is too.” I stared at that one for a while. I appreciated it, in theory. But it was still lukewarm. Still safe. Still two steps away from standing up and doing the right thing. A week passed. Then two. Then I got a call from an unknown number. It was a debt collector. Asking for Brett. My number was apparently listed as his “business associate” on one of the loan applications. I told the guy I hadn’t spoken to Brett in months. He seemed skeptical. Told me my name was on some kind of informal guarantee agreement. I asked him to send a copy. He emailed it an hour later. And that’s when I saw it. A typed-up, unofficial contract with a digital signature from someone named “Jasper H.” stating I would “support any necessary short-term funding needs for BH Holdings LLC.” I’d never signed it. Never even heard of BH Holdings. But the email address? It was mine. Or, it looked like mine. Just slightly off. jasper.h@techsoltions.net. They’d dropped the ‘u’ in solutions. I checked the domain. It wasn’t registered to me. Brett had spoofed my email address. Made up a fake agreement. And used it to secure a $25,000 loan. I should have called the cops right then and there. I should have lawyered up. But I didn’t. Not yet. I needed more. I needed to know how deep this went. So I went quiet. I didn’t respond to my mom’s Easter guilt trips. I didn’t like Leila’s photos of her kids. I didn’t answer Dad’s half-hearted voicemail asking if I’d “cooled off yet.” Instead, I started gathering receipts. I pulled up every transaction I’d made for Meredith and Brett in the last five years. The down payment. The plane tickets. The emergency car repair. The time I covered their rent for two months during COVID. I tallied it all. $36,840. I dug into my emails and found dozens of threads where my mom had subtly pressured me. “You know how hard it is for them right now.” “Brett just needs a little runway.” “Meredith’s having such a rough week, can you help?” Then I went even deeper. I reached out to a friend of mine from college, Derek. He’s a cybersecurity consultant who now does freelance investigations for corporate clients. I asked him a simple favor: “Can you find out who registered techsoltions.net?” It took him three days. The domain had been bought anonymously through a privacy shield, but the account used to buy it was tied to a recovery email: Brett_M1984@somewhere.com. It was him. Brett had created a fake email address pretending to be me, signed a fake contract, and used it to get a loan he had no business getting. All under my name. I had enough. Enough to ruin him. But still, I waited. Because the betrayal that changed everything hadn’t happened yet. That came a month later. I got a call from my bank. My business account was frozen. Not because of fraud, but because there was a formal complaint filed accusing my company of wire fraud and financial misrepresentation. They were forced to lock it pending investigation. I thought it had to be a mistake. But when I checked the filing… it was from BH Holdings. A company run by Brett, and apparently, Meredith. They were accusing me of stealing money from them.

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After Juniper was born, I stopped caring about how close Gavin and Skylar were. I stopped playing the jealous wife, trying to manage his life and control their friendship. I only focused on one thing: locking down the money and the power. That’s why, at Junie’s first birthday party, when my daughter wrapped her arms around his best friend’s neck and called him ‘Daddy,’ the initial shock I felt was quickly replaced by something colder. Gavin’s face froze. He forcefully pulled our daughter away. “Daddy is right here, Junie-bug.” 1 The second Juniper was in Gavin’s arms, she started to cry. Tears fell in fat drops down her cheeks, as if she’d been given the world’s worst punishment. I stepped forward. “Give her to me.” Gavin hesitated, a flicker of wounded pride in his eyes. But he handed her over anyway. Skylar, his notorious childhood best friend, stood nearby and laughed, a loud, provocative sound. “Oh, man, look at that! She’s calling Adam Daddy?” “Anyone who didn’t know better would think they were the actual family unit.” Gavin’s face went dark immediately. I shifted Juniper to my hip, giving her a gentle bounce. I smiled—a brittle, challenging smile. “Didn’t you used to make Gavin call you ‘Daddy,’ Skylar?” “What, does that make you part of our family unit too?” Skylar’s laughter died in her throat. She shot me a look of feigned hurt, then intentionally pressed her body closer to Gavin’s side. “Vivian, what are you talking about? I was just kidding around.” “God, lighten up. You’re a mom now. Why are you still so petty?” Gavin frowned, his tone suddenly serious. “Stop making those jokes, Skylar.” “I’ve told you a hundred times, Vivian, Skylar and I are just friends. We’re like brothers.” He softened his expression instantly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and kissing my temple. “Still so much fire, even as a mother.” “Come on, don’t be mad. How about I take you to pick out that diamond tennis bracelet you wanted?” I didn’t pull away. But Gavin had forgotten one thing. I hadn’t been angry, or jealous, for a very long time. Leaning into Gavin’s embrace, I threw a final, barbed glance at Skylar. “Fine. Sorry, Skylar. Mommy was just kidding, too.” “Don’t be so sensitive.” Her face, watching us, was contorted with suppressed rage. 2 The next day, Gavin did take me to the jeweler. I made sure to pick out the most expensive diamond bracelet they had. On the drive back, I sat in the passenger seat, admiring the way the stones sparkled in the afternoon sun. Gavin broke the silence abruptly. “Hey, let’s stop inviting Adam over, okay?” I instinctively pushed back. “Why?” He frowned and coughed awkwardly. “Why? There’s no why.” “Just tell him not to come around anymore.” I raised an eyebrow. I knew this was his male ego acting up—the sting of his daughter preferring another man. A year ago, I’d just had a C-section. I was weak and in constant pain. My mother and mother-in-law had been taking turns caring for me and Junie, but that day, my mom had an emergency and my mother-in-law had gone to a funeral out of town. Before she left, she’d repeatedly told Gavin to take good care of me. Gavin promised he would. But that night, the moment he thought I was asleep, he snuck out. I was woken up by the baby’s frantic screaming. I gritted my teeth against the searing pain of my incision just to pick up and soothe the baby. Then I called Gavin. Three calls, back-to-back. No answer. Two minutes later, I saw Skylar’s story pop up on Instagram. A picture of her in a crowded bar, clinking beer bottles on a sticky table. The caption was aggressive: “Come on, you loser!” “Let’s see if Daddy can’t drink you under the table tonight.” Peeking out from under a bottle of cheap beer, I could see the corner of Gavin’s phone. I knew immediately. He wasn’t coming home.

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In my past life, I was the “money-losing” daughter swapped at birth into the poor He family. The love of my life was an abandoned orphan, the son of a martyr. We tasted life’s bitterness and sweetness together, walked through every season side by side. With my help, he rose to become a high-ranking military chief, and I became the envied chief’s wife. After living to a ripe old age, we died. And were reborn together. But I never expected that the first thing he would do after rebirth was to swap me and the He family’s biological daughter back. Only then did I realize that there was a grave in his heart, burying his “white moonlight”—his true love. He stared at me, still an infant in swaddling clothes, with eyes full of hatred: “You stole Luna’s life, causing her a lifetime of displacement, and forced my love into the grave.” “Those days and nights, I wished I could strangle you, but you were, after all, my wife.” “In this life, I pray our paths never cross again…” Fine. At least I don’t have to taste the endless suffering of the He family for a heartless man. In this life, I won’t help him rise to the clouds. I will fulfill my own aerospace dream. 1 In the hospital, reeking of disinfectant. Amidst the cries of babies. I could only watch helplessly as a careless nurse put the wrong ID tag on my ankle. Reborn as a baby, I was powerless to struggle, only able to turn red and whimper. In the noisy environment, my weak voice couldn’t attract anyone’s attention. But after the nurse left, a boy of about seven or eight sneaked in. When I saw who it was, my little feet kicked with joy. I knew him. It was my husband of fifty years, Song Siwei. But why was he here? I watched him search among the babies. Finally, he stopped in front of me. Then, he switched my ankle tag with the baby girl next to me. I couldn’t help but grin happily, letting out a giggle. I remembered nagging him in our past life, saying that if I could do it over, I would only want to be filial to my biological parents, not serve my adoptive ones. So, Song Siwei was reborn like me. He came all this way just to change my life! But before the warmth could reach my heart… I saw his clear eyes suddenly turn crimson. His rough, calloused hands were already squeezing my neck. A strong force surged up, and I instantly felt suffocated. My mind went blank, my soul almost separating from my body. Suddenly, his hand let go. I gasped for air. Terrified, I burst into loud cries. Fear permeated my entire body. Song Siwei… actually wanted to kill me just now? But… why? A childish voice came from the boy’s lips. Carrying a terrifying maturity and hatred. “You stole Luna’s life, causing her a lifetime of displacement, and forced my love into the grave.” “Those days and nights, I wished I could strangle you, but you were, after all, my wife.” “In this life, I pray our paths never cross again…” I froze. Only then did I realize that fifty years of marriage were a grave to him. His heart had long been occupied by the “white moonlight” whose life I had swapped. 2 “What should we name our little princess?” In the delivery room, on the bed furthest inside. It was the diplomat known as the “Iron Rose,” my mother, Zhou Rusu. She was holding me, eyes full of tenderness and love. Her soft voice caught the attention of the man beside her. Major General Jiang Jianwei, the most promising officer in the capital. He pondered for a moment, then recited a line from an ancient poem: “Before Luna drives the chariot of the moon… Luna is the goddess who drives the moon. Our daughter should be surrounded by stars like the moon. Luna… it sounds nice and rolls off the tongue. What do you think?” “Luna… not bad…” Zhou Rusu nodded, very satisfied with the name. But at the next bed, Song Siwei, who was attending to the He family’s baby girl, interrupted. “The name Luna has already been taken by our Vice Commander He. Maybe Major General Jiang should choose another name to avoid confusion in the future.” Song Siwei’s firm attitude made Jiang Jianwei frown slightly: “When did Vice Commander He name the child? I didn’t know.” Zhou Rusu saw the cunning in Song Siwei’s eyes at a glance. But she was kind and didn’t want to argue with a kid. She pulled her husband’s hand: “Just think of another one. Why argue with a child?” Jiang Jianwei took a deep breath and thought again. After a while, he recited: “Peach trees are young and elegant, their leaves are lush and thriving (Zhenzhen). “Let’s call her Jiang Zhenzhen. We shouldn’t put too much pressure on her. Let her grow up happy and carefree in this life!” Zhou Rusu’s eyes warmed. From the name “Zhenzhen,” she felt Jiang Jianwei’s deep love for the child. My heart was also warm. I ignored the fact that Song Siwei’s heart and eyes were full of his “Luna.” After all, I now had people whose hearts and eyes were full of me. My dad! My mom! 3 In my past life. Because of a nurse’s carelessness. I became the despised, “money-losing” daughter of Vice Commander He’s family. Luna became the cherished princess of Major General Jiang’s family. Compared to Luna’s life of luxury, pampering, and love. I grew up suffering in a family that valued boys over girls. She danced ballet on stage and became the star of the art troupe. I was a servant washing clothes and cooking for the He family’s little son. Song Siwei was the posthumous child of a veteran under Vice Commander He. After the veteran died in battle, his wife dumped Song Siwei at the He family’s gate and ran away. Unable to bear the gossip, Vice Commander He adopted Song Siwei. But the He couple, who didn’t even care much for their own daughter… How could they treat Song Siwei well? I was the He family’s nanny. He was the He family’s laborer. We sympathized with each other’s misery. Over time, I made him my everything. But he was already captivated by Luna on stage. That year, the art troupe visited the troops. When Luna was shining on stage… She was beaten up by Chief Zhao’s wife right there on stage. It revealed Luna’s identity as the mistress of a married man. The Jiang family was investigated. Jiang Jianwei was accused of selling his daughter for glory. He, who had the most hope of entering the core leadership before fifty, had his career destroyed. With one order, the entire Jiang family was sent to the harsh Tibetan region. This turning point allowed my adoptive father to seize the opportunity and rise to a high position. Even I, the nanny, and the laborer Song Siwei rose with him. I pleased my brother, obeyed my parents, and did everything to help Song Siwei rise. He lived up to expectations, became a pilot, and won a chance to enter the core circle… But he always missed Tibet. I thought he had grand ambitions, but his heart only held Luna. When I was thirty, the Jiang family members died one after another, and Luna’s whereabouts were unknown. Forced by my adoptive parents, Song Siwei finally married me unwillingly… Later, my adoptive father grew old and suffered from uremia, urgently needing a kidney. When I was morally kidnapped by my adoptive mother on the hospital bed, the fact that I was not the He family’s biological daughter was revealed. My adoptive father was desperate to live, and my adoptive mother tried her best to find their biological daughter, Luna. In the end, they only got news that Luna had died of a dirty disease. Song Siwei once said I stole Luna’s smooth life. I never took that sentence to heart. Little did I know that the man I treated with all my heart… Had wished day and night for me to die! 4 “Little Luna, it’s okay. Just a dozen years of hardship, I’ll walk through it with you!” When Vice Commander He’s wife went out to play mahjong, the stove at home would definitely not be lit. Young Song Siwei had no choice but to take the even younger He Luna with him. They could only seek help from Zhou Rusu in the same compound. My mother, kind and simple, couldn’t bear to see pitiful children. Whenever Song Siwei came to the Jiang family’s door, Zhou Rusu always helped as much as she could. I suddenly remembered my childhood in the past life… Song Siwei and I were often desperate. Hungry, we went door to door seeking shelter. The people in the compound were long tired of seeing us. Only Zhou Rusu was willing to give charity when she saw us. But Song Siwei’s arrogance grew year by year. He refused to accept Zhou Rusu’s “handouts.” He even insulted me, saying I was born from a starving ghost and had no shame. Thinking back now, his “arrogance” was just self-esteem in front of the person he liked. Now that his “white moonlight” was starving and howling every day, he put down all his pride and tried hard to seek the best conditions for He Luna. The contrast between past and present made me feel that those fifty years… were wasted on a dog. “In this life, I pray our paths never cross again…” Song Siwei, how could you go back on your own words? “Wah wah wah…” My crying sounded from the cradle. Hearing the noise, Zhou Rusu immediately put down the rice she was washing. The new mother hadn’t cut the umbilical cord between her and the infant yet. She was afraid I was hungry, thirsty, or wet… She could only hold me with both hands, pouring all her love onto me. As a result, Zhou Rusu had no time to give Song Siwei and He Luna a hot meal. “It’s strange. Our Zhenzhen is usually so good. But as soon as Song Siwei from next door brings little He Luna to beg for food, Zhenzhen cries so hard it breaks my heart! What’s wrong with her?” At night, Zhou Rusu and Jiang Jianwei lay in bed whispering. Jiang Jianwei poked my chubby cheek, smiling. “What else could it be? Your daughter doesn’t want you to work so hard. Song Siwei and He Luna come to beg for food every day. Other families in the compound are tired of them. Only you are patient enough to cook hot meals for them. Our Zhenzhen feels sorry for you.” Zhou Rusu was amused: “You’re funny. Zhenzhen is so small, what does she know? But those two kids from the He family are really pitiful. Maybe you can think of a way to help them.” Jiang Jianwei shook his head: “It’s hard for an honest official to settle family disputes. Let’s stay out of this. My mom is coming to take care of you and the baby tomorrow. She has thick skin. Let her talk to the He family, at least to feed the two kids.” Their kind nature always prevented them from staying out of it. The next day, my grandma yelled in the courtyard that the He family wouldn’t feed their kids. The neighbors, who had turned a blind eye, all popped up. They all said the He couple neglected their children too much. The He couple lost face. They took Song Siwei back and gave him a good beating. “Did I give you allowance money to play games and buy toys?” “If you spend money recklessly again, I’ll throw you away like your mom did!” “Uncle and Auntie are busy working, can’t you save us some worry?” Song Siwei was whipped until he was covered in wounds. For that non-existent allowance. He could only agree: “Uncle, Auntie, I’m sorry. I won’t spend money recklessly again!” A show for the people in the courtyard. Mother He then took out twenty yuan and gave it to Song Siwei in front of everyone. Song Siwei took the money, ignoring the blood in his mouth, and rushed to buy milk powder to feed little Luna. Watching this good show in Zhou Rusu’s arms, I couldn’t help but remember the past life, where I often endured beatings from the He parents to give Song Siwei a bite to eat. Indeed, love and non-love have always been distinct. When he was with me, Song Siwei was weak and unable to take care of himself. When he was with Luna, he could take a beating and bow and scrape, just so Luna could live a happier life. Thinking that the suffering I endured in my past life would happen to Song Siwei one by one, I had no regrets.

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My stepbrother, Julian, hates my guts. But I love to stick to him like glue. He paid me two thousand dollars to not walk home with him. He paid twenty thousand to get me to transfer out of his class. But every time, I’d come crawling back. After graduation, he transferred a huge sum into my account and said coldly: “Here’s five million dollars. Go study abroad. Never appear in my house again.” My eyes turned red, and I lowered my head, whispering, “Okay.” YES! He finally took the bait. 1 I walked in on Julian trying—and failing—to kiss the scholarship student. It was a dim karaoke room. He was slumped in the corner sofa, looking exhausted, his sharp profile obscured by shadows. A girl in a white dress stood next to him, hands on either side of him, leaning in tentatively. When I burst in, she jumped, turning to face me in a panic. Her eyes were wet, like a frightened deer. “Nia, I…” I ignored her and walked straight to Julian. “The driver’s here to pick me up. Dad said to bring you home too.” He picked up his jacket, draped it over his shoulders, and followed me out. It was late. The hallway was quiet. He closed the door but didn’t leave. He leaned against it, looking lazy. “She almost kissed me.” “…” I said nothing. His voice took on an edge of annoyance. “She’s very timid. It took her a lot of courage to do that.” I unlocked my phone, showed him the time and the text from my stepfather, and explained quietly. “Dad really told me to pick you up.” He glanced at it and gave a perfunctory, “Oh.” “I’m eighteen. I graduated high school. He can’t control me anymore. Tattling won’t work.” The psychedelic lights shifted, illuminating his features. His cheeks were flushed. He was drunk. I gripped my sleeve, my voice barely a whisper. “But…” He cut me off impatiently. “Go home by yourself.” “And—” His fingers tapped on his phone screen. “Here’s five million dollars. Go study abroad. Never appear in my house again.” “Let’s never see each other again.” “Nia, I really hate you.” He never wanted to see me again. Instantly, my eyes reddened. I lowered my head, suppressing a sob. “Okay.” Julian turned back into the karaoke room and slammed the door hard. I checked my banking app. The numbers were correct. Finally, I couldn’t hold it back. I squatted down, covered my mouth, and let out a muffled giggle. YES! He finally took the bait. 2 Julian has hated me for a long time. He thinks my mom and I are gold diggers after the Sterling family fortune. He’s not wrong. When I was fourteen, he put two geckos in my bed to scare me out of the house. I cried. To comfort me, my stepdad gave me more allowance. Seeing the money, I was happy again. When we were sixteen, we ended up in the same high school. He didn’t want to be in the same class as me, but he didn’t want his dad to yell at him and then pay me off again. So he skipped the middleman. “Twenty thousand.” “Transfer out of this class.” Freshman year, I left. Sophomore year, I came back. He never specified a time limit. When I walked back into the classroom with my backpack, Julian’s face was black as thunder. The guy in front of him laughed. “Jules, your sister is persistent.” Julian said coldly, “She’s not my sister.” Everyone smirked knowingly. Julian looked at me, frowning. “What will it take for you to disappear from my sight?” My eyes turned red. “Do you hate me that much?” He flashed a number with his fingers. I bit my lip. “Sorry, wrong classroom.” 3 I discovered a business opportunity. Julian was seriously rich. His mom, living abroad, paved his road with gold. When he played golf, I was the cheerleader, fetching water and holding his jacket. He confronted me. I looked up at him, starry-eyed. “I just admire you, big brother. Is that wrong?” He transferred me money. “Go shopping if you’re bored. Stop bothering me.” I happily accepted. I pestered Julian for over a year. Everyone knew he had a stepsister like me. They even joked about visiting him in the orthopedic hospital (a Chinese slang reference to incest/broken legs). Over time, Julian stopped explaining. He just threw money at me to make me go away. But I would never leave my ATM. On Julian’s 18th birthday, he got drunk. When he came home from the hotel, I held a bowl of hangover soup in one hand and supported him with the other. I hoped his drunken vision would add an extra zero to the transfer. He squinted at me, looking down, and suddenly said: “Nia, you really are manipulative and scheming.” His tone was mocking. I paused on the stairs. Insults cost extra. Suddenly, he grabbed my waist, turned off the lights, and pinned me against the railing of the spiral staircase, kissing me. My vision went dark. Only his face, magnified. His breath was like a storm. Shocked, I pushed him away. The bowl smashed—crash—and tumbled down the stairs. Stepdad called from upstairs, “Nia, what happened?” I suppressed the tremor in my voice and cried out my usual grievance: “Brother is drunk and throwing a tantrum! He broke my bowl!” Julian lowered his head, leaning against the railing, silent in the dark. Stepdad sighed. “He’s like that. Gets crazy when he drinks. Ignore him, go rest. I’ll help him.” I fled back to my room. At 3 AM. Julian texted me. [Sorry.] [Didn’t see clearly. Thought you were someone else.] It was his first apology. But it was an insult. Attached was a transfer. I didn’t accept it, and I didn’t reply. 4 I found out later who “someone else” was. One of Julian’s pursuers. A scholarship student who was always in the top ten of the grade, named Leah. She was insecure and timid, only daring to look at him from afar. And Julian noticed her. He said, “She’s like Nia. Always looking pathetic.” “Who is she putting on a show for?” He hated me, but he enjoyed watching Leah act that way. After school, I waited in the car for him. He came out with a girl in a school uniform trailing behind him. The car door opened. He didn’t get in. Holding her backpack, he raised an eyebrow at me and said nonchalantly: “Get out.” I froze for a second. Leah raised her hand cautiously, tugging at his sleeve, her voice soft. “Forget it, Jules.” “I can go home by myself.” Julian didn’t budge, his voice turning cold. “I’m taking her home.” “I transferred you the money. Take a taxi.” Why didn’t he give me enough to buy a car? Whatever. Quit while you’re ahead. I nodded awkwardly, bit my lip, clutched my backpack straps, and obediently got out of the car. Dusk fell, and the crowds dispersed. I stood alone by the roadside, staring at the tips of my shoes, tears falling one by one. Only when the car drove off in the opposite direction did I wipe my tears and check Julian’s message. $2,000? Good thing I didn’t check it in front of him. I wouldn’t have been able to cry. 5 Julian gave me the five million too late. I hadn’t prepared for the IELTS or TOEFL, so I had to cancel most of my travel plans and parties to hole up in my room memorizing vocabulary. Julian was downstairs throwing a party with his rich friends. The music was loud. I took off my headphones and went downstairs. “Can you keep it down?” Julian’s friend patted the empty seat next to him and smiled. “Nia, you’re home? Why not join us?” I pursed my lips in a shy smile. “I’m upstairs memorizing vocab.” “Vocab?” Someone finally turned off the music to listen. “I thought people who actually study that hard only existed online.” “Leah is here too. Come join us.” Julian hadn’t looked up once. Leah sat next to him, smiling gently at me. Then she looked like she wanted to say something but stopped. “Nia, are you planning to repeat a year?” I didn’t know her well. Calling me Nia so intimately… looks like things are getting serious with Julian. She continued, “It’s okay if you didn’t do well.” “Uncle Sterling is so rich, you probably have lots of backdoors.” Sensing the tension, everyone went quiet. I said gently: “Yes, my family is rich. Doesn’t matter how I test.” “Leah, are you worried about your scores?” Her face went pale. Julian finally looked up, patting her hand reassuringly. “Nia, don’t be so mean.” I nodded. “Okay.” “I’m going up to study. Keep it down.” I put my headphones back on and walked up the stairs. I could feel gazes burning into my back.

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The moment the new transfer student stole my seat, he didn’t just take a spot on the train; he unraveled my entire life. And the worst part? He regretted it. Eventually. I was born with a heart that beats to a broken rhythm. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It’s a fancy way of saying my heart muscle is too thick, too tired, and prone to giving out if I push it too hard. Weekly check-ups at the hospital are just part of my routine. Harper has been there for every single one of them. We grew up side by side, our lives tangled together like headphones left in a pocket. We were on the light rail, heading back from the city after my appointment. It was rush hour, bodies packed tight, the air stale and humid. Harper spotted the last empty seat—right next to where she was standing—and signaled for me to take it. I was about to sit, my legs aching from the long day, when I felt a tentative tug on my sleeve. “Leo… I’m feeling really lightheaded,” a soft voice whispered. It was Silas, the new transfer student. He looked at me with wide, doe-eyed innocence, one hand clutching his chest, the other trembling slightly. “Do you think… maybe I could have the priority seat? My anemia is acting up.” I almost laughed. The performance was flawless. It was so thick with artificial sweetness it could rot your teeth. I didn’t have the energy for games. I started to shut him down, polite but firm. “Sorry, man, I actually need to—” “Leo, just let him have it,” Harper cut in. Her voice wasn’t asking; it was deciding. I froze. “I know your heart acts up if you stand too long,” she said, her tone dismissive, “but I’ve fought for seats for you a thousand times. You can handle standing this once.” I stared at her. The betrayal wasn’t in the action; it was in the logic. Like a well-trained dog, I stepped back and gave up the seat. Silas sat down with a grateful, shy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t until the third time that week Harper bailed on walking to school with me—only for me to find out she’d already left with him—that the reality settled in. When I finally confronted her, she rolled her eyes. “Leo, seriously? It was just a seat on the train. Is it worth holding a grudge?” I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted iron. “You’re right,” I said, my voice quiet. “It was just a seat. So why couldn’t I have it?” The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Harper blinked, stunned into silence. 1 She had no answer. She wasn’t used to me pushing back. For years, I had been the soft one, the one who needed protection. Using her own logic against her short-circuited her defenses. It took her a solid minute to find her voice, and when she did, it was laced with defensiveness. “What is with this attitude? Silas wasn’t feeling well. You know that.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I turned and walked up the stairs. “Leo!” she yelled after me, her voice pitching up. “Are you seriously going to freeze me out over something so petty?” I didn’t look back. That was the beginning of the Cold War. I started avoiding her in the hallways, walking to class alone, eating lunch in the library. She didn’t chase me. The tether that had connected us since kindergarten had gone slack. Then came Monday. AP English. The teacher announced group projects. Before the sentence was even finished, Harper was flanked by her two best friends, Maya and Tess. Usually, I was the automatic fourth. I was gathering my books, waiting for the signal. I looked up to see Silas standing at Harper’s desk. He was blushing, looking down at his shoes, the picture of humility. “Hey, Harper… I know I’m new and I don’t really know anyone yet… do you guys have room for one more?” Maya and Tess immediately started cooing. “Oh, absolutely! We can’t leave the new guy hanging.” Harper looked pleased. She didn’t even glance my way. Her voice dropped into that gentle register she used to use for me. “Of course, Silas. You’re with us.” I stood there, my textbook hovering halfway into my bag. It was as if I had turned invisible. They had forgotten that their “Core Four” actually had four people. Once Silas sat down, he seemed to suddenly “notice” me standing there. He covered his mouth, eyes widening in mock horror. “Oh no… did I take Leo’s spot? I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize…” He looked at Harper, frantic. “Maybe Leo should take it. I can work alone. I’m not great at English anyway, I don’t want to drag you guys down…” Before I could speak, Harper shot me a look of pure annoyance. “Leo, your grades are perfect. You can handle a project on your own. Silas actually needs the help.” Suddenly, the whole thing felt incredibly cheap. I shoved my book into my bag, stood up, and walked to the back of the room without a word. The rest of the class had paired up. The only people left were the “burnouts”—the kids who slept in class or were too stoned to care. I pulled up a chair next to them. “We’re a team,” I said. “Let’s get this done.” 2 Since the grouping incident, the atmosphere in the classroom had shifted. It was subtle, but I felt it. My new team was a disaster on paper. One guy slept through lectures, another was addicted to reading fantasy novels on his phone, and the third wanted to help but couldn’t write a coherent sentence to save his life. I took charge. I broke the project down into microscopic tasks. You, look up these three dates. You, format the citations. You, just print the photos. I dragged them, kicking and screaming, toward a passing grade. It was exhausting. More exhausting than doing it alone. I had to monitor my heart rate constantly, breathing through the frustration. Deep breath. Don’t spike. Don’t spiral. Harper’s group, on the other hand, was having a blast. Silas didn’t know anything, but he knew how to ask. During breaks, he’d lean over Harper’s shoulder, pointing at a page, whispering questions in that breathy voice of his. Harper was endlessly patient, explaining the same concept three times over. Her friends giggled and teased them. I ignored the noise. I focused on rewriting my group’s barely legible notes. The tension peaked during P.E. Because of my condition, I sat out during high-intensity days. I usually did homework on the bleachers. Coincidentally, Silas sat out that week too. Anemia again. So, it was just the two of us on the concrete steps, overlooking the track. He scooted closer, invading my personal space. “Leo,” he said, hugging his knees and looking at me sideways. “Are you still mad at me?” I kept reading. “I know Harper cares about you a lot. You guys have history… I’m just jealous, honestly. I don’t have anyone here. She’s been so nice to me, I just wanted to be close to her.” His eyes started to water on command. “Am I causing problems for you guys?” Before I could figure out how to respond to that level of manipulation, the halftime whistle blew for the basketball scrimmage. Harper jogged over, wiping sweat from her forehead, holding two water bottles. The sunlight caught her hair, making her look like a golden retriever in human form—eager, bright, loyal. She stopped in front of us, cracked the seal on one bottle, and handed it to Silas. “Hydrate.” Then she set the unopened bottle on the step next to me. “You okay? You look pale.” Silas took small sips, looking up at her with adoration. “Harper, that three-pointer was incredible! You looked so cool out there.” Harper grinned, basking in the praise. She was about to say something when Silas suddenly swayed. His hand “slipped,” and the open water bottle tipped over. Ice-cold water splashed all over my lap, soaking my jeans instantly. “Oh my god! Leo, I’m so sorry!” Silas shrieked, jumping up. He reached out as if to wipe the water off my pants, panic written all over his face. But then, he stumbled over his own feet and fell backward, straight into Harper’s arms. “Whoa, gotcha!” Harper caught him, her reflex instant. “You okay?” “I… I’m fine,” Silas murmured, leaning his full weight against her. “Just dizzy. Vision went black for a second…” Harper scooped him up, her brow furrowed in concern. She started walking him toward the nurse’s office. A few steps away, she stopped and looked back at me. I was still sitting on the concrete, water dripping from my jeans, shivering slightly from the shock of the cold. I looked at her, waiting for the bare minimum. Are you okay? It didn’t come. Her eyes were heavy with disappointment. “Leo,” she said, her voice cold. “Silas is sick. Couldn’t you have kept an eye on him? I didn’t think you could be this cold-hearted.” She turned and marched Silas away. The whispers from the class washed over me. I sat there, frozen, feeling a familiar, tight pain clenching around my heart. 3 After that day, I stopped trying. I stopped explaining. I stopped fighting. I stopped looking at Harper. I walked home in wet jeans that day. The autumn wind cut through the damp denim, chilling me to the bone, but the cold inside my chest was worse. The next morning, Harper approached my desk. She placed a carton of warm milk in front of me—a peace offering. “Look… Silas didn’t mean it yesterday. His health is just fragile, you know? Like yours. Don’t take it personally.” I looked at her, and for the first time, I felt nothing. Just a vast, gray boredom. In her eyes, I was the one who didn’t need worrying about. Heart condition? I had meds. Misunderstood? I had a mouth; I could defend myself. Our history had convinced her that my resilience was infinite. I picked up the milk, placed it back on her desk, and spoke softly. “Thanks, but I already drank.” I turned my back to her and opened my vocabulary book. Harper stood there for a moment, embarrassed, before snatching the milk and walking away. I heard Silas’s whisper from across the aisle: “Harper, is Leo still mad?” From that day on, I excised myself from their narrative. I left school the second the bell rang. In group projects, I did the work but offered no small talk. Harper started to notice. She cornered me a few times, asking if I was still sulking about “the little things.” I just shook my head. “No. Finals are coming up. I need to focus.” She looked at me like I was a stranger. She was used to me nagging her, used to me getting reactive. My calm unnerved her. But I didn’t have the stamina for drama anymore. My heart couldn’t take it, and neither could my pride. My salvation came in the form of a flyer on the bulletin board. Citywide English Speech Competition. Theme: The Power of Silence. I stared at it. The Power of Silence. The phrase cut through the fog in my brain. Why was I trying to scream to be heard by people who had chosen to be deaf? Real power wasn’t in the argument; it was in the action. It was in succeeding without them. I tore off the tab, went to the office, and signed my name. The moment I handed in the form, my erratic heart seemed to find a steady beat. I threw myself into it. Lunch breaks were spent on the roof, practicing enunciation to the empty football field. Evenings were spent refining my draft, cutting out every unnecessary word. Meanwhile, Silas was thriving. He was the school mascot of kindness—handing out water to the team, helping people with homework (and then asking Harper for help when he got stuck). They were a perfect, sickening pair. One afternoon, I passed them in the hallway. Silas tugged Harper’s sleeve loud enough for me to hear. “Harper, look at Leo. He’s so focused lately. He barely talks to us anymore.” Harper’s gaze lingered on me, complicated and unreadable. I didn’t break stride. The night before the finals, I stayed late in the empty classroom for one last dress rehearsal. The moonlight spilled over the desks. I wore my white dress shirt—I wanted to get used to the feel of the stiff collar. I ran through the speech. Every pause, every inflection was muscle memory now. I felt ready. I felt light. I was packing up when the classroom door creaked open. Silas stood there, holding a steaming cup of coffee, wearing a smile that was all innocence and poison. “Leo! You’re still here? I brought you some coffee. To keep you going.” 4 “Thanks, but I was just leaving.” I folded my speech carefully, placing it in my folder on the desk. My white shirt, the one I’d ironed specifically for tomorrow, was draped over the back of my chair. “Don’t rush off, Leo.” Silas stepped into the room. He placed the coffee on the desk, dangerously close to my folder. “Tomorrow is the big day. You must be nervous. Drink something warm.” I instinctively took a step back, creating distance. I reached out to move my folder and shirt away from him. “I really don’t want it. Thanks.” My rejection seemed to fluster him. He took a step forward, as if to plead his case, but then his foot “caught” on a chair leg. “Ah!” It was theatrical. The cup of scalding coffee launched from his hand in a perfect arc. Dark brown liquid splashed across the folder, soaking the pages instantly, and splattered all over the pristine white shirt. It happened in slow motion. “Oh my god! Leo, I’m so sorry!” Silas dropped to his knees, grabbing tissues, frantically scrubbing at the mess, which only ground the coffee stain deeper into the fabric. “I didn’t mean to! I just…” I stared at weeks of work dissolving into brown pulp. I stared at the shirt I had to wear in twelve hours. My mind went blank. Then, footsteps. Silas heard them too. He looked up at me, tears instantly welling in his eyes. Then, he threw himself backward, landing hard on the floor as if I had shoved him. “Leo, please don’t be mad… I know you worked so hard…” The door flew open. Harper stood there. Her eyes swept the room—the coffee, the mess, Silas on the floor. “Leo!” “What the hell are you doing?” She didn’t look at the ruined speech. She didn’t look at the shirt. She stormed over to Silas. “You can’t win fair and square, so you resort to bullying?” She glared at me, her expression twisting into disgust. “I didn’t know you were this vicious.” Vicious? A sharp pain exploded in my chest, radiating down my left arm. My vision tunneled. I opened my mouth to say I didn’t do it, but no sound came out. My throat closed up. I stumbled, gripping the edge of the desk. My hand shook uncontrollably as I reached for my pocket. Meds… I need my meds… But my legs gave out. I slid down the side of the desk, hitting the floor. The pill bottle tumbled out of my pocket, rolling across the linoleum with a cheerful clatter-clatter, stopping just out of reach. The room began to spin. Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. The last thing I saw before the lights went out was Harper stepping over my body to help a crying Silas. “Silas, are you okay? Did you get hurt?” Her voice was full of the panic and care I had never received.

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