Category: English

The company let me go. Age discrimination, they called it. Thirty-five, and already too old for the hustle. Then, my son, Leo, lost sight in one eye in a stupid neighborhood accident. A week later, my wife, Seraphina—Sera—tumbled down the stairs and fractured her leg. The towering medical bills were a lead weight on my chest, suffocating the air out of me. But I kept grinding, pushing through every hellish job I could find to keep my little family afloat. Until the day I landed a gig as an extra on a film set, and saw the woman with the “broken leg” soaring thirty feet above me. 1 I stood there, paralyzed, watching the lead actress, who was mid-air, executing a perfect wire-work fight sequence. It was her. The curve of her jaw, the way she moved, the unmistakable grace—it was Seraphina. My wife. The woman I tucked into bed every night. How… how was she doing this? “Hey! What are you staring at? Get down and play dead, will ya!” A fellow extra hissed, nudging me hard. “You mess this up, you don’t get paid a dime!” I forced myself to drop, my face pressed against the cold, dusty floor of the soundstage. My eyes were shut tight, but the tears, hot and humiliating, leaked out and disappeared into the grime. When the director finally yelled, “Cut!” the world tilted. I scrambled up, stumbling toward the bright, manicured circle where Sera was instantly enveloped by her team. Her assistant, a sharp-faced young man named Benji, put a hand on my chest. “Sir, what do you think you’re doing? Are you looking for an autograph? Honestly, you extras are unbelievable. You’re here to work, not to stalk the talent.” I just stared, dumbstruck, past Benji to Sera, who was basking in the glow of attention. The worried murmurs and fussing of her people created a bubble around her—a world I didn’t belong to. Benji was ready to tear into me, but it was Seraphina who finally turned her gaze my way. For a flicker of a second, I saw it: pure, unadulterated panic in her eyes. My lips trembled. I tried to speak, to form a single question, but only a pathetic, ragged breath came out. The crew members around me were gushing. “Sera Maxwell, even at forty, she’s a goddess! The class, the sheer presence!” Some of the younger male extras were openly fantasizing. God, if only Seraphina were my wife. Sera muttered something quickly to Benji. His eyes darted back to me, full of surprise, but he grabbed my arm and steered me away from the crowd to a quiet corner. A moment later, Sera joined us. Her usual radiant composure was gone, replaced by a strained look. “Ethan, let me explain—” “Your leg,” I managed to choke out. “Your leg, Sera.” Benji, who had stepped away, rushed back, checking his phone. “Sera, the episode fees just came in. One million dollars. Per episode.” One million dollars. The number hit me like a physical blow. A million dollars for one episode. What did that make the five grand I was hoping to scrape together over seven days of humiliating extra work? What did that make the back-breaking shifts washing dishes, the sleepless nights? I looked at Seraphina—the woman who had just flawlessly performed acrobatics on a wire harness—and felt the laughter bubble up in my throat, hollow and bitter. A joke. I’m an absolute joke. Just this morning, I had proudly told her I’d found this extra gig. I had massaged her “injured” leg before leaving, worried sick about her recovery, waiting until her breathing evened out before walking out the door. Benji cleared his throat, sensing the toxic atmosphere. “Sera, whatever history you have with this… fan, you need to be careful. Don’t let your fiancé get wind of this. And frankly, he’s not exactly A-list material. No need to invite a scandal.” Fiancé? The word echoed in the empty space where my heart should have been. Sera’s face tightened. She shot Benji a look that sent him scurrying away. It was just the two of us now. She twisted her hands. “Ethan, please, let me explain—” I cut her off. The years of love, devotion, and sacrifice curdled into pure acid. “Explain what, Sera? What’s left to explain? You thought this was fun? Lying to me? You’ve been healthy this whole time, running around and swinging from cables, while you let me believe your leg was shattered! You’re a major star, yet you told me you were tutoring rich kids! You watched me get fired, watched me chase every scrap of work, lose my dignity for this family. Did you enjoy the show? Did you get a kick out of watching your pathetic, broke husband grovel for cash?” “Ethan, don’t—” “Don’t call me that! When did you get better? Or were you never hurt in the first place?” “That’s not it, Ethan. I swear—” I remembered the tough, sweet times. The struggle had always been real, but the love had felt honest, a precious, fragile thing. Now, looking at the dazzling stranger in front of me, I felt utterly defeated. I was a man who had been cast out by his company and utterly betrayed by his wife. I was a worm, wriggling in the mud. Then, a sickening thought struck me. Our son. Leo. He’d always been closer to Sera, but his injury was the one thing that crushed me. I looked up, my eyes suddenly clear and hard. “Leo. Tell me about Leo. Was he really blind in one eye? Or was that just part of the act, too?” Sera’s lips parted, a desperate sound caught in her throat. Before she could speak, the door to the quiet corner burst open. It was Leo. “Mom, what are you doing back here? Uncle Damon is waiting for us! We’re going out for dinner!” 2 A profound, suffocating grief washed over me. I stared at my perfectly healthy wife, whose eyes were full of evasiveness, and my son, whose eyes were bright, curious, and utterly undamaged. The sky hadn’t just fallen; it had dissolved, leaving me floating in a void of lies. I had been living in a carefully constructed stage play. Behind Leo, a man walked in. He radiated money and privilege. Tailored black suit, expensive watch, a demeanor that spoke of effortless, casual power. Sera moved her head slightly, a frantic, useless attempt to shield Leo from my view. My heart shattered on the floor, the sound of the pieces inaudible beneath the roaring in my ears. “Leo?” My voice was a choked whisper. Leo spotted me. He frowned, his flawless features pinching with annoyance. “What are you doing here?” The cold, distant look in his eyes—the kind of look you give a stranger on the street—was a fresh stab of pain. “You… you were lying to me, too?” I whispered, all the strength draining out of my body. Leo’s frown deepened. It was the kind of disdain that could crush a grown man. “Lying? Oh, yeah, I guess I was. If Mom hadn’t said it was ‘interesting’ to keep you fooled, why would I have gone along with it? It was disgusting! Wearing that cheap, smelly eye patch every day in that gross little apartment.” Leo stood tall in a miniature suit and a bow tie, looking like a little prince of industry. I used to look at him and feel a surge of foolish, ordinary pride. How could someone so exquisite come from someone so plain? He had always been aloof, but I’d dismissed it as precocious maturity, a boy too old to cling to his father. But watching him now, how tightly he clutched the hand of the man in the black suit—Damon Royce—his face open with pure, trusting dependency, I knew the truth. I closed my eyes, the bitter cold of betrayal seeping into my bones. I sank to my knees, shaking uncontrollably. Leo, emboldened by my collapse, dropped the pretense entirely. “Seriously, now that you know, I don’t have to pretend anymore. We only stayed in that dump for your sake, you know? Honestly, Dad? I don’t know what Mom saw in you. You’re old, you’re… ugh. I literally couldn’t eat when I looked at your face. You’re nothing compared to Uncle Damon.” Tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t clearly see Leo’s face anymore. When Leo had his supposed injury, he was a spoiled terror. I had to coax and feed him every bite, despite a full day of exhausting work. I never complained. I cooked, cleaned, and cared for both of them. I thought I was a good man, a dedicated father and husband. In their eyes, I was trash. Even to my own son. Damon Royce stepped forward, his expression a mixture of contempt and bored curiosity. “So, you’re Ethan Kade? Yeah, you do look pretty pathetic.” He surveyed my crumpled, shaking form, then smiled, a chilling, condescending gesture. “No wonder Leo despises you and wants me to be his father. If I were him, I’d hate you, too. Seven days for five thousand dollars? Leo’s allowance for one day is more than that.” My back felt like it was snapping under the weight of his judgment. I wiped the tears from my face, desperate to shout a defense, but Seraphina beat me to it. “Leo, honey, why don’t you and Damon go ahead to the restaurant? I need to talk to… Ethan. Alone.” Leo wasn’t having it. “Why? Since he knows, let’s just get it over with! I don’t want to be involved with this failure of a man ever again!” Damon, too, seemed to prefer an audience for the kill. He gave me that casual, predatory smile. “You know that saying, Ethan? All the world’s a stage?” 3 Damon Royce looked at me, malice shining in his eyes. I didn’t care about his reasons, or Seraphina’s. I just felt a sickening mix of pain and nausea. He was clearly enjoying my humiliation. “This whole thing was a bet, Ethan. A script. I gave Sera the outline, and she just followed the directions.” I met Seraphina on a rainy night. I had been searching for jobs, hitting dead end after dead end. Despair was a heavy cloak, soaking me to the bone. I had no umbrella, no cab fare, nothing. Then, she appeared. She held a black umbrella over me. Her eyes were impossibly gentle. “Even if you’re a man,” she said, her voice soft, “you shouldn’t stand out here in the rain. It’s bad for your health.” I was a fool. I reached out and took her hand. I thought she was my salvation. I didn’t know she was the person who would push me into a deeper, colder abyss. Damon looked down at me, utterly superior. “You fell in love right on schedule, just like my script predicted. Honestly, did you really think someone like Sera would ever be within your reach?” “The blind eye. The broken leg. All orchestrated by me. You see, my social standing is leagues above yours. With one word, I can turn any story into reality.” His words were the opening of Pandora’s Box—a nightmare unfolding in real time. When Sera and I married, I planned out our future: saving money, a good education for Leo, a stable, happy life. But then, at thirty-five, my company fired me, citing my age. Not enough hustle, not enough hunger. In the same week, Sera supposedly fell and broke her leg on the way to a tutoring job. Leo, playing with a friend, shattered a shop window and the glass sliced his eye. The happy family disintegrated. I was the only healthy one left. To pay for their treatments, I begged, borrowed, and groveled. I knelt and pleaded, giving up every last shred of my pride. The debts were crushing, forcing me to take on an endless cycle of grueling shifts—washing dishes, waiting tables, stacking shelves. I fought tooth and nail for the extra gig, just another way to trade my time and body for cash. I never complained. I only cared that my wife and son were safe and whole. My hard work, my sacrifice—it was all a punchline. I wasn’t their rescuer. I was their entertainment. I was walking the path they had drawn for me. Damon’s final blow was delivered with a casual, easygoing smile. “You getting fired? Yeah, that was me too. Funny, right? Your company’s CEO just happened to be an old acquaintance of mine.” His words, spoken with such gentle cruelty, were sharp knives slicing through my spinal cord. I couldn’t breathe. I looked up, tears blurring the edges of his smug face. Damon Royce reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pristine tissue, and gently dabbed my cheek. “Why the tears, Ethan? You pride yourself on being so strong. And I’m not done with you yet.” I had a hard childhood. My parents favored my younger brother, treating me like a servant. I fought for everything I had. Meeting Sera, I thought I was finally building the life I deserved. I wanted to give my son a life overflowing with love, free from the suffering I knew. I wanted Sera and Leo to never feel poor, to never be looked down upon. I didn’t want them to be miserable wretches like me. Instead, I was the biggest joke of all, still drowning in the same old mud. My supposed light was just a deeper form of darkness. I took a deep, shuddering breath. Thirty-six years of accumulated humiliation and anger exploded in my chest. I didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t care what I was facing. I just wanted to reclaim one ounce of dignity. Why should I be the idiot, the plaything? I am a person, too! I looked at Damon, my eyes blazing with pure rage. He started clapping, a delighted laugh bubbling from him. “That’s it! The anger! I love it! But Ethan, what good is your anger now?” My voice was a low growl. “You’re right. Anger doesn’t help me. But what if—” I launched myself at him. You rely on your face, don’t you? Damon’s panicked scream was instant. My fist found its target. “My face! My face! Get off me! You despicable brute!” I didn’t care what he said. He had orchestrated the destruction of my life. He had to pay.

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On the day his “depressed” step-sister threatened suicide for the ninety-ninth time, Liam abandoned me at the altar for the ninety-ninth time. “As a psychologist, I have a duty to my patients,” he said, adjusting his tie, not looking me in the eye. And just like that, the System declared my mission a failure. My punishment? Severe Major Depressive Disorder. The System stripped away my will to live, leaving only a hollow void. From that moment on, my only goal was to successfully kill myself so I could return to my original world. When Liam finally realized I was genuinely seeking death, he panicked. He used every trick in his psychiatric playbook. He tried to cure me. He tried to reignite a spark of love. He tried to forcibly tether me to this world. But he didn’t realize one thing. I didn’t want him anymore. 01 Just as Liam was about to slide the wedding ring onto my finger, his step-sister, Bella, called. Her voice was weak, trembling through the speaker. “Liam… my wrist is bleeding so much. My prince is gone, so I’m going to become the Little Mermaid and sleep at the bottom of the ocean forever…” “Will you think of me when you look at the sea, Liam?” Liam’s hand, which had been gripping mine, instantly went slack. His voice shook. “Bella, tell me where you are. I’ll watch the ocean with you, okay?” “Don’t do anything rash. I’m coming.” He hung up, his eyes darting to me with a practiced, apologetic look. “Bella is unstable again. I have to go find her immediately.” “Let’s postpone the wedding, okay?” “No!” I grabbed Liam’s sleeve, ignoring the whispers and gasps from the guests below. I was on the verge of losing control. “Are you the only shrink in New York? Why does she have to threaten suicide every single time we try to get married?” “This is the ninety-ninth time, Liam! Have you ever considered that maybe—just maybe—referring her to a different doctor would actually help?” Liam’s dark eyes turned sharp. His handsome face hardened into a line of displeasure. He looked at me coldl, as if I were the unreasonable one. Bella was his soft spot. Untouchable. Sacred. 02 I couldn’t help but think back to the first time I met Bella. She had stolen a handmade necklace Liam made for me. Before I could even get angry, Liam stepped in front of her like a knight in shining armor, explaining on her behalf. “Bella has developed kleptomania because of her depression. Please don’t blame her.” “I’ll make you an exact copy later. Since Bella likes this one, just let her have it.” I opened my mouth to argue that there are no two identical handmade items in the world. I wanted to ask: If Bella decides she likes you, do I have to hand you over to her, too? But I couldn’t say it. How could I, a mentally healthy person, hold a grudge against a depressed patient? While Liam went upstairs to get her antidepressants, Bella—who looked somewhat like me—smirked, her expression dripping with mockery. “You’re just a cheap knockoff of me. Liam only dates you because he can’t cross that moral line with me. He can’t bring himself to touch me.” “He only studied psychology for my sake. I will always be first in his heart. You’ll never win against me. Heehee.” She curved her eyes into a sweet smile, looking nothing like a severe depressive. Looking at Bella, I finally understood why Liam had fallen for me at first sight. Why he pursued me so relentlessly. I smiled politely, gently reminding her of the reality. “Of course. After all, you two are on the same family registry.” As long as they were legally siblings, and as long as Liam’s strict, old-money father was alive, he would never allow a scandal like theirs. When their father found love letters Bella wrote to Liam, his first move was to force Bella to legally change her last name to his. He wanted to cement their sibling status. Bella went on hunger strikes, took sleeping pills, and threatened to jump into the ocean. But the old man wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t until Liam introduced me to his father that the pressure on Bella eased. In wealthy families like the Peis, reputation is currency. Bella’s face darkened instantly. She suddenly lost control, grabbing a glass from the table and smashing it violently against the coffee table. Crash. Shards flew everywhere, slicing long, bloody gashes into her palm. I was startled and instinctively took a few steps back. Bella, however, seemed immune to the pain. She laughed maniacally. “Guess who Liam is going to blame for not taking care of me?” 03 Panic-stricken footsteps thundered down the stairs. Liam rushed down, knocking me to the ground in his haste. “Why weren’t you watching her?!” He scooped Bella into his arms, rushing her to the sofa to tend to her wounds. His eyes were ice-cold as he glared at me. “Don’t you know she has severe depression? She has suicidal tendencies!” My palms were embedded with glass shards from the floor, stinging sharply, but I didn’t dare make a sound. I was terrified of triggering Bella again. Bella wrapped her arms around Liam’s neck, burying her face in his chest. She sobbed in a baby voice, unable to hide the smugness in her tone. “Liam… it hurts so bad.” Liam sighed, looking down at her with pure heartbreak. He wiped her tears, held her injured hand, and gently blew on the wound. “I’ll blow on it, and the pain will fly away. Bella is a good girl.” In that moment, Liam didn’t even notice that I was bleeding onto the carpet, too. I kept comforting myself: Bella is sick. It’s only right he pays more attention to her. But later, I learned that Liam’s first choice would always be Bella. Bella threatened suicide ninety-nine times. And he abandoned me ninety-nine times. In desolate mountains, in blizzard winds, on busy highways, in the dead of night, at countless ruined wedding venues… Because of Bella’s “depression,” I never had the right to say “no.” This time, I didn’t want to compromise. No matter what Liam said, I gripped his sleeve, refusing to let go. Because last night, the System had given me a final warning. If Liam abandons you for Bella one more time, the mission is a failure. You will be erased. To relieve my psychological burden and make me fight for him, the System even whispered a secret to me: Bella is faking it. She will absolutely not kill herself. Liam looked anxious. “Bella is my sister. I can’t just ignore her.” “Besides, I’m a psychologist. I have to be responsible for my patients. We can have a wedding any day, but if something happens to Bella today, I’ll never forgive myself.” “I promise, next time, I’ll give you a perfect wedding.” I shook my head, my voice raspy. “Liam, if you leave now, there won’t be a next time.” Liam’s patience finally snapped. He pried my fingers off his sleeve, force by force. His brows furrowed, his tone dropping to absolute zero. “I will marry you, and I will save Bella. These two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Why are you being so difficult?” “This is a matter of life and death. Do you have to be so unreasonable right now?” The atmosphere froze. The guests’ mocking stares felt like needles. I opened my mouth to tell him Bella was faking it. That she wouldn’t die. But the words wouldn’t come out. The System said that revealing its intel counts as cheating. I opened my mouth again, wanting to tell him the truth about me. If you leave, I die. But before I could speak, Liam’s phone rang again. He answered it, speaking gently to Bella on the other end. Then, without hesitation, he left me. He didn’t look back. The next second, the System’s cold mechanical voice echoed in my head. [Host, mission failed.] [Punishment Mode Activated: Severe Depression.] [You may choose your method of exit. Once you die, you will be returned to your original world.] Return to my original world? Suddenly, that didn’t sound so bad. In my original world, I was sick, yes, but I had my mom who loved me. Here, aside from a healthy body, I had nothing. I thought for a moment and told the System: “Then let me truly fall into severe depression. Let me die by Liam’s hand.” If I have to die, I want Liam—the expert psychologist—to see what real severe depression looks like. Because it certainly doesn’t look like Bella. 04 After Liam left, the wedding descended into chaos. I didn’t force a smile to see off the mocking guests like I usually did. I just watched coldly as Liam’s stepmother (Bella’s mom) cried and accused Liam’s father. “Are you trying to kill Bella? You know how much she loves Liam!” “If anything happens to her, I won’t live either! Let’s see if your precious family reputation matters more than our lives!” Then, she glared at me and spat, “Shameless bitch!” She stormed off. As if I were the homewrecker in Liam and Bella’s twisted romance. Ironically, she was the mistress who climbed the ladder and drove Liam’s biological mother to suicide. Another secret the System told me that I couldn’t share. If only Liam knew his beloved step-sister was the daughter of the woman who destroyed his mother… I wondered what expression he’d make. Liam’s father sighed and came over to pat my hand. “You’ve been wronged. Bella’s illness will be cured one day. Just bear with it a little longer.” I pulled my hand back numbly. I didn’t nod. I didn’t react. Liam had said the same thing to me countless times. Just bear with it. Don’t argue with a sick person. I used to get angry, sad, desperate. But today, I didn’t care. The System said severe depression robs you of most normal emotions, strips away the will to live, leaving only endless pain and a determination to die. I asked the System, confused: “Bella’s depression is so different from mine. Why can’t Liam, a professional, see she’s faking?” The System was silent for a long time before saying: [How do you know he can’t see it?] My breath hitched. If Liam knew Bella was faking… Then he was just using “depression” as an excuse to spoil her without limits, using it to force me to back down, allowing Bella to cross line after line with him. Lies don’t hurt. The truth is the blade. My heart felt like it was being pricked by thousands of needles. I walked through the noisy crowd like a ghost and went home. I signed the organ donation forms. I swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills. I curled up under the covers, numbly waiting for the end. Death meant going home to Mom. People who really want to die do it quietly, alone. They don’t broadcast it to the world like Bella.

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My roommate stole my black card, boasting to the entire class that she was treating them to limited edition Labubus, telling them to “pick whatever they want.” When she realized everyone had chosen the $50 million hidden diamond editions, racking up a bill over $1 billion, she panicked. In my past life, my roommate Tiffany did exactly this. She maxed out my card, saddling me with massive debt and ruining my reputation in front of the whole school. When I confronted her, she cried in my boyfriend’s arms: “Lily, just because you’re a gold digger in debt doesn’t mean you can frame me!” On my way to the bank to get evidence, Tiffany ran me over with her car, killing me. The entire class testified against me, claiming I was jealous of Tiffany and had thrown myself in front of her car to extort money. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the day Tiffany offered to buy the whole class Labubus. What they didn’t know was that my mother is the CEO of the world’s largest designer toy conglomerate, and Labubu is our product. 1 “Ladies! The new Labubu collection drops tomorrow. I’m taking everyone to the flagship store. Pick whatever you want, it’s on me!” Tiffany’s voice echoed through the dorm room, chin held high. I shuddered violently. I was really back. Back to the day the nightmare began. Tiffany sashayed over, linking her arm through mine with fake intimacy. “Lily, I heard that flagship store only accepts VIPs. Doesn’t that bank card of yours have internal priority access? Let me borrow it so I can get everyone in without queuing.” Her excuse was identical to my past life. To let me experience a normal college life, my mom gave me a special supplementary card. On the surface, it had a limited balance, but it was actually linked to the highest authority level of her toy conglomerate. In my past life, Tiffany used “borrowing” as a pretext to steal it. She went on a frenzy in the store, racking up millions. The massive debt turned me into a laughingstock, cementing my reputation as a “gold digger.” When I confronted her, she threw herself into my boyfriend Brad’s arms, sobbing. “Lily, I know your family is poor, but you can’t accuse me of theft just because you can’t pay your debts.” Brad, my boyfriend of three years, slapped me across the face and called me vain. While on my way to the bank to pull the transaction records, Tiffany ran me over, crushing me repeatedly until I was dead. My spirit watched as Brad and the entire class gave false testimony, saying I was trying to scam her. Although my mom was the CEO, she was abroad handling business. By the time she uncovered the truth, Tiffany’s family had already smuggled her out of the country. My mom fell ill from grief and never recovered. Thinking of this, I wanted to tear the person in front of me apart. I suppressed my hatred and looked at Tiffany’s hypocritical face. “My card? I didn’t bring it.” Brad was sitting at my desk, playing video games on my computer. Hearing me, he scoffed without turning around. “Lily, stop pretending. Tiffany is generous enough to treat everyone. It’s an honor for your crappy card to be useful.” He stood up, grabbed my bag hanging by the bed, and dumped its contents onto the mattress. He spotted the card immediately and tossed it to Tiffany. “Tiff, take it. Don’t mind this cheapskate.” Tiffany smiled sweetly, taking the card and pressing her body against Brad. “Brad, you’re so good to me. Lily won’t be mad, will she?” Brad looked at her with adoration, then turned to me with pure disgust. “Lily, you’re getting more and more unreasonable. It’s just a card, why the attitude?” I walked up to him. Slap! I used all my strength to slap Brad across the face. The dorm went silent. I snatched the card back from Tiffany’s hand. “Brad, who gave you the right to touch my things?” Brad clutched his face, eyes wide. “Lily! Are you crazy? You, a poor student living on financial aid, dare to hit me?” Slap! Another slap, this time on the other cheek. “Do I need to pick a special day to hit you?” 2 “Lily! How could you hit Brad?!” Tiffany immediately blocked Brad, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have asked for the card. Don’t be mad at Brad, hit me if you want.” She cried like a tragic heroine. I sneered and slapped Tiffany across the face without hesitation. “Wish granted.” “Stop acting in front of me. Don’t you feel disgusting?” Tiffany covered her face, staring at me in shock. Brad’s eyes went red instantly. He raised his hand and shoved me hard. I stumbled back, my lower back slamming into the metal edge of the bunk bed. Cold sweat broke out from the pain. “Lily! You ungrateful bitch! Who do you think you are hitting Tiffany? She’s so kind!” Holding my back, I looked at him coldly. “She asked for it.” My other roommates surrounded us, accusing me. “Lily, that’s too much. Tiffany was just being nice offering to treat everyone. You didn’t have to lend the card, but hitting people?” Tiffany sobbed uncontrollably, clutching Brad’s arm. “Brad, don’t blame Lily. She must feel inferior because her family is poor. But Brad and I are innocent.” Brad looked heartbroken, pulling Tiffany into his arms. “Tiff, you’re just too pure. That’s why this shrew bullies you.” He turned to me, his gaze full of contempt. “Lily, put away your poor-person temper. Give the card to Tiffany right now and apologize. Otherwise, we are completely done.” I laughed in anger. I was truly blind in my past life. “Break up? I’ve been waiting for you to say that!” “Brad, I’m dumping you!” Tiffany feigned surprise. “Lily, don’t be impulsive. Three years of relationship, how can you just end it?” She switched to a charitable expression. “Lily, how about this. You lend me the card, and all the reward points from tomorrow’s shopping spree will go to you. I heard VIP points can be exchanged for hidden editions that sell for thousands. You won’t lose out, right?” Brad glared at me. “Lily, Tiffany is giving you an out. Don’t be ungrateful. Hand over the card.” I sneered. “My card stays with me.” A flash of malice crossed Tiffany’s eyes. “Lily, I really want the whole class to have their favorite Labubu. If you lend me the card, I’ll personally buy you the latest blind box myself, okay?” The other roommates chimed in. “Lily, that’s enough. Getting points and a free toy? You’re making a profit.” Brad mocked, “Lily, aren’t you just trying to get more out of this? Quit while you’re ahead.” I looked around at these greedy, stupid faces. In my past life, they all testified against me. “Do you not understand English? I’m not lending it.” Tiffany’s eyes darkened for a split second. The next moment, she wiped her tears and turned to the classmates from other dorms who had just walked in, her voice dripping with grievance. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I promised to treat you all to Labubus tomorrow. But Lily won’t lend us the VIP card, so we probably can’t use the priority lane. I broke my promise.” She buried her face in her hands and collapsed into Brad’s arms. Brad looked like he wanted to kill me. He rushed over and slapped me hard. “Lily! You bitch!” Then he kicked me in the stomach. I fell to the ground, pain radiating through my abdomen. Brad pointed at me and cursed, “Did you do this on purpose? You can’t stand that Tiffany is popular! You’ve always been jealous that she’s richer and better liked than you!” 3 The surrounding classmates were incited. Their long-awaited freebies were gone. A girl grabbed a glass bottle from the desk and threw it at my head. “Lily, you’re disgusting! We finally had a chance to get the limited edition, and you ruined it!” Next, a cup of stale coffee was splashed onto my face. Others followed suit, dumping trash on me. I was a mess, sticky and smelling foul. Hatred made me snap. I stood up abruptly, grabbed a chair, and smashed it into the crowd. “Get out!” The chair crashed to the floor with a loud bang. Everyone froze. “Lily, you’re crazy!” Ignoring the pain, I took out my phone and dialed 911. “Police, I’m being assaulted by a group. Intentional injury. The address is…” Hearing me call the police, Brad rushed over, snatched my phone, and smashed it on the ground. The screen shattered. “Lily, are you sick in the head? It’s just a joke between classmates, why call the cops? Do you want to ruin everyone’s future?” I looked at him coldly. “You dared to hit me, why wouldn’t I dare to call the police?” Ten minutes later, the police and the counselor arrived. However, everyone’s story was consistent: I went crazy and framed them. The counselor didn’t want a scandal, so she smoothed things over, saying I often had episodes like this. Despite my defenses, there was no concrete evidence. Seeing no obvious major injuries on me, the police told us to get along and left. Although I didn’t punish them, the immediate danger was resolved. As I was leaving, I noticed the zipper on my backpack had been moved. My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t say anything and returned to my apartment. After showering, I took out the black card and examined it closely. It was fake. Tiffany had switched it. It happened during the chaos when they were attacking me. She had prepared a high-quality counterfeit card beforehand. She provoked me and created chaos just to make the switch. I thought I had retrieved my card, but the real one was already with Tiffany. If she successfully used it tomorrow, I would be saddled with massive debt just like in my past life. No. In this life, I will make sure she has no escape. I picked up my spare phone and dialed a number. “Miss Lin, is everything okay this late?” It was Uncle Andy, my mom’s chief assistant. “Uncle Andy, a classmate stole my card.” “What?” Uncle Andy’s voice turned serious. “Are you safe?” “I’m fine. But the thief plans to go to the flagship store downtown tomorrow. She thinks the card has an unlimited limit.” Uncle Andy understood immediately. “I’ll notify the bank to freeze the card.” “No.” I interrupted him. “Uncle Andy, don’t freeze it.” “Why?” I took a deep breath and laid out my plan. “They want to play, so I’ll play a big game with them.” “Uncle Andy, please contact the flagship store manager. Tomorrow, put the Eternal Diamond Collection on display in the most prominent spot.” Uncle Andy gasped. “The Eternal Diamond Collection is the group’s 10th-anniversary commemorative edition. Limited to 100 pieces worldwide, encrusted with VVS-grade natural diamonds. Unit price: $50 million.” “Miss Lin, are you sure?” “I’m very sure. They want Labubus, right? Let them have the best.” Hanging up, I smiled. My card has a security protocol. When daily spending exceeds $100 million, the final settlement requires my iris and fingerprint verification. Tiffany thinks it’s an unlimited card, but she doesn’t know that the end of the spending spree requires my confirmation. In my past life, she didn’t reach the $100 million mark, so she got away with it. Tiffany, Brad. Tomorrow, you will learn the true meaning of “luxury.” 4 The next day, I went to the downtown Labubu flagship store. I sat in the café on the second floor, a corner overlooking the entire shop. Before long, Tiffany, Brad, and the whole class—about thirty or forty people—swarmed into the store. Tiffany, wearing a knockoff designer suit and holding onto Brad, looked incredibly smug. She flashed my black card at the staff. “My aunt works here; she said this card grants VIP access,” Tiffany lied. Seeing the card, the staff immediately notified the manager. The manager came out personally, respectfully guiding them to the VIP display area in the center of the store. “Esteemed guests, you’ve arrived at the perfect time. We just received a shipment of the collector’s edition.” The classmates gasped in awe. “Wow, Tiffany, you’re amazing!” Tiffany basked in the praise. “No big deal. Pick whatever you want today, don’t be shy.” The manager smiled and pressed a switch on the display case. Lights flared, revealing rows of Labubus under bulletproof glass, shining brilliantly. They were made of top-tier flocking, with rare black diamond eyes, and bodies encrusted with pink and white diamonds. The whole class was stunned. “Is… is this a Labubu? Are those real diamonds?” Tiffany was also stunned. Vain as she was, she knew items of this caliber weren’t cheap. But she believed the card in her hand had no limit. To save face, she gritted her teeth and said, “That’s right. This is the limited hidden edition I prepared for everyone. Regular ones are boring; we only buy the best.” Brad hugged Tiffany excitedly. “Tiff, you’re the best!” Tiffany feigned nonchalance. “Pocket change. Go ahead, pick one each.” The students cheered and rushed the display case. The manager thoughtfully took out a Diamond Labubu for each student, placing them in special secure boxes. I watched from upstairs as they went mad. Thirty-two classmates, plus Tiffany and Brad. Thirty-four in total. I walked downstairs, deliberately passing by them. Brad saw me and immediately sneered. “Yo, Lily? You here to buy a Labubu too? Can you afford it?” I looked at the Diamond Labubu in his hands and said coolly: “That’s an expensive luxury item. Be careful not to drop it.” Brad hated my condescension the most. “Lily, stop pretending! What do you know about luxury?” To show off in front of me, he tossed the Labubu high into the air and caught it. “See that? Tiffany can afford it, and we can play with it.” Tiffany giggled. “Lily, I don’t blame you for being uncultured. It’s just a toy. If it breaks, it breaks.” I shook my head. “Really? You guys must be very rich then.” My “weakness” made Brad even more arrogant. He looked at Tiffany, and to make his beauty smile, he shouted, “Lily, watch this! This is what rich means!” He smashed the Diamond Labubu onto the marble floor. Crash! A muffled thud. A hairline crack appeared on the Labubu’s body, and several diamonds flew off. Brad smirked triumphantly. “See? Just a broken toy. I smash them for fun! Tiff, get me another one!” For the sake of her image, Tiffany gritted her teeth. “Sure! As long as you’re happy, Brad!” The manager expressionlessly picked up the damaged Labubu and handed Brad a new one. Soon, all thirty-four Diamond Labubus were claimed. The manager smiled and walked up to Tiffany. “Hello, esteemed guest. You have selected a total of thirty-four pieces from the ‘Eternal Diamond’ collection. Unit price $50 million. Total price: $1.7 billion.” “Additionally, the gentleman damaged one piece. Repairing the diamond and structural damage, plus depreciation, comes to $10 million.” “Grand total: $1.71 billion. Would you like to settle the bill now?” $1.71 billion. Silence fell over the store. Brad’s smile froze. Tiffany collapsed onto the floor in terror.

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The day before my brother’s wedding, I was picking out a dress when Liam suddenly lost his temper. “I told you, she likes the fuchsia one. Why do you always have to steal her spotlight?” At first, I thought he was just worried I’d be overdressed for the ceremony. A little too much, a little too soon. But then he added, “Isabelle only gets one wedding day. She’s already miserable enough that she can’t marry the man she loves. Can’t you just let her have this?” A silence stretched between us. I didn’t ask Liam how he knew, better than I did, who exactly his brother’s fiancée was in love with. Instead, I picked up my phone and video-called my brother. 1 My brother, Ethan, was with Isabelle for her final fitting. He was dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, his eyes crinkling with a smile that was pure, unfiltered joy. “Audrey,” he said, his voice beaming through the phone. “Your sister-in-law wants you and Liam to come over for dinner later.” Liam’s profile slid into the frame beside me. Without even glancing my way for an opinion, he agreed for both of us. Strange. He usually hated going to my parents’ house. The camera on Ethan’s phone flipped. Isabelle burst out of the dressing room in a cloud of white tulle, tiptoeing as she threw herself into my brother’s arms. “Ethan, how do I look?” At the exact same moment Ethan answered, a voice behind me, barely a whisper, murmured its own reply. I heard it. “I’ve always known. She’s never more beautiful than when she’s trying to seduce someone.” I turned my head. Liam’s face was a calm mask, tinged with a familiar shade of weary resignation. For a second, I thought I might have imagined it. He leaned in close, his mouth near my ear, a gesture of intimacy that felt like a lie. “Hey,” he whispered, his tone soft and placating. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Are you still mad?” He shifted, his voice dropping lower. “Tell me how to make it up to you, Audrey. Whatever you want. You know I’ll do it.” I thought of all the ways he had of “making it up to me,” each one more inventive than the last. We were still on a video call with my brother. A blush crept up my neck. I turned away from him, and my eyes met Isabelle’s across the screen. They were sharp with something that looked like jealousy. It was gone in a flash. She replaced it with a bright, brittle smile. “Audrey, you and your boyfriend seem so close. Are you two getting married soon?” Ethan, still fussing over the lace on Isabelle’s train, didn’t even look up. “Liam’s been plotting to marry my sister since the day they graduated. Audrey’s the one who wants to play the field a few more years.” My hand holding the phone tightened. I’d never really thought about it before. Why was it that Liam was the one who wasn’t ready for marriage, yet he always insisted I tell everyone it was my idea? His reason at the time was that he didn’t want my parents to get the wrong impression, to think he wasn’t serious about me. Now, that excuse felt flimsy, almost transparent. A stylist led Ethan away to change. I picked up the fuchsia dress I’d chosen earlier. Before I could say a word, my future sister-in-law’s eyes welled with tears. Her gaze drifted past me, landing on Liam standing just behind my shoulder. “Audrey, could you… could you let me have that dress?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Someone once promised to buy me the perfect dress, one that was just for me. But… someone else got it instead.” The hand on my shoulder tightened, its pressure unconscious and absolute. This time, I knew I wasn’t imagining it. “Give it to her,” Liam said. 2 After saying that, Liam announced he had an urgent work matter and left in a hurry. He was in such a rush, he didn’t even notice he’d put on one of his loafers with one of my house slippers. This wasn’t normal. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed my car keys and drove to his office building downtown. I hadn’t even made it to the elevator bank when the receptionist told me Liam had taken the afternoon off. His assistant had just called it in. My hand, hanging by my side, started to tremble. A wild, terrifying thought clawed its way into my mind, and the blood drained from my face. I took several deep, shaky breaths before my legs felt strong enough to carry me to the underground parking garage. It was the middle of the workday, and the garage was cool and silent. And then I heard it. A series of low, ragged breaths that cut through the quiet. “Do you have to marry him? He’s Audrey’s brother!” A man had a woman pinned against a concrete pillar, his hand tight around her neck, their bodies pressed so close they seemed to merge into one shadow. She was still smiling. “What’s wrong, Liam? Jealous? You’re the one who threw me away. It doesn’t matter who I’m with now. You don’t get a say anymore.” Isabelle’s taunts only made the storm in Liam’s eyes darken. He silenced her, his mouth crashing down on hers with pinpoint precision. The ragged breathing grew louder. The only other sounds in the vast, empty garage were my own, a choked sob I tried to swallow as I clapped a hand over my mouth. Liam was cheating on me. With Isabelle. My brother’s fiancée. How was I supposed to accept this? I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen, before the sounds stopped. When I looked again, Liam still hadn’t let her go. His voice, when he spoke, was softer than before, almost gentle. “Isabelle, I never said you couldn’t get married. But it can’t be him. It can’t be Audrey’s brother. Come on, break it off. I can set you up with someone better.” Isabelle’s eyes were red-rimmed, her body language a study in bruised pride. “Audrey is the love of your life. Even after I spent three years as your secret, you dropped me for her without a second thought. You made your choice. Stay out of mine.” Liam was not a patient man. I was the only person he ever let shout at him, the only one who could get away with sarcasm and moods. But now, it seemed Isabelle had been granted the same privilege. I watched him. He lowered his head, silent for a long moment, as if weighing an impossible decision. It wasn’t that complicated. It was her, or it was me. The moment I knew he had betrayed me, it was already over between us. But his hesitation, right here, right now—it still sent a sliver of ice through my heart. My car keys slipped from my numb fingers and clattered onto the concrete floor. I stood there, staring. And met Liam’s eyes as they snapped toward me, suddenly cold and sharp. In the next second, he shoved Isabelle away from him, his face a mask of panic I had never seen before. I snatched my keys from the ground and ran. 3 I cried the whole way. Tears streamed down my face, blurring the traffic into streaks of light. In my rearview mirror, Liam’s black Mercedes was a relentless shadow, chasing me through the city. Was he that afraid I would expose them? He was right to be. I was going to tell everyone. I was going to tell my brother. I was going to tell him he couldn’t marry Isabelle, that she didn’t love him, that we had all been played for fools. I screeched to a halt in front of the bridal shop. Inside, Ethan was still trying on tuxedos, his face glowing with a naive, unshakeable happiness. He looked startled when he saw my tear-streaked face. I opened my mouth to speak, but his phone rang. It was Isabelle. I don’t know what she said, but when he looked back at me, his expression had shifted. It was questioning, suspicious. “Audrey,” he said slowly. “Are you about to tell me that there’s something going on between Isabelle and Liam?” I didn’t have time to think. I just nodded frantically, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Yes, Ethan! Liam’s cheating on me. Isabelle has been his secret mistress for three years. She only got close to you to get back at him.” My mind started to clear. From their conversation in the garage, I could tell. Isabelle wasn’t over Liam. And Liam… Liam was far from over her. But my brother’s reaction was not what I expected. His face remained calm, his eyes fixed on me. A terrible premonition began to form in my stomach. Just then, Liam strode into the shop, pulling Isabelle along with him. “Ethan,” Liam said, his voice smooth and reasonable. “I’m sure Miss Lin has explained everything. Audrey and I had a little argument. I happened to run into Miss Lin on my way to the office, and we were just saying hello when Audrey jumped to conclusions.” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of utter helplessness, as if I were a hysterical child. I understood immediately. He was betting on the fact that I had no proof. He was lying, twisting the truth to protect her. Isabelle pushed past me to stand in front of Ethan. Her eyes were puffy and swollen from crying. “Ethan, I know I’m not good enough for you, and that’s why your sister doesn’t like me. But she can’t just throw accusations like this at me… saying that I… that I’m with her boyfriend. Does she really think I’m that cheap, that shameless?” Her voice broke. “Maybe we should just call off the wedding. This is too much. I can’t take it!” She shot a frightened glance at me, shrinking back as if I might strike her. Seeing Isabelle so fragile and distraught, Ethan’s heart melted. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a protective embrace. Then he raised his hand. Before I could process what was happening, a sharp, stinging slap echoed through the quiet showroom. “Audrey,” he said, his voice cold as steel. “If you ever say another bad word about Isabelle, I will forget I have a sister. This is your only warning.” I was stunned. My parents had never, not once in my entire life, laid a finger on me. But my brother had just hit me. Faster than my shock, however, was Liam’s fist. It shot out, connecting squarely with Ethan’s nose. “Who the hell do you think you are,” Liam snarled, his voice a low growl, “putting your hands on the girl I’ve spent years cherishing?” A raw fury erupted from him, and he and Ethan became a tangle of limbs and curses. It ended with Ethan on the floor, hands raised in surrender. He mumbled an apology in my direction, his words thick with resentment. 4 Liam dragged me out to the car. He moved with a grim efficiency, not looking at me once after we got in. I stared out my own window, a silent, vibrating wall of anger between us. He drove until the city lights faded, pulling over on a deserted stretch of road on the outskirts of town. I thought… I hoped… I would finally get an explanation. Even a lie would have been something. Instead, he said, “Audrey, Isabelle is a good person. I’m not going to let this wedding happen, but not like this. Not by destroying her reputation.” He turned away, a flicker of discomfort on his face, and rolled down the window. He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. I knew his every tell, every gesture, after all our years together. So, he could feel guilt after all. What was I supposed to say? Scream at him? Hit him? Join forces with him to stop my brother’s wedding? If none of this had happened, maybe I would have swallowed my pride, done whatever it took to protect Ethan. But now… I didn’t want to. “Liam,” I said, my voice flat. “We’re done.” I would stop this wedding. But I would do it my way. The hand holding the cigarette shook. The burning tip fell from his fingers onto his crisp white shirt, instantly searing a small, dark hole. I had rarely seen him so undone. He turned back to me, a look of genuine helplessness on his face. “So what do I have to do? Tell me what to do to make you forgive me.” Some things can’t be forgiven. For me, betrayal was the line. There was no coming back from it. I held his gaze, letting my contempt show. He looked down, and in a soft, pathetic voice, he told me everything. “I met Isabelle during the first big fight we ever had. She was… gentle. Kind. She had a way of calming me down. She was like a drug, Audrey. I got addicted. But I was never in love with her. I swear. The only reason I ended it for good was because she started pressuring me to break up with you.” My nails, already short, dug into my palms. I didn’t feel the pain. What he was saying was… if Isabelle had been content to be the other woman, to stay in the shadows forever… would he have kept her a secret from me for the rest of our lives? The thought arrived like a punch to the gut, turning every beautiful memory we ever shared into a sick joke. I opened the car door. “Liam, I will never forgive you. And I won’t let Isabelle get away with this.” Since she was so prepared to be a homewrecker, she should be prepared for the consequences. Liam’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “So you’re still going after her?” So, he was still going to protect her. That day, Liam left me there. He drove away alone. I was on a deserted road, and the sky was growing dark. He never came back for me. 5 It was almost eleven at night when I finally made it back to my parents’ house. Ethan wasn’t there. I collapsed into my mother’s arms, my body wracked with sobs that seemed to tear me apart from the inside out. My parents were terrified. They wanted to call Ethan, to demand he come home. “No!” I pulled back, my hand instinctively going to my right cheek, which was already swollen and throbbing. The pain from my brother’s hand hurt far more than Liam’s betrayal. My own brother. He had believed Isabelle, a woman he’d known for less than two months, over me. When the tears finally stopped, I told them everything that had happened. My father, in a silent rage, swept an expensive porcelain tea set off the coffee table, shattering it against the floor. He immediately got on the phone and called the wedding planner. The wedding tomorrow was canceled. The news reached Ethan quickly. After settling Isabelle and her family, he stormed into the house. I was waiting for him, sitting on the sofa between our parents. The moment he saw me, he raised his hand again, his face twisted with fury. But before he could move, my father, his face a thundercloud, kicked him hard in the stomach. “Ethan! Have you lost your mind? Raising a hand to your own sister? Is that how I raised you?” Ethan had just finished calming Isabelle down after the call from the planners, only to have her start crying again, threatening to take her family and leave that night. He had spent hours apologizing and placating them. He truly hated me. Even with my mother shielding me, I could feel the daggers in his eyes. “Audrey, what did Isabelle ever do to you? Why are you so determined to destroy her?” He glared at me, his resentment deepening. “Oh, I get it. This isn’t about her. It’s about me. You’ve always had to compete with me, haven’t you? Always had to get a perfect score on every test just to make my ninety-eight look bad. You wanted everyone to think I was less than you. You wanted to steal Mom and Dad’s company right out from under me.” When you’ve been hurt enough, nothing really surprises you anymore. Two slaps echoed in the room as both my parents struck him across the face. He stumbled back, laughing a hollow, bitter laugh. “It’s because I’m the son, right? Not the daughter. So you always take her side. It was like that when we were kids, and it’s like that now. I’ve known for years.” He wiped his eyes and stared at us, his gaze hard. “Isabelle is the only woman I have ever loved, and I am marrying her tomorrow. If you want to keep me as your son, you won’t stand in my way.” After he left, my parents sat in silence for a long time. The truth is, they weren’t just taking my word for it. I had shown them the video from the parking garage. 6 My entire life, I was taught to be prepared, to always have proof. Especially for something like this. Something dirty. Something that belonged in the dark. I had intended to show the video to Ethan. But after he took Isabelle’s call, after he refused to even give me a chance to speak, I changed my mind. Let the fool wear his crown of thorns. Let Isabelle play him for everything he was worth. But then I thought of her becoming my sister-in-law. Of her enjoying everything our family had built, a smug smile on her face. And I couldn’t stomach it. And Liam. He needed to be punished for what he did to me. If my life was going to be a wreck, then I was taking everyone down with me. The wedding happened after all. But I wasn’t there.

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On my twenty-sixth birthday, I was ready to die. Instead, I unexpectedly received a sketchbook. It was a posthumous belonging of the late genius artist, Julian Vance. Inside, the drawings were of me. When I was sixteen. 1. I held the sketchbook, staring at the signature “Julian Vance” in the corner, lost in thought. This famous genius painter was my high school classmate, same graduating year. But in my memory, we barely interacted. The last I heard of him was on the news, about that plane crash. This was his belongings, yet it was sent to me. Strange. I glanced at the flickering candles on my birthday cake. Originally, I planned to blow them out and end it all. Now… Whatever. A few minutes won’t change anything. I opened the sketchbook. There were a lot of what looked like doodles. Minimalist strokes, but heavy with oppression. A shattered moon, a cracked crystal ball, twisted forests. I vaguely remembered reading a post about Julian, saying this genius artist suffered from mental health issues since he was a teenager, which was why he rarely appeared in public. In high school, he was indeed quiet and withdrawn. But because he had a beautiful face, he was still the topic of many conversations. I flipped through the pages absent-mindedly. One second I was wondering if this was sent to the wrong person, the next I stopped on a page. It was a sketch of a girl lying on a windowsill. Face scrunched up, looking like she carried the weight of the world. Despite the simple strokes, I recognized her instantly— That was high school me. Below it, a small line of text— “She died by the window for three days.” I froze. 2. I had a severe cold once in high school. Because I was literally studying by a “cold window” in the dead of winter. I opened the window to let the freezing wind keep me awake. And memorized chemistry formulas in the icy draft. I had sworn to redeem myself from the shame of getting a 24 on my last chemistry test, so I crammed for three days before finals. The result was glorious—I caught a fever right before the exam. It was the most tragic exam of my life. While my classmates were scribbling furiously in the exam hall, I was hooked up to an IV drip in the hospital. The more I thought about it, the more unwilling I felt. So, while on the drip, I wrote an 800-word essay about my tragic experience and DM’d it to the official “Person of the Year” account on Instagram. I typed until I saw stars, only for my mom to snatch my phone away. She read my essay, deeply moved, and then told me that account was a fake bot. I was stunned, then wailed until I passed out. Later, my dad heard about it. Touched by my dedication, he took my essay to the principal and begged for a makeup exam. When I heard the news, I cried again. Because I had forgotten everything I memorized. 3. What a vivid sixteen. I chuckled involuntarily, but my smile vanished when I glanced at the family portrait on the desk. My gaze returned to the drawing, confusion rising again. Why would Julian draw me? I looked at the angle in the sketch and remembered the Art Building was directly opposite my classroom. So, I just happened to be in his line of sight? I flipped to the next page. This time, Julian’s style changed. He drew a four-panel comic with a black gel pen. The strokes were extremely casual. In each panel, a tiny figure was sneaking food into her mouth in various secretive postures. Hiding behind a textbook, bending down pretending to pick something up, covering a yawn while popping a candy. This time, there was only one word below— “Tsk.” Hm? What does that mean? Disdain? Come on, who doesn’t need a little sustenance during class? We were high school students, surviving on caffeine and hope from 6 AM to 11 PM! 4. Intrigued, I flipped further. Several consecutive pages followed this comic format. Me dozing off in class, staring out the window in a daze, sneaking a novel under the desk, scratching my head over a test paper. The chibi figures had a weirdly comical vibe, like reading a manga. As I looked, I suddenly realized something. Wait, don’t art students have classes? How did he have time to observe others? And this observation seemed to have become his hobby. I kept flipping. Below a series of drawings of me laughing in various ways, a line of small text appeared— “How can she be so happy?” I paused. Looking at those words, even though the writer wasn’t there, I could almost hear his tone. Not mockery, not sarcasm, just pure confusion. I wasn’t completely oblivious to Julian back then. Not long after freshman year started, rumors spread about a beautiful boy in the art class. Yes, beautiful. Being the nosy person I was, when it was our class’s turn for hallway duty, I swapped shifts specifically to check the art class. Just to openly see how beautiful he really was. There were many artistic guys and girls, but Julian still stood out. I saw him instantly. That silhouette by the window. When he turned to look, the light from the window grazed his eyes, turning them amber. Summer hadn’t faded, yet he was as cold as a handful of winter snow. Smelling of butterflies. I was dazed for a second. Because I witnessed the embodiment of male beauty. The impact of that face on my teenage self lasted a long time. To this day, I still remember asking my mom at the dinner table if she could sponsor my plastic surgery trip to Korea after she won at Mahjong. She didn’t even look up. She just told me to get lost. 5. So Julian, someone so beautiful, wasn’t easily happy either? Remembering the rumors about his mental illness, I pulled out my phone and searched his name. The first result was the news of his death in the plane crash. My fingers trembled, and I scrolled past it. I found his bio. His father was a local tycoon, his mother a professor at a prestigious art college. With such a background, his life should have been comfortable. At the bottom was a link titled: “Genius Painter’s Mental Illness: The Hidden Truth…” I clicked it. A wall of text explained that his businessman father was rarely home, and his professor mother controlled him strictly from a young age—high-pressure training, harsh criticism, etc. The comments section had alleged insiders claiming Julian was locked in a dark room if his drawings weren’t good enough, causing childhood trauma. Online info is hard to verify, but combined with those strange drawings, maybe Julian really had depressive episodes. I went back to the sketchbook. This time, the drawing showed me standing gloomily in front of a microphone, holding a piece of paper, with a glistening-spectacled old man standing behind me with his hands behind his back. I squinted. If I’m not mistaken, that’s my high school principal, Mr. Xie. Dead memories suddenly attacked me. That was the most humiliating detention self-reflection of my student life. Bar none. 6. In high school, we had three afternoon periods, the last being study hall. My stomach was weak back then. I had the runs twice a day. My grandma often scolded my parents, saying it was because they didn’t cook for me when I was little. My parents claimed the culprit was spicy strips. I didn’t dare speak amidst the chaos. Because only I knew the real killers were the 50-cent street snacks and junk food. Anyway, study hall was usually used by me to solve my physiological needs. To offset the guilt of skipping study hall, I decided to absorb some literary culture even on the toilet. So I always brought a classic novel. That day, it was The Catcher in the Rye. I read a particularly sad part and, thinking of my own late grandmother, started bawling in the stall. I heard water running outside, but didn’t pay attention. Soon after, hurried footsteps approached, followed by the booming voice of the Dean of Students, aka “The Exterminator”— “Student, what’s wrong in there? Are you okay?” I was so scared my hand shook, and the book dropped to the floor.

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They told me the divorce tore our family apart. That was the first lie. I went with Dad. After the “split,” his temper curdled into something rancid. He was a man composed entirely of whiskey fumes and violence, a black hole that swallowed every cent I earned and every ounce of peace I tried to build. He didn’t care if the lights were cut or if the fridge was empty. So, I grew up fast. I spent my afternoons gutting fish at the wharf, my hands permanently smelling of brine and bleach, just to keep a roof over our heads. It was a Tuesday when everything shattered. Dad—Frank—had just knocked me sideways, rifling through my pockets to steal my tips—forty dollars I’d sweated blood for. As I lay on the linoleum, dazed, my phone buzzed on the floor. The screen glitched, displaying a stream of chat comments overlaying my camera feed. [User778: She still has no clue. Doesn’t realize Mommy and Daddy never actually divorced.] [TruthSeeker: It’s just a reality show, guys. ‘The Nature vs. Nurture Experiment.’ Sadistic, if you ask me.] [RichGirlSummer: Look at her. Freezing and starving while her sister is living it up in the Hills.] I blinked, thinking it was a concussion. But the comments kept scrolling. Following the instructions in the chat, I dragged myself up and tracked the location they mentioned. I found myself standing outside a gated estate in Pacific Palisades. The air here smelled different—like jasmine and money. Then, the front door opened. My sister, Ivy. She wasn’t wearing the hand-me-downs I remembered. She was draped in a silk dress that probably cost more than my life’s earnings. And there were my parents, flanking her, looking vibrant, healthy, and unmistakably together. They laughed as they climbed into a gleaming Rolls Royce, the heavy doors thudding shut like a vault. I stood there, gripping my stomach where the hunger pangs usually lived, but all I felt was a bitter, rising bile. They hadn’t divorced. We weren’t broke. I was just the control group. They chose me to suffer because I was the quiet one. The obedient one. 1 I stood frozen on the manicured lawn, the sprinklers hissing to life around me. If the text on my screen had been a rumor, seeing them with my own eyes was the verdict. My parents were still married. My family was sitting on a goldmine. And I was the punchline of a cruel joke. Because I was good? Because I didn’t fight back? Is that why I was the one thrown to the wolves? I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to force air into my lungs. The pain wasn’t physical; it was an existential hollowing out. The comments scrolling across my phone screen filled in the blanks. It was a game. A deep-web reality stream for the bored and wealthy. They paid to watch the disparity—one daughter groomed for the throne, the other ground into the dirt. Five figures a day in donations. Was that it? Was I sold out for ad revenue? Standing under the California sun, I felt a chill settle into my marrow. My phone buzzed. A text from Ivy. “Hey Maya, heard you’re scrubbing floors to pay rent? Poor thing. But you’ve always been the resilient one. Keep grinding, okay?” I could hear the smirk in her voice. Ivy had always been the charming one, the one who knew how to curate her personality for maximum applause. I was the introverted shadow, the one who kept her head down. In middle school, when I brought home straight A’s and Ivy brought home detention slips, Mom didn’t celebrate me. She scolded me for making Ivy feel bad. I should have known then. The scales were never balanced. “Hey! You on the clock or not? Move it!” The shout snapped me back to reality. I looked around, disoriented. My feet had carried me on autopilot back to the fish market. This was my life. Frank was a violent drunk who treated me like an ATM. I wasn’t eighteen yet, so legal work was hard to find. I took what I could get, paid under the table, cash in hand. “Sorry,” I whispered, the word tasting like ash. I tied on the stiff, stained apron, my face pale under the fluorescent hum of the market lights. I worked until my fingers were numb. It was past midnight when I walked back through the alleyways, clutching my day’s pay. The apartment was dark. The peeling wallpaper, the cracked window taped over with cardboard—it all looked like a stage set now. Frank wasn’t home. He was probably celebrating with his real family. I ate a cup of instant noodles, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. I knew they were watching. Hidden cameras, capturing every slurp of broth, every tired sigh, broadcasting it to strangers who found my misery entertaining. I couldn’t sleep. I pulled out my cracked phone. The chat stream popped up again, dropping a link. [Here’s the main feed. Poor Maya looks broken. She’s working herself to death while they feast.] I held my breath and clicked. It was a sophisticated, private streaming site. The number one channel was live. There I was, on a split screen. And there they were. The Bishop family. My parents and Ivy were seated at a table draped in white linen, servers pouring vintage wine and cracking open lobsters. I smelled the stale flavor packet of my noodles; they smelled melted butter and success. I felt like a scavenging creature watching swans glide across a lake. 2 I got home at nine the next night. It was report card day. I had maintained my rank—Valedictorian. To celebrate, I stopped at a bodega and bought a generic, plastic-wrapped muffin. It cost two dollars. No frosting, just dry sponge cake. I set it on the wobbly kitchen table like it was a delicacy. I broke off a piece. It was stale, but the sugar hit my tongue, and my eyes started to burn. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a birthday cake. The stream chat flickered in my peripheral vision. [Maya’s celebrating being top of her class with a stale muffin. Sad.] [Meanwhile, Ivy failed three classes and look at the spread she’s getting.] I opened the livestream. They were at a high-end sushi bar in Malibu. Mom—Susan—was stroking Ivy’s hair, smiling that warm, maternal smile I hadn’t seen in years. “Grades aren’t everything, sweetheart,” she was saying. “As long as you’re happy.” Frank placed a piece of fatty tuna in Ivy’s bowl. “If you want, we can just send you to Europe for a gap year. Or buy your way into that art program. The world is yours, Ivy.” They talked about her future like it was a boundless, golden horizon. My name wasn’t spoken once. It was as if I didn’t exist. As if they had only one daughter. I closed the laptop, the silence of the apartment deafening. Halfway through my muffin, heavy boots stomped in the hallway. The door slammed open. Frank. For a split second, a childish part of me wanted to show him my grades. To make him proud. I crumbled the report card in my hand before I could offer it. He shoved me into the counter. “You got cash? I need a bottle. Now.” “I… I don’t have much,” I stammered. He had taken everything yesterday. “You’ve been working all day! Don’t lie to me!” His boot connected with my shin. Pain exploded up my leg, turning my vision white. I gasped, shrinking back. I dug the crumpled bills from my pocket—my grocery money for the week—and handed them over. I ran to the liquor store, limping, and ran back. “Here,” I said, setting the bottle down. He cracked it open, the smell of cheap vodka filling the room. “Dad,” I tried, my voice shaking. “Report cards came out. I got first in the…” “First?” He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “What’s the point of a girl reading books? You’re just going to get married anyway. Quit school, get a full-time job, and bring me more money. That’s your purpose.” I stared at him. The image of him offering Ivy a gap year in Europe flashed in my mind. Girls should see the world, they had told her. Reading is useless, he told me. I kept the report card hidden in my fist. He finished half the bottle, then stumbled out, knocking the table over as he went. My muffin—my celebration—rolled onto the dirty floor. He stepped on it, grinding the crumbs into the linoleum, and slammed the door. I looked at the flattened cake. The tears finally came, hot and silent. 3 Frank didn’t come back for a long time. The livestream chat told me why. Ivy was stressed about “life,” so the family rented a villa in Napa to help her “decompose.” I sat in the damp apartment, shaking from a cold that wouldn’t lift. It felt like ice water was circulating through my veins. On the day of the final AP exams—the culmination of four years of sleepless nights—I walked the six miles to the testing center. Cars whizzed past me. I saw a flash of a familiar Mercedes—Ivy, in the passenger seat, laughing. She didn’t even have school that day. When I walked out hours later, exhausted, I saw my parents’ car idling by the curb. My heart did a stupid, treacherous flip. They came. They finally remembered. I started to walk toward them, a smile forming. But they weren’t looking at me. The back door opened, and Ivy hopped in, holding shopping bags. They had just stopped to adjust the GPS. As I raised my hand to wave, the Mercedes peeled away, merging into traffic without a backward glance. I stood alone on the sidewalk, the exhaust fumes washing over me. The text on my screen blurred. [Ivy is the princess. A spa day while Maya fights for her future.] [Maya’s been eating crackers and water. Is this even legal?] [Are they trying to break her?] I pulled up the stream. My parents were addressing the camera, answering the chat. “We’re building her character,” Frank said, swirling a glass of red wine. “Plenty of kids have it worse. If she can’t handle this, she’ll never survive the real world. We’re doing her a favor.” “Once the acceptance letters come in, we’ll bring her home,” Mom added, checking her manicure. “We’ll make it up to her.” Make it up to me? I laughed, a dry, jagged sound. They thought a new wardrobe and a hug would erase six years of starvation? They thought I should be grateful for the trauma? 4 I threw myself into work the moment exams were over. I didn’t know if they’d pay for college, but I knew one thing: they didn’t love me. Acceptance day arrived. I logged into the portal at the public library. Stanford University. Class of 2026. The librarian, Mrs. Higgins, hugged me. “I knew it, Maya. You’re going to do great things.” I ran home, adrenaline pumping. I had a stash—emergency money I’d hidden inside the hollow leg of the kitchen table. It was enough for my deposit and a bus ticket north. I burst into the apartment. It had been tossed. Drawers pulled out, mattress overturned. The table leg was unscrewed. The money was gone. Frank was passed out on the couch, snoring, clutching a bottle of top-shelf bourbon. I grabbed his collar and shook him. “Where is it? Where’s my money?!” He swatted me away like a fly. “Quit screaming. What’s yours is mine. I raised you. You owe me.” “That was for Stanford! I got in!” He glared, his eyes bloodshot. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re eighteen. Get a real job and pay rent here. Don’t ask me for a dime.” I stood there, trembling with a rage so pure it felt like fire. “I am going,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “And I’ll earn every cent myself.” I walked out. I wandered aimlessly until I found myself near the upscale shopping district. “Maya?” I looked up. Ivy. She looked immaculate. A sundress that caught the light, a crystal pendant at her throat. I looked down at my frayed sneakers. “I heard you got into Stanford,” she said, smiling. It looked almost genuine. “That’s amazing.” She scanned my outfit. “Are you looking for work? This place is… grim. Listen, Mom’s friend needs a private tutor for her kid. It pays really well. In the Heights. You should take it.” I looked at her concern. It felt like a lifeline. I was so desperate, I wanted to believe her. 5 The tutoring gig was in a secluded, wealthy neighborhood. The pay was incredible. On the night I finally had enough for my tuition deposit, I was walking to the bus stop. A dark sedan pulled up. Three guys hopped out. They reeked of stale smoke and trouble. “Hey, sweetheart,” the one with bleached hair sneered. “You look lost. Need a ride?” I backed up, clutching my backpack. “Stay away from me.” “Feisty.” He lunged. I fought. I scratched and kicked, but they were stronger. They yanked my backpack off, dumping the contents onto the pavement. My acceptance letter fluttered into a puddle. They found the envelope of cash. “Stanford, huh?” The bleach-blonde guy laughed. “Never hooked up with a genius before.” “Let me go!” I screamed. He kicked my legs out from under me. I hit the concrete hard. “You talk too much.” He picked up a rusted pipe from the gutter. He didn’t hesitate. He brought it down on my shin. The crack was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. Then came the scream. [This is too far. Ivy set this up.] [Yeah, the ‘job’ was a setup. She hired these guys.] The chat flashed across my dropped phone screen. The pain in my leg was blinding, but the betrayal was a knife in my heart. Ivy. My own sister. She didn’t just want to win; she wanted to destroy me. “Did… did Ivy send you?” I gasped, spitting blood. My hand found my phone, tapping the record button blindly. The guy scoffed. “You’re smart. She said you needed a lesson. Don’t overshadow her, got it?” He kicked me one last time and they ran. I lay there, curled in a ball. My leg was twisted at a sickening angle. Footsteps. Light, deliberate. I opened one swollen eye. Ivy stood over me. She wasn’t horrified. She was smiling. A cold, satisfied curve of her lips. “Help,” I wheezed. “Call 911.” She watched me for a long moment, like I was a bug she’d successfully squashed. Then she turned on her heel and walked away. 6 A jogger found me an hour later. I woke up in the hospital, my left leg encased in heavy plaster. Tibial fracture. No surgery needed, but I wouldn’t be walking for weeks. I called the police immediately. I gave them the recording. I told them everything. That evening, my parents burst into the room. They were carrying a fruit basket and wearing expressions of rehearsed concern. “Oh, Maya!” Mom cried. “My poor baby! Who did this to you?” Frank looked teary-eyed. “We’re here, honey. We’ll take care of everything.” I watched their performance. It was nauseating. “Cut the act,” I said. They froze. “Maya,” Mom’s voice dropped an octave. “Look, Ivy is your sister. You can’t press charges. She didn’t mean for it to go this far. It was just a prank that got out of hand.” “A prank?” I pointed to my cast. “She hired thugs to break my leg and steal my tuition.” “Think of her future,” Frank hissed. “If she gets a record, she’s ruined. If you sign this settlement—an NDA and a waiver of liability—we’ll bring you to the mansion. We’ll pay for Stanford. Everything.” “Or,” Mom added, her eyes narrowing, “You have no insurance. No money. You’ll be discharged onto the street with a broken leg. And who knows? Those boys might come back.” I stared at them. They were monsters. “Fine,” I said softly. They brightened. “But I have a condition. I want a legal document. A complete emancipation and severance of ties. You disown me, I disown you. No legal claims, no financial ties. We are strangers.” They exchanged a look of relief. They didn’t want a daughter; they wanted a liability removed. “Done,” Frank said. The next morning, they brought the papers. They signed the severance agreement with eager scribbles. I handed over the signed settlement letter. They walked out, beaming, thinking they had won. The second the door closed, I emailed the audio recording to the detective. I opened the livestream. They were celebrating in the Rolls Royce, Ivy showing off a new bracelet, bragging about how “family sticks together.” The siren wail cut through their audio feed. I watched on the screen as the police cruiser blocked them in. “Ivy Bishop, step out of the vehicle.”

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My new employer, an Ivy League grad who’d just returned from a stint overseas, told me that traditional parenting was primitive. She demanded I raise her child according to the instructions of an AI. “The AI says 30ml. You will not feed him 31ml.” “The baby’s crying? Don’t you dare pick him up. First, log the decibels and duration into the app, then select a tag for the cause. The AI will analyze if it’s an ‘unproductive cry.’” “Remember,” she said, her eyes sweeping over me with disdain, “you are here to execute commands, not to act on ‘experience.’” She added, “My son is destined for the Ivy League. His life must be managed with the utmost scientific and efficient methods from day one. I’m paying you top dollar, and it’s not to be his ‘second mommy.’” I looked at the tiny infant in the cradle, his small body yearning for a simple embrace, and for the first time, I questioned my title as a top-tier maternity nurse. But when I followed her AI’s instructions to the letter, I have to wonder… why did she come to regret it so deeply? 1. “He’s crying. Log it.” Amanda’s voice was as sterile and sharp as a scalpel, utterly devoid of emotion. I clenched my fists, my eyes fixed on the monitor where the decibel level of the cries was spiking violently. In the cradle, the baby, only twelve days old, had a face flushed a furious, blotchy red. His cries were piercing, punctuated by pathetic, ragged gasps for air. My heart felt like it was caught in a vise. “Amanda,” I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper—a first in my entire career. “From the sound of it, he has gas. Let me give him a little massage to help relieve it.” Amanda didn’t even look up, her fingers flying across the iPad screen. “The AI analysis concludes ‘attention-seeking cry.’ It’s classified as unproductive.” She swiped the pop-up away and issued a cold command. “The instruction is to ‘observe in place for fifteen minutes to cultivate independence.’” “Fifteen minutes?” The words escaped my lips in a horrified gasp. “He’ll cry himself sick!” Amanda finally lifted her gaze, her eyes holding the same look one might give a Neanderthal trying to explain quantum physics. “Sarah, have I not made it clear? You are here to execute commands.” “Your experience, your ‘I think,’ is worthless.” “I paid a fortune for this ‘Ivy Prep’ development system. It’s backed by the research of hundreds of child psychologists and behavioral scientists.” She scoffed. “You really think your folk wisdom trumps that?” She tapped the iPad. “This is science. Do you understand science?” The seconds ticked by like tiny, agonizing drops of water. The baby’s cries faded from sharp shrieks to a raw, hoarse rasp. His little body twitched and trembled. Every sound was a lash against my heart. I’ve been a premium maternity nurse for a decade, caring for over a hundred infants. Not a single one had ever been tortured so “scientifically.” Amanda sat on the sofa, sipping coffee, noise-canceling headphones clamped over her ears. She occasionally glanced at the timer on her screen, her brow furrowed—not with concern for her crying child, but with annoyance that the process was “inefficient.” “Fourteen minutes, thirty seconds… thirty-five…” I stared at the cradle, my own breath catching in my throat. At exactly fifteen minutes, an alarm chimed. Amanda removed her headphones, a flicker of satisfaction on her face. “You see? The command is complete. He cried himself out and stopped on his own.” But the baby in the cradle hadn’t stopped. His cries were just too weak to be heard, a faint, desperate mewling. He had exhausted himself completely. His face was turning bluish, his lips trembling. “Amanda, something’s wrong!” I rushed forward. Ignoring her protocol, I reached out to touch his forehead. It was clammy and cold, slick with sweat. “What do you think you’re doing!” Amanda’s voice was a whip-crack. She shoved me away. “Who gave you permission to touch him? Do you have any idea how many germs are on your hands? Try that again, and you won’t see a dime of this month’s pay!” She walked to the cradle and peered down, her brow knitting in confusion. “Why is he still whimpering? The system clearly stated he’d reached the ‘silence threshold.’” She poked his cheek as if testing a faulty machine. I couldn’t take it anymore. I darted around her and scooped the baby into my arms. Laying him gently across my lap, I expertly began to massage his tiny belly. In less than thirty seconds, a series of soft poots broke the silence. The baby’s tiny, tense body went limp, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The weak cries ceased. He smacked his little lips and drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep. The world was finally quiet. Amanda stood frozen, her face a shifting canvas of purple and white. There was no relief in her eyes, no gratitude for her son’s comfort. Instead, she fixed me with a look laced with venom. “Sarah, this is a flagrant challenge to the rules I have established.” “You are undermining my son’s foundational understanding of order.” “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” Cradling the warm, soft life in my arms, I said nothing. For the first time in my career, I didn’t answer my employer. All I could think was that this magnificent, gilded apartment felt as cold and unforgiving as hell. 2. The next day, a giant whiteboard appeared on the living room wall. Drawn on it in multi-colored markers was a “Performance Evaluation Chart.” My name, “Sarah,” was written at the very top, followed by a dense list of metrics: “Feeding Duration Variance (sec).” “Instructional Deviation (%).” “Non-Essential Physical Contact (count).” “Subjective Intervention (count).” Next to each item was a deduction amount in glaring red ink. “Well, Sarah,” Amanda said, holding a pointer like a stern headmistress, “since you seem to struggle with modern app-based management, we’ll use a more traditional method you might understand.” She tapped the whiteboard. “From now on, every action you take will be logged. Any deviation from the BabyAI’s directives will be quantified and penalized. One point, one hundred dollars.” She lifted her chin, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “I’m going to let you see for yourself just how worthless that ‘experience’ of yours really is.” I stared at the chart, a wave of dizziness washing over me. This wasn’t a job. It was a sentence. At noon, the app prompted a 100ml feeding. As I brought the bottle to the baby’s lips, he turned his head violently and started wailing. I checked the nipple—it was the smallest size. The flow was too slow, and he was getting frustrated. “Amanda, he’s outgrown this nipple. We need to switch to a medium-flow.” “The app hasn’t indicated a change is necessary,” she noted, not looking up from her logging. “‘Crying Cause’ tag selected: ‘Feeding Resistance.’ The AI recommends a five-minute pause before retrying.” “But—” “No ‘buts,’” she cut me off. “Sarah, your job is to execute.” Five minutes later, the baby was frantic with hunger, his cries tearing through the apartment. When the bottle approached again, he screamed even louder, choking and sputtering as milk dribbled down his chin, soaking his collar. My heart ached. I reached to swap the nipple. Amanda’s hand shot out and clamped down on mine. “What are you doing? Another ‘subjective intervention’?” “He’s choking! He could get aspiration pneumonia!” I pleaded. “The app indicates the choking is due to improper breathing during a tantrum, not the nipple.” She pointed a manicured finger at the whiteboard, at the “Subjective Intervention” line. “That’s a five-hundred-dollar deduction. Think carefully.” I looked at her cold, impassive face, then at the infant struggling in agony. My hand, clenched into a fist, slowly went slack. I was forced to watch as the minutes ticked by, the milk in the bottle remaining untouched. Finally, Amanda logged the entry: “Feeding attempt failed. Reason: Executor failed to pacify infant effectively.” Then, on my performance chart, she drew a heavy, deliberate “-5.” That evening, Amanda’s sister, Jessica, came to visit. She was as impeccably dressed and radiated the same air of elite superiority as Amanda. “Mandy, this system is genius! He’s so little and already getting an elite education.” Amanda preened. “Exactly. It’s all about the starting line, you know?” She gestured to me in the corner, changing the baby’s diaper. “Look at the nanny I hired. Yesterday she was arguing with me. Today, she’s as tame as a lamb.” Amanda came over to inspect my work. She ran a finger along the diaper’s edge, and her brow furrowed. “Sarah, come here.” My stomach dropped. “The app’s standard tutorial specifies the diaper’s anti-leak guards must be extended outward by 3 millimeters. I’d estimate yours are at 2.5 millimeters. Substandard.” She picked up her marker, ready to make another deduction. Jessica giggled, covering her mouth. “Mandy, you’re being a little intense. It’s like you’re managing an IPO.” “Parenting is the most important project of my life,” Amanda stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Any oversight, no matter how small, can lead to a deviation in the final outcome.” She turned back to me, her tone dripping with condescension. “Sarah, I pay you the highest salary in the industry, and it’s not for you to slack off. I know you were probably respected in your previous households, that people listened to you. But can those families compare to us? Can their children’s futures compare to my son’s? You need to recognize your place. You are a service provider. Act like one. Swallow that unnecessary pride and your so-called ‘experience.’ Only then can you truly improve.” With that, she deducted another point from my chart. I stared at the glaring red marks on the board, then at the patronizing, smug smiles on the sisters’ faces. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I said nothing. I just walked quietly to my room, reached into the bottom of my suitcase, and pulled out a small recording pen I hadn’t used in years. I pressed the button. 3. “Cry-it-out conditioning, Day Three.” Amanda’s voice, crisp and cold, came through the baby monitor. “Objective: Achieve over four hours of continuous, unassisted sleep. Zero intervention.” It was one in the morning. In the nursery, the baby had been screaming himself hoarse for two straight hours. I sat in my small room, listening to those agonizing, desperate cries. My heart felt like it was being fried in boiling oil. My door was locked from the outside. Amanda had said it was to “prevent my sentimentality from compromising the training’s efficacy.” I had begged her through the monitor. “Amanda, his throat is raw! He’s running a low-grade fever. We have to take him to the hospital!” Her derisive laugh crackled back. “Sarah, how many times do I have to tell you? This is a necessary phase for ‘resilience forging.’ The stress threshold was precisely calculated by the AI based on his weight and development. A slight temperature increase is a normal immune response to stress. Your alarmism will only create a weak, dependent mama’s boy. My son will one day be a titan on Wall Street. You think he can’t handle this?” I pounded on the door in desperation. “This isn’t resilience, it’s abuse!” “Abuse?” Her voice shot up, laced with fury at the accusation. “I’m investing millions in his future, and you call it abuse? What does a woman from some backwater town know about elite education? Say one more word, and you’re fired. Get out!” After that, the monitor transmitted only one sound: the baby’s cries, growing weaker and weaker until they were nothing more than the whimpering of a kitten. I slid down the door and sat on the floor, tears streaming silently down my face. I hated how powerless I was. I even began to wonder… was I wrong? Were my beliefs in love and experience truly outdated? Did this elite class really possess a secret formula for success that was beyond my comprehension? At 3 a.m., the crying finally stopped. The silence that followed was absolute, terrifying. My heart leaped into my throat, seized by a primal fear. I threw myself against the door, banging with all my might. “Amanda! Open the door! Something’s wrong! The baby’s not making a sound!” Several long minutes passed before the lock clicked open. Amanda stood there in a silk robe, her face a mask of irritation. “What are you screaming about? The training was a success. He’s achieved a ‘state of silence.’ You’ve woken me up.” I shoved past her and ran to the crib. The baby’s face was flushed crimson, his lips cracked and peeling. His breathing was so shallow it seemed like it could stop at any moment. I touched his forehead—it was burning. “We have to go to the hospital! Now!” I scooped him up and made for the door. Amanda blocked my path like a stone wall, her face a mask of crazed obsession. “You are not going anywhere.” “This is the most critical moment of the stress test! I need the complete twelve-hour data set! If you take him to the hospital now, the data will be contaminated. All of this will be for nothing!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She didn’t care if her son lived or died. She only cared about her data. “Get out of my way!” I tried to push past her, clutching the baby. She ripped him from my arms, holding him tight like a precious artifact. But she wasn’t looking at her son; she was looking at the camera of the baby monitor. “Stay back! You stupid woman, you’re trying to ruin everything!” While she was distracted, I grabbed a cup of water from the nightstand, trying to get a few drops onto the baby’s lips. The moment it touched him, she slapped me across the face, hard. The sting was fiery and sharp. “Who told you to give him water!” she shrieked hysterically. “Hydration levels are a core metric of this endurance test! You performed an unauthorized humanitarian intervention! The data is contaminated!” Right in front of me, she grabbed her iPad. With a trembling finger that held a strange, ecstatic energy, she typed a new entry. “Event Log: Executor Sarah performed an unauthorized humanitarian intervention at 03:15, contaminating the data for the ‘Endurance Limit Training.’ Assessment… Failure.” She looked up, her bloodshot eyes filled with a venomous hatred. “You destroyed my data model!” In that instant, looking at her twisted face, contorted with rage over “contaminated data,” looking at the tiny, dying baby in her arms being treated like a lab rat, the last shred of warmth I held for the word “mother” shattered into ice. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and slowly stood up straight. I looked at her, my expression as calm and still as a dead sea. Fine. You want data. I’ll give you the most perfect data you’ve ever seen. 4. The next morning, I was a different person. At breakfast, Amanda announced a new “punitive clause.” “Given your appalling behavior last night, your bonus for the week is canceled. Furthermore, to eliminate your subjective interference, from now on, you must request my permission before every action. Only after I approve may you proceed. Upon completion, I will sign off on the process log.” “I will make you understand,” she said, savoring her power, “who is the master of this house, and who makes the rules.” She thought this was a final humiliation, a way to break me. She didn’t see the cold, almost imperceptible smile that touched my lips as I lowered my head. This was exactly what I wanted. At 10 a.m., the app issued a command: “Initiate ‘Visual Tracking Training.’ Use black-and-white cards at a distance of 25cm from the infant’s eyes. Move at a constant speed for 3 minutes.” I held up the cards, moving them in front of the baby’s face. As a newborn, he couldn’t focus. His eyes were wide and vacant, showing no reaction at all. After one minute, I stopped and turned to Amanda. “Amanda, the baby is still weak from his fever. Continuing this will cause visual fatigue and could even lead to strabismus.” Amanda, in the middle of a yoga pose with a face mask on, didn’t even open her eyes. “The app says three minutes. It will be three minutes. Don’t make excuses for your laziness.” “Understood,” I replied calmly. I continued to wave the cards mechanically in front of the baby’s vacant eyes. With my other hand, I discreetly activated the recording app on the phone in my apron pocket. “Amanda, it is now 10:05 a.m. I have advised you of the potential risks of excessive visual training. Is it your directive to continue for the full three minutes?” A grunt of annoyance came from the yoga mat. “Yes.” “Instruction received.” I continued the motion until the three-minute alarm sounded. Then, I walked over to her with the logbook and a pen. “Amanda, please sign here. ‘Visual Tracking Training,’ completed for three minutes as per your direct order.” She scribbled her name in annoyance, not even glancing at me. At noon, it was time for a feeding. The app, having processed last night’s “failure,” had automatically adjusted the plan. “To correct risk of ‘overfeeding,’ current feeding volume is reduced to 60ml.” The baby, ravenous, screamed in protest. He drained the 60ml in seconds, then sucked desperately on the empty bottle, his little body trembling with hunger. Again, I approached Amanda. “He’s clearly still hungry. Based on my experience, he needs at least another 40ml.” “The app’s judgment is more scientific than your experience,” she said with a cold glance. “It has identified this as ‘suckle dependency,’ not hunger.” “Understood.” I turned on the recorder again. “Amanda, it is now 12:30 p.m. I have advised you that the infant is in a state of hunger. Is it your directive to adhere to the app’s 60ml limit and refuse additional milk?” “Are you always this annoying? Yes! Execute the command!” “Instruction received.” I walked back and pried the empty bottle from the baby’s mouth. His cries immediately filled the apartment. Amanda put on her headphones and blasted her music. I brought the logbook to her. “Amanda, please sign.” In the afternoon, during a diaper change, I pointed to the baby’s bottom. It was an angry, inflamed red, with tiny points of blood beading on the broken skin. “Amanda, he has a severe diaper rash. He needs cream, and the area must be kept dry.” The app’s instruction read: “To build skin tolerance, reduce use of chemical skincare products. Apply ointment once daily.” It wasn’t time for the scheduled application. “Then wait until it’s time,” Amanda said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Once again, I mechanically repeated my process: verbal warning, recorded confirmation, signed authorization. For three days. Three whole days. I became a machine—no emotion, no judgment, only obedience. I followed every one of Amanda and the AI’s absurd commands. I bundled the feverish baby in thick clothes to “sweat it out.” I fed him AI-recommended fruit juice while he had diarrhea. I allowed his diaper rash to fester into open sores. And every single time, I first offered my professional advice. Every single time, Amanda shot it down with a new, more cutting insult. And every single time, I would calmly record her verbal confirmation before having her sign her name to the log. My book filled with her arrogant, looping signature. Next to each one, I noted the time and the baby’s exact condition. The baby visibly withered. His initial roars of protest faded to whimpers, and then to silence. He lost the energy to even cry. He would just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, his once-bright eyes now clouded with a dull, grey haze. Amanda was thrilled. “You see, Sarah? This is what science looks like. His crying frequency is down 70%. His sleep duration has increased by 30%. He is becoming efficient and independent.” She gazed at her dying infant as if admiring a masterpiece. On the evening of the fourth day, Amanda’s husband, Mark, returned from a business trip. He was a gentle-looking man who immediately headed for the nursery. When he saw the tiny, sallow, lifeless creature in the cradle, he froze. “What… what happened? Leo… what happened to him?” His hand trembled as he reached for his son, but he recoiled when he saw the raw, broken skin on the baby’s bottom. “His rash! My God, what did you do!” Amanda walked in, a hint of annoyance on her face. “What are you overreacting for? It’s just a normal diaper rash.” “Normal? It’s raw meat!” Mark’s voice cracked as he pointed at me. “He was fine when I left! Was it you? Did you neglect him, Sarah?” Before I could speak, Amanda jumped in, her voice dripping with scorn and blame. “It has nothing to do with her. I’ve been scientifically correcting her outdated parenting methods. What do you know? It’s called ‘skin desensitization therapy.’ The process is difficult, but the results are worth it.” Mark stared at her as if she were insane. “Are you crazy? What kind of sick therapy tortures a baby like this!” “You’re the one who’s crazy! You’re a fool, trapped in your traditional mindset!” Amanda’s voice rose, and she jabbed a finger at me. “It’s her fault! This nanny has been whispering in my ear the whole time, trying to sabotage my judgment! She intentionally failed to follow my instructions because she wanted to prove me wrong! She can’t stand to see my child be superior! She’s a malicious, evil woman!” Stunned by her tirade, Mark’s suspicious gaze fell back on me. I stood my ground, my face a blank mask. Slowly, I lifted my head to meet his questioning eyes. “Mr. Collins, your wife is right. I am an executor of commands.” “Which is why, starting three days ago, I began video recording all of my procedures.” “Every feeding, every diaper change, every so-called ‘training session.’” “Especially the ‘optimized instructions’ that Mrs. Collins gave, which often contradicted the app.” “And every time, I recorded her signature of approval, along with her frequent mockery of my ‘stupidity.’” “I have it all on a separate phone. She said it was for my own performance review, so a ‘simple nanny’ like me could learn.” I calmly watched the color drain from Amanda’s face as I woke up my phone’s screen. “Which part would you like to review first? The ‘cry-it-out conditioning,’ or the ‘hunger endurance test’?”

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My boyfriend suddenly regained his memories. He remembered his first love, the girl he’d been obsessed with for years. He couldn’t wait to break up with me. Our two-year relationship was instantly voided. He warned me: “Forget this relationship ever happened. Pretend we never met.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Just yesterday, the System notified me: [Host, your mission is complete.] [Commencing erasure of mission-period memories.] 1 On our two-year anniversary, Asher got into a car accident and fell into a coma. I sat by his bedside for eight hours, only to hear him say: “Anything that happened while I had amnesia was not my own will. Naturally, this two-year relationship doesn’t count.” He got his memories back, and he wanted to break up. I wasn’t surprised by this ending. From the beginning, we hadn’t been honest with each other. Back then, he was an amnesiac with broken legs, hurt by love. I was a Redeemer with a mission, sent specifically for him. The System told me: [The mission objective is to help him stand up again.] Not just physically, but mentally. He was too negative and refused treatment. A person who doesn’t remember the past and can’t see the future is lonely and lifeless. To visualize the mission progress, the System displayed his “Love Value” for me, saying that love could give a person courage again. With love in your heart, you can face any difficulty. When his Love Value for me reached 100, my mission would be complete. I spent two years pulling him out of the abyss, accompanying him as he learned to walk again. The Love Value climbed slowly at first, then soared. Until it stopped at 99. It wouldn’t budge. I was anxious but couldn’t find the reason. Finally, the System couldn’t stand it anymore and reminded me: [Love requires sincerity. You must exchange a true heart for a true heart.] So, I sat on the balcony all night and decided to let go of the mission mindset. I decided to gamble with my real heart. Finally, on our two-year anniversary, while Asher was driving me to our date, we collided with a truck running a red light. In that life-or-death moment, he desperately turned the steering wheel toward himself, leaving the chance of survival to me. In that instant, the System announced: [Love Value Progress: 100%] [Host, your mission is complete.] Fortunately, the cars only scraped past each other. There were no casualties, but Asher fainted from the impact of the airbag. I sat in the hospital room from night until dawn, watching his Love Value drop from 100 to zero. Then it fluctuated up and down until the progress bar disappeared completely. As the sun rose, he opened his eyes and said to me: “Yvonne, let’s break up.” From the beginning, every Redeemer who completes their mission faces two outcomes. One: Be with the mission target forever. Two: Forget each other and disappear into the crowd. Asher frowned, enunciating every word: “Forget this relationship ever happened. Pretend we never met.” This was the ending he chose for us. I looked at him quietly and summoned the System: “Will Asher’s Love Value change anymore?” The System was silent for a few seconds, then told me: [Mission complete. The ending is set.] [From now on, Love Value will not be displayed.] Makes sense. Outside of the System, human love and hate don’t have visible data anyway. Besides, every look and action from Asher right now was telling me clearly—he didn’t need a progress bar. The person he loved now wasn’t me. It was his “White Moonlight”—his first love. Sophie. 2 They were childhood sweethearts. Before I even met Asher, the System told me about his past with Sophie. It was a cliché story of unrequited love. Sophie fell for someone else and planned to go abroad with him. Asher chased after her in his car during a heavy rainstorm, crashed, lost his memory, broke his legs, and fell into a deep depression. His friends couldn’t stand it and called Sophie. From across the ocean, she only said three things: “It’s better if he forgets me. Saves him from pestering me.” “We just grew up together. Helping him recover isn’t my obligation.” “Please don’t bother me anymore. My boyfriend will be upset.” Asher felt nothing about this. In fact, he was annoyed by his friends constantly bringing up Sophie and emphasizing his love for her. Their reminders only highlighted the fact that he, who should have shared memories with everyone, remembered nothing. Every gathering was full of acquaintances who felt like strangers. He was part of the group, yet an outsider. Surrounded by noise, but empty inside. That was probably why I could approach him so easily. We had no shared past, which was a kind of equality. I smiled and told him: “Our memories start now.” Countless moments of eye contact and touch condensed into an Asher who loved me. But when his past memories resurfaced… Our two years couldn’t compare to their twenty. To make matters worse, Sophie was back. Just a few days ago, she had a fight with her boyfriend, secretly returned to the country, and appeared in front of the amnesiac Asher in the rain, crying her eyes out: “I have nowhere to go, Asher.” Faced with this uninvited guest, Asher was annoyed. He ruthlessly pointed out: “Go home. Stay in a hotel. Sleep under a bridge. Even if you really have nowhere to go, my place isn’t a shelter.” Sophie looked like she was about to faint, staring at him in disbelief: “You’ve never spoken to me like that.” “Well, sorry about that,” Asher sneered. “I forgot how I used to talk to you.” I couldn’t bear to see her getting soaked, so I handed her an umbrella. She slapped it away, looking at Asher with hurt eyes. “Even if you don’t remember, Asher, someone must have told you about our twenty years together. Aren’t you afraid you’ll regret treating me like this when you get your memory back?” “Or are you doing this on purpose to get back at me for leaving? Finding a random girlfriend just for revenge?” Then she looked at me and scoffed: “Do you know what this is called? Taking advantage of a vacancy.” I didn’t know if I was taking advantage, chipping away at his defenses while he forgot his love for her. But Sophie was right about one thing. Asher, with his memories restored, regretted it. Unexpectedly, when Sophie heard he was hospitalized, she came to visit. Facing Asher’s soft question: “Aren’t you mad at me?” She huffed cutely and said: “I’ll settle the score after you’re discharged.” “You got into a car accident; how could I not come?” 3 The hospital room quickly filled with people, and I became the extra one. They chatted animatedly about the past—a life I had never been part of. The conversation always circled back to Asher and Sophie. They went to school together, skipped class together. Asher fought for her, took punishments for her. I suddenly felt it was pointless, so I turned to leave. But Sophie called out to me, extending a warm invitation: “Miss Yu, we’re going to celebrate Asher’s new lease on life. You should come too.” I was about to refuse when Asher spoke up first: “No need. We’ve broken up. I’m saying it here so everyone knows—don’t mention it again.” The room went silent for a few seconds before Sophie feigned surprise: “Oh, is that so? Okay then.” “But I have to warn you, Miss Yu, don’t do things like this in the future. You’ll only get hurt.” She glanced at Asher playfully and said to me: “Especially… stay far away from big bad wolves like Asher.” I nodded and smiled gently: “I will.” Asher frowned. Someone laughed and teased: “Tsk tsk, if Asher is a big bad wolf, how did you survive growing up with him, Sophie?” She beamed, her voice crisp: “I’m not afraid of him. I’m the kryptonite for big bad wolves.” Everyone laughed. I walked out of the hospital, finally feeling like I could breathe. Bending over, pressing hard on my chest, I asked the System: “How much longer?” Yesterday, when the System announced I had completed the mission, it also notified me: [Commencing erasure of mission-period memories.] This protocol starts by default upon mission completion, but can be terminated at any time once the ending is set. It’s a protection mechanism for the Redeemer. After all, a mission is like an immersive life simulation. Many Redeemers suffer severe mental and emotional trauma from the second ending, unable to continue their original lives. Giving your heart is handing someone a knife to hurt you. Right now, that knife was stuck in my heart. It really hurt. The System replied quickly: [Integrating mission data. Please wait.] I couldn’t wait. The uncontrollable pain was making me lose it. I needed a distraction. My phone rang. A restaurant name. They said I left something there. Without thinking, I rushed over. When I arrived, the manager told me it was actually Asher’s item, but he had listed my number as the emergency contact. I was about to say my identity had changed when the elevator doors opened. I froze. A sea of tulips flooded my vision. Gentle lights twinkled amongst them, stretching all the way to the main hall at the end of the corridor. It was like stumbling into a romantic floral ocean. The manager handed me a velvet box from a cart, smiling warmly: “Mr. Asher rented the entire floor yesterday, but he never showed up, and we couldn’t reach him. He left this here.” The scene stung my eyes. I didn’t need to look inside the velvet box to know what it was. The setting, the atmosphere, and yesterday being our two-year anniversary… it wasn’t hard to guess. This was a proposal setup. 4 Asher had planned to propose yesterday. I remembered the nervous look in his eyes in the car, and his excited tone when I asked where we were going: “It’s a secret. Saying it early ruins the surprise.” So this was the secret he couldn’t hide. I never expected it to be revealed like this. I stood there in a daze, then heard footsteps coming from around the corner. Voices, excited. I recognized Asher’s friends instantly. “Double happiness, huh?” “Memory recovered! Single again!” “What do you mean ‘single again’? Sophie pouted. “He had amnesia, so it doesn’t count. It was just play-acting.” “You guys, too. I wasn’t around, and you didn’t watch him properly.” “Letting just any woman get close to Asher.” Asher’s friends never really liked me. They saw me as an intruder in their circle. They only held back because Asher liked me enough, and they saw he was getting better with my help. The relationship maintained a delicate balance. Sophie’s return had caused a ripple. After Asher refused to let her in that rainy night, he got an angry call from a friend: “It’s pouring rain, and you won’t even let her in? Asher, you grew up together! You just don’t remember how much you liked her.” “Aren’t you afraid you’ll regret this?” Everyone was sure he would regret it. Asher sneered into the phone: “How many times do I have to say I only like Yvonne? You keep bringing up Sophie—is it me who likes her, or you guys who like her but are too chicken to admit it, using me as a cover?” Silence on the other end. Asher threw the phone aside and hugged me, his voice softening: “So annoying. Why does everyone say I like her?” “Is liking someone hidden in memories?” I smiled and hugged him back, thinking for a moment. “Liking someone is hidden in the heart.” But now, the ‘like’ in his heart was clearly no longer for me. Around the corner, Sophie’s voice continued. She pretended to be angry: “You better think of how to make it up to me.” “I’m still mad.” Asher’s voice sounded weak, probably because he just woke up: “What kind of compensation do you want? I—” He stopped abruptly because he saw me. And the romantic proposal scene behind me. The manager, realizing something was up, stepped forward to explain. He thought Asher had brought friends for the proposal. He congratulated them with a big smile until he saw everyone’s faces darken. He slowly stopped talking. Someone muttered, “Play-acting… with a proposal?” Asher’s face was cold. He watched as I walked closer, shoved the velvet box into his hand, and said gently: “Since you’re here, I’m leaving. Here’s your stuff.” “Wait.” He suddenly spoke, looking down at me. “If we meet again, pretend we’re strangers.” I didn’t look back. “Okay.” The elevator doors opened and closed. The last thing I saw was Sophie taking the ring from his hand, playing with it, and telling the manager unhappily: “Hurry up and get rid of these flowers.” As the elevator went down, a ding sounded. System notification: [Data integration complete.] [Beginning erasure of Host’s mission memories and all traces of existence.] [Beginning unsealing of Host’s pre-mission emotional module.] [Mission reward—Full Recovery Card—issued.] [Your fiancé is about to wake up.]

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1 Lucas Frost and I were famous in our circle as “The Toxic Exes.” We tortured each other for ten years until we reached a truce. But on the first day he returned from abroad, just to make his new beauty smile, he trashed my bar. I tore into him verbally. “Tsk, breaking your place felt good,” he sneered. “Name your price. I’ll pay whatever you want for damages.” What demands could a dying woman have? After my last checkup, I knew I was out of time. A mother and daughter in the waiting room, both recovered, looked at me with pity. “That poor girl. So young, and in the end, she won’t even have anyone to collect her body.” Sitting in the cold hospital hallway, I dialed that number I’d had saved for ten years. “If you really want to compensate me… collect my body when I’m gone.” … It was a rainy night, and the bar was empty. The TV was playing the news about Lucas Frost’s return. Just as I was about to close up, a young girl walked in. She folded her umbrella and pointed excitedly at the bottles behind the counter. “I’ll take all of these.” Behind her walked Lucas’s best friend, Ethan Cole. When he saw me, he froze. “Uh, maybe we should go somewhere else?” “But I brought this wine to Lucas before, and he loved it! He said it was his favorite.” The girl turned to me, beaming. “Bartender, I’m booking the whole place tonight. Bring out those bottles.” I nodded, my hands trembling slightly as I scooped ice. Not from nerves, or excitement. But because my illness was terminal, and the tremors were getting worse. “Ethan, can you light the candles? Lucas will be so happy when he gets here, right?” Ethan didn’t answer. He knew that seeing me was the last thing that would make Lucas happy. On the TV, Lucas smirked at the cameras. “She’s definitely watching. I’m looking forward to our reunion.” From this angle, the scar on his eyebrow was glaringly obvious. I gave him that scar with a kitchen knife. No reason. I was just in a bad mood, so I cut him. The jagged scar on the webbing of my hand was from when he ripped my skin open with his bare hands. It got infected repeatedly, leaving this mark. “Mr. Frost, where are you headed now? With those roses, are you meeting your girlfriend?” He paused for a beat. “My fiancée.” The girl in my bar was busy setting the mood. Hearing the news report, she turned to look at the TV. “Ethan, have you ever met his first love? The one he dated for ten years?” I kept my head down, shaking the mixer, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan glance at me. “Lucas!” The girl ran out excitedly, forgetting her umbrella. “Zoey.” Lucas tilted his umbrella to cover her. She stood on her tiptoes, planting an excited kiss on the corner of his mouth. Lucas flinched back slightly. Our eyes met through the rain-streaked glass. Zoey tried to turn around to follow his gaze, but he grabbed her chin, tilting her head up for a deep kiss. I looked away and dropped a mint leaf into the glass. Ethan walked up to the counter. He hesitated before speaking. “Please, don’t make trouble for him again.” He thought for a moment, then added. “She’s pretty, right? She looks a bit like you did when you were younger. She’s only nineteen.” I nodded, feeling a bit dazed. “She is pretty.” Two figures walked into the bar. Lucas closed his black umbrella. “Are you guys… praising my fiancée?” With that, his gaze fell heavily on me. It had been a long time. 2 Ethan held his breath, watching me. He wasn’t sure if I’d do something crazy again. But I just slid the glasses toward them. “Drinks are ready. Enjoy.” Zoey rested her chin in her hands, eyes full of joy as she looked at the man across from her. “Lucas, try it. It’s the one you said was your favorite.” Lucas took a sip, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “Bitter and astringent. Indeed, my favorite.” Zoey took a suspicious sip. “But this isn’t sweet! You lied to me again!” She didn’t notice his eyes were fixed intensely on me. The bar door was kicked open. “Bro! Welcome back!” A group of guys swaggered in. Their joyous expressions froze the moment they saw me. Their eyes darted between me and Ethan, cautious and probing. I brought over their drinks. As I handed them out, they all flinched, raising their arms to block their faces. During my war with Lucas, they had been caught in the crossfire a few times. Just minor skirmishes, but apparently, they held a grudge. “Ethan, what’s the situation?” one whispered. Ethan shrugged. “Enjoy.” I turned to leave, but Zoey grabbed my hand. “Miss, can you take a picture for us?” “No.” I dusted off my apron and started to walk away. Lucas’s voice stopped me. “You’re running a business. Everything has a price. Name yours.” I didn’t speak. He threw a stack of cash at me. “Enough?” I turned around. The wad of bills hit me square in the face. “Lucas… don’t…” “Sorry, miss, my fiancée is a bit drunk.” I bent down to pick up the money. “With his tolerance, two drinks won’t get him drunk.” A scoff came from above. “Bro, she still loves money this much. Three years later, still a cheap piece of trash.” Maybe I’d been too quiet, giving them the confidence to speak like that. I picked up ten bills, crumpled and dirty with alcohol and mud, and balled them up. I walked calmly up to Lucas. He held out his phone confidently, seeming to enjoy my current temperament. I grabbed his jaw, forcing his mouth open, and shoved the ball of cash inside. Just to make sure it went down, I poured two drinks down his throat along with it. Turning around, I slapped the guy who called me trash. “Run your mouth again, and I’ll sew it shut.” It happened so fast, the only sound left was the rain outside. Only Ethan sighed, leaning back and downing a drink. “Boss, this isn’t how you do business! We were wrong first, hitting you was wrong, but he…” I turned and slapped him too. Lucas wiped his mouth, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Hitting me is fine. But slapping my fiancée’s face? Too far. Zoey, how do you want to vent?” Zoey covered her face, tears welling in her eyes. Lucas scanned the room. “Nice place. Smash it to make Zoey feel better?” As she nodded, bodyguards filed in with bats. Windows, the island, the lights—everything was smashed to pieces. Through the broken window, rain lashed against my face. Lucas pinched my cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong, but I need to make Zoey happy. Think about what compensation you want. I’ll agree to anything.” His greedy gaze lingered on my face. I shook him off, coughing uncontrollably, frantically searching through the rubble for my medicine bottle. He glanced at the label with disdain. “Taking six sedatives at once? Trying to kill yourself?” He threw the bottle into a puddle and walked away with his arm around Zoey. I crouched by the puddle, fished out two more pills, and swallowed them. These weren’t just sedatives; they were painkillers. It started with half a pill. Now, eight pills barely took the edge off. The medicine was running out, and so was my life. 3 In the last three years, my mom died. She left me this bar. It was all I had. Suddenly, I didn’t know where to go. Or maybe the pain racking my body made me too lazy to move. I sat in the ruins, soaked by rain all night. By morning, the scandal of Lucas Frost’s revenge on his ex was all over the news in Seacity. As the sun rose, I decided to leave. Before I did, I kowtowed three times to the wreckage. Lucas appeared out of nowhere. He stepped over the debris and lifted me up with one hand. “It’s just a broken bar. Why do this to yourself?” I dusted off my hands, stood steady, and slapped him three times. Hard. “My mom’s memorial tablet was in there. I couldn’t find it, so I kowtowed.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Three slaps for your mom’s tablet. Fair trade.” I ignored him and walked out. He followed, chattering, trying to provoke me. “Jane, I’m talking to you.” I walked like I was deaf. He hurried to catch up. “Stop pretending you don’t care. Do you know how terrible you look right now? Still acting tough.” “Got a little sick, look a little haggard. Do you really think you’re important enough to affect me?” But I was certain of one thing. He came back specifically to torment me. If I were healthy, I wouldn’t mind skinning him alive again. But now, I didn’t have the energy. At the hospital. Several doctors looked at my scans with complicated expressions. “How much medicine do you have left?” “None.” “None?! That was a three-month supply! You finished it in a week?” Dr. Zhang had been managing my case. The moment he faltered, I knew. My time was up. “Where are… your parents?” “Dr. Zhang, you really have a bad memory. After all this time, don’t you know me? Just a few years of torture, then a handful of dirt. I can handle it.” He adjusted his glasses. “Your mood has been stable for three years. Why the sudden change this week?” I looked at the news notification on my phone. Sometimes, the people you care about least become the invisible executioners. “Your condition is very bad. Without medication, it could be seven days, a month, maybe three. Hard to say.” “Take this. Take three pills when it hurts. Remember, maximum three…” Before he finished, I opened the bottle and swallowed a mouthful. Didn’t matter how many. As long as it stopped hurting. Seven days or three months, it was all the same to me. After taking the pills, I squatted in the most inconspicuous corner of the hospital. Leaning against the cold wall, sweat soaked my back over and over again. In ten minutes, I heard every prayer and plea imaginable outside the operating room. “Mommy, is that the big sister from before? Should we say goodbye when we get better?” “She won’t get better. Let’s not upset her. Sigh, poor kid. No parents, serious illness. Probably won’t even have anyone to collect her body when she dies.” The little girl looked up innocently. “Her mom and dad… there must be someone in the world who loves her, right?” I looked at the blurry text on my phone, rubbing my eyes for a long time. It was a text from Lucas. He’d been messaging since last night, asking about compensation. I thought, maybe no one loves me, but I might have found someone to collect my body. I dialed the number I had saved for ten years. He picked up quickly. “Decided?” “If you insist on compensation, Lucas… collect my body when I die.” 4 Silence on the other end for three seconds, followed by a scoff. “People as vicious as you usually live a long time. But if you really do die before me, don’t worry. I’ll give you a grand funeral. I’ll light up the whole city for you!” With that promise, I hung up satisfied. Walking out of the hospital, I saw the mother and daughter from earlier. The little girl patted her chest. “Who says no one loves her? I love her.” “Alright, let’s go. The bus… oh, the bus!” The mother chased after it. I walked to the parking garage. When I drove out, they were still there, so I offered them a ride. “Get in. I’ll drop you off.” I took them to the city center. They thanked me profusely. “Well, look who’s doing charity work? Trying to buy some good karma?” Lucas and his crew stumbled out of a bar nearby. Zoey stared at me intently. I didn’t want to deal with them. I tried to drive away, but Zoey pressed her hand against my window. She smiled, but her eyes were cold. “Sister, I just found out about you and Lucas. Yesterday… I didn’t offend you, did I?” I tried to roll up the window, but she held it down. “Sister, I have something for you. I mean no harm.” “I don’t want to hear your nonsense. Scram.” Zoey suddenly let go. As I started to drive, she pulled a jar from her bag. “I heard your mom’s urn was in the shop. I was afraid you’d have nothing to remember her by, so I went this morning and scooped up some ashes from the site.” She reached into the window and, right in front of my face, poured the ash onto the ground. “Oops! Sister, why didn’t you catch it? You won’t blame me, right?” I watched her performance. Great. She asked for it. The guys behind her didn’t know what was happening; they were praising Zoey’s magnanimity. “Zoey is so thoughtful, talking to her despite the disgust, and even giving a gift.” Zoey turned back confidently, walking toward the car in front of me. She waved the keys, celebrating her victory. I looked at the guy next to my window. “I have a gift for her too.” He smirked. “What could you possibly give her?” I buckled my seatbelt. “A ride to hell.” Before the sentence ended, I slammed the gas pedal. I smashed into the Porsche in front of me. The impact was violent. My car drifted out of control, but I gripped the wheel and didn’t let up on the gas. In the rearview mirror, the drunk guys sobered up instantly. “She’s crazy!” “I told you she was a ticking time bomb! You had to provoke her!” “Relax, she’s a paper tiger. If she wanted to fight, she would have already. Just scaring us to vent.” True, I just needed to vent. But I wasn’t done yet. Zoey stumbled out of the smoking car, playing the victim again. “Lucas… did I do something wrong?” Lucas was bleeding from his head, rushing to the other side of the car to grab Zoey. He seemed to realize my intent. “Jane! Don’t you dare!” Joke’s on him. I dare do anything. I stared at Zoey and floored it. The car roared toward her.

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My labor was a nightmare. The doctors declared me critical six times. My husband, Marcus, rushed back from his military base overnight. He was covered in blood, his eyes blazing with a hatred so deep it scorched me. “To get me here to you, my best friend crashed his car into a rockslide. He’s dead, Morgan. He left behind a wife and a child.” His voice was a razor’s edge. “How am I supposed to repay that blood debt?!” His best friend’s widow, Sarah, lost her husband in a single night. And I lost mine. Marcus never came home again. I was left alone to work dead-end jobs, to raise our son, to endure the vicious whispers of our neighbors. At school, my son was taunted, called a bastard with no father. I couldn’t stand it. I went to the other family’s house to set things right. They beat me until my head was split open, leaving me to lie alone on a cold operating table. With trembling hands, I dialed my husband’s direct line. It was his aide who answered. “The Commander is watching Sarah Evans’s performance.” “He is not to be disturbed.” My heart turned to ash. I asked for a divorce. Marcus promised, he swore, that he would return to us for good in one month. “I’ll take our boy for a ride in the Jeep,” he said. “We’ll drive through town and show everyone what a big-shot father he has.” My son and I counted the days, crossing them off the calendar one by one. The day finally came. We saw the Jeep, surrounded by a throng of people. And in it, Sarah was laughing, a child in her arms. I held my sobbing son tight. “It’s okay, sweetie,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “We don’t need a daddy.” “Your grandpa’s army-green helicopter is way cooler than a Jeep, anyway.” … Oakhaven is a tiny town. A new bicycle is enough to get people talking for a week. A military Jeep was a spectacle. The narrow lane was completely blocked by gawkers. Marcus got out of the vehicle with a sigh. A little boy clung to his leg, whining. “It’s all muddy. It’s gross. I don’t want to get my new shoes dirty. Daddy, carry me.” My son, Leo, stomped his foot in fury. He tore his hand from mine and charged forward, shoving the other boy. “Get away from him! He’s not your dad!” The boy stumbled backward, caught by surprise. Sarah scooped him up, her eyes shooting daggers at Leo. “Where did this feral child come from? No manners at all.” Marcus raised his hand, ready to strike Leo for her son’s sake. Leo froze, his little fists clenched. In the stories I told him, this was the day his father would come home. He’d bring candy and toys and take him for a ride in a big car. He’d show all the bullies. He wasn’t a bastard. He had the best, strongest father in the whole world. But the day he had wished for, prayed for, had arrived. And his father was about to hit him in public, all to protect another child. Leo’s voice was a choked sob. “You lied, Mommy. He’s not my dad.” Marcus’s hand trembled in mid-air. His gaze fell on the small, dark birthmark on Leo’s forehead. Shock, guilt, and a flicker of something almost tender crossed his face. “That birthmark looks like a little star. Let’s call our son Leo, after the constellation.” He hadn’t been home since. Today was the first time in eight years he had seen his son in the flesh. But that flicker of warmth… It was extinguished by Sarah’s plaintive cry. “Marcus, are you just going to stand there and let him bully Cody?” The sound of the slap echoed through the crowd. I was frozen solid for a second before I ran to Leo, shielding him as he bit his lip to keep from crying out. I summoned every ounce of my strength and slapped Marcus back across the face. “You’ve got some nerve! Sarah says one word and you hit my son!” The slap, the shout. The onlookers swarmed closer, their eyes filled with scorn. They had been wondering how to get on the good side of the new Commander. This was their chance. They practically pointed their fingers in my face. “Morgan, are you crazy? Why would you hit the Commander?” “He’s Sarah’s husband! He’s supposed to defend his own kid, not yours!” “Your son started it! You’re just an unreasonable bitch.” “Worse than a bitch. She’s trash.” “Has anyone ever even seen her husband? God knows who she had that little bastard with.” The curses were like needles stabbing into my brain. Marcus looked uneasy but still positioned himself in front of Sarah and her son, protectively. He didn’t say a single word in my defense. I clenched my jaw, wrapping my arms around Leo, who was shaking with sobs. Sarah seemed to realize something, and a smug look spread across her face. She put on a show of magnanimity. “So you’re the one…” she started, then trailed off with a sigh. “Well, it’s not easy for a single mother. I’ll let it go.” But the crowd wouldn’t. “No way! Assaulting a Commander is a serious crime! She should be locked up for a couple of weeks.” “And that little bastard, Leo, yelling at the Commander like that.” “If word gets out, people might think the Commander has loose morals.” I could take their insults. But I would not let them shame my son. Swallowing the bitter acid rising in my throat, I stared straight at Marcus. “You tell them. Whose husband are you?” My defiant, tear-filled gaze seemed to pierce him. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked like he was about to speak. But his aide cut in with a sneer. “This is ridiculous.” “Everyone at Fort Sheridan knows Sarah is the woman Commander Thorne cherishes most.” “To make her happy, the Commander—a grown man—learned to dance, just to perform a duet with her on stage.” “In the four years I’ve served under him, I’ve never seen him late for morning drills. But since Sarah came along, he’s been late 28 times in a month. He can’t stand to be away from her.” Every word was a hammer blow to my heart. Over two thousand days and nights. I worked three jobs to raise our child, fending off unwanted advances in the dark. When I couldn’t bear it anymore and cried to him on the phone, his voice was always ice-cold. “Sarah’s husband died in that crash because he was rushing to get me to you.” “Taking care of her is my way of repaying your blood debt. You should be grateful, not an ungrateful wretch.” For all these years, I had clung to those words. Don’t expect, don’t bother, don’t complain. Even today, I had been planning to buy extra groceries to welcome Sarah and her son. To treat her like a sister. I never imagined that while Marcus bound me with chains of guilt, he was indulging in a passionate affair with his dead friend’s wife. Then what was all my suffering for? The crowd erupted. They surged forward. “How dare you tell that bastard Leo to call the Commander ‘daddy’!” “Trying to drag a good man through the mud!” “Plenty of men in this town have tried to help Morgan out over the years, but she always said she was married and chased them off!” “Turns out she just looks down on us country folk. Well, get the hell out then!” Someone yanked my hair back, hard. Leo tried desperately to push them away but was kicked to the ground. A cruel older boy stomped on his face. “Enough!” Marcus roared. Sarah’s face paled, and she clutched his sleeve. Marcus sighed, gently pushed her away, and came to help me and Leo up. “Everyone,” he announced, his voice strained. “Morgan is actually… my sister-in-law.” “After my older brother passed, the elders wanted me to take responsibility for both families. As an educated military man, of course, I couldn’t accept such an arrangement.” “But my sister-in-law… she seems to want me very much… which led to this misunderstanding.” A misunderstanding. A joke. It felt like he’d plunged a knife right back into the raw, gaping wound in my chest. He lowered his voice, trying to placate me. “Morgan, don’t make things difficult for Sarah.” “When you were in labor, if her husband hadn’t been rushing to get me to you, he wouldn’t have been driving so fast.” “You owe her this.” There it was again. That sentence. The one that kept me from blaming him, from blaming her. The one that forced me to swallow years of loneliness and hardship. But we made that child together. Why was the debt all mine to pay? My heart was cold. I didn’t want to fight anymore. If Sarah wanted him that badly, she could have him. We were even. I shook his hand off and spoke, my voice flat. “That’s right. I’m the Commander’s sister-in-law.” “Leo, call him ‘uncle.’” “No.” “Call him.” “Un… cle.” Marcus’s face stiffened. He didn’t answer, his eyes swirling with a complicated emotion. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? So why was he hesitating? He knelt, pulling a bag of milk candies from his pocket to give to Leo. I pushed his hand away and led Leo out of the crowd. I didn’t look back once. I had just started packing our things when the yard gate was pushed open. Marcus walked in, leading Sarah and her son by the hand. My face was a mask of ice. “What are you doing here?” He pushed past me with his luggage. “Alright, stop sulking. You’ve been waiting all these years for me to come back, haven’t you? I could have been transferred to the capital, but I know you don’t like the dry northern air, so I came back to Oakhaven. From now on, our family of five will live a good life.” For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. “A family of five? Marcus, what in God’s name do you think I am?” “My wife, of course,” he said. He paused, then turned back with a smile. “But publicly, you’re still my sister-in-law. Don’t let it slip, alright? It would be awkward for Sarah.” He walked into the master bedroom and started throwing my and Leo’s bedding, clothes, and books out into the hall. He took out a brand-new set of sheets and carefully made the bed. Those strong hands… they had once pulled me from a raging flood. They had tended to me tirelessly in the hospital. I had fallen in love with him at first sight. I had defied my father, cut off all ties, just to marry him. Now, he was using those same hands to make a bed for another woman. It was time for things to go back to the way they were supposed to be. I knelt and whispered to a sobbing Leo. “I called Grandpa. He’s coming to get us soon.” “Grandpa is amazing. He even has a helicopter. You’ve always wanted to fly like the birds, haven’t you?” Leo’s swollen eyes lit up, and he nodded vigorously. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” I nuzzled his cheek and went into the kitchen. Sarah leaned against the doorframe, a smirk on her face. “You’ve got some patience, I’ll give you that,” she said. “I’ve moved into your house, and you still have the heart to cook for Marcus? What, are you planning on taking care of me when I have his second child?” I didn’t even look at her. Frustrated, she glared at me, then seemed to come to a decision. She lowered her voice. “You know, my husband Jake’s death had nothing to do with you. When you were in labor, Marcus insisted Jake take a detour to the bakery on the west side of town before going to the hospital. Everyone thought he was getting something for you. But really, it was because I’d whined about wanting some chestnut cakes. Who knew there’d be an accident on that little road?” She giggled, covering her mouth. “Marcus and I were first loves. We were separated when we were sent to the countryside for re-education. Now, after all this time, we’ve found our way back to each other. It’s destiny.” It felt like my heart had been crushed in a fist. I couldn’t breathe. For eight years, I had believed his lie without a single doubt. I had humbled myself time and time again, all to atone for a sin that wasn’t mine. I thought if I was just small enough, quiet enough, Marcus might think of me and Leo while he was “repaying his debt” to Sarah. I was so wrong. He was just happily, guiltlessly building his life with her on the wreckage of mine. A triumphant smile played on Sarah’s lips. “Today, I’m going to make you give up for good and get out of this family.” She took a knife and sliced a deep gash into her own arm, then let out a piercing scream. “Morgan, if you’re angry that I took Marcus, just say so! I’ll leave!” “You don’t have to do this…” Marcus burst into the kitchen. He fumbled for gauze to wrap her wound and then roared at me. “Wasn’t it enough that you got her husband killed? Now you’re trying to kill her too? You’re nothing but an ungrateful, backstabbing wretch!” The sheer absurdity of it made me want to laugh. “I’m the wretch?” I sneered. “And you, sleeping with your dead best friend’s wife… that makes you a man of honor?” The truth hit its mark. His face went white. “You… you have the nerve to ask me that?” he stammered. “How did a single woman raise a son all these years? I never asked you how many men you slept with.” Ugh. Disgusting. I pressed a hand to my stomach, fighting back a wave of nausea. Marcus grabbed my wrist. “And you have the audacity to play the victim?” he snarled. “It’s the first day and you’re already acting this jealous. How are we supposed to live together for the next few decades?” “Is this how you hurt Sarah?” He picked up the knife and moved to cut my hand. “Don’t you hurt my mommy!” Leo suddenly darted in front of me, his little arm outstretched. Startled, Marcus lost his grip. The knife fell. “Aaargh—!” Leo crumpled to the ground, his arm hanging limply, the bone shattered, held on only by skin and sinew. Blood pooled on the floor. My fingertips went numb. I whirled on Marcus, screaming. “Get the car! Take him to the hospital!” His face tightened, and he grabbed the car keys, ready to run. But Sarah started sobbing, clutching her arm. “My arm hurts so much, Marcus. What if I can never dance again?” He looked into her tear-filled eyes, and the guilt that had just appeared on his face vanished. He clenched his fists and turned on me, his voice cold. “You need to learn your lesson today. Apologize to Sarah right now, or I’m not taking Leo to the hospital.” “Are you insane? Marcus, that’s your son! He could die if you wait!” He blocked the doorway, his dark eyes empty and cold. “He’s your son, too. I want you to remember this. Remember the fear and pain of losing someone you love. Maybe then you’ll understand what Sarah has been through, and you’ll settle down and help me take care of her for the rest of our lives.” Sarah shot me a triumphant, mocking look. She mouthed a single, silent word. Loser. I stood frozen, my heart torn in two. One half seethed with the humiliation of eight years spent atoning for a lie. The other half was consumed with terror for my son. He was covered in blood, his breathing growing faint. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My knees buckled. I knelt. I bowed my head to Sarah, who looked down on me from her throne of deceit. I slapped my own face, hard. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “It was my fault. I’ll never hurt you again. Please, just let Marcus take Leo to the hospital…”

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