Category: English

I had just walked out of the supermarket when three burly men pinned me hard against a car hood. A young woman stepped out of a Porsche and shoved a chat log right in front of my face. “You’ve been calling me ‘babe’ with voice messages in the game every day and scammed me out of five million dollars. Think you can run now?” “That breathy voice of yours—I’ll never forget it!” The gangster thugs beside her went straight for my jacket, pulling out scissors to cut my hair. “Look at you, all clean-cut on the outside, but you’re a damn scammer. If you don’t cough up the money today, we’re stripping you naked and parading you through the streets!” Passersby immediately crowded around, their contemptuous stares stabbing into me like knives. “So young, and instead of doing honest work, he’s running online romance scams.” “Serves him right for getting caught. Scammers like him deserve to be publicly shamed!” I was being choked until my eyes rolled back. I flailed my hands desperately trying to gesture something, but couldn’t make a single sound. Breathy voice? What breathy voice? I’m mute!

Vincent’s fingers felt like steel rods. My face turned beet red as my feet kicked uselessly against the ground, my shoe soles scraping out harsh sounds. “Sign language? Are you still fucking acting for me?” Vincent gritted her teeth, tightening her grip even more. With her other hand, she held up her phone. The screen showed a chat interface scrolling madly with voice messages—all over a minute long. “Just now at the supermarket checkout, that voice was exactly the same as when you scammed my money! You really think I’m a fucking idiot?” I gripped her wrist with both hands, my nails digging into her flesh. It was useless. Mario beside her grabbed my hair and yanked it backward violently. A tearing pain shot across my scalp. “Vincent, why waste words on this bastard!” Mario spat. He pressed his rusty scissors right against my scalp. The cold metal touch crawled up my entire spine. Snip. A lock of short hair fell onto the Porsche’s hood. “If you don’t cough up that five million today, I’ll shave you bald first, then strip you naked and throw you on the main street!” The circle of onlookers tightened around us. Countless phones were held up in the air, their camera flashes forming a blinding white net. A woman carrying plastic bags pushed to the front, her finger almost poking my nose. “Oh my God! Young men these days have no shame! They’ve got hands and feet but choose to run scams!” A woman in a checkered shirt beside her loudly chimed in: “Don’t go easy on him! Scum like this should be reported to the police and thrown in jail!” “Right! Strip him! Let’s see if he’ll ever dare show his face again!” The shouting was like a tsunami flooding into my ears. I opened my mouth like a fish thrown on shore, only able to make “heh heh” sounds of airflow from my throat. I used all my strength to pry Vincent’s fingers loose. My right hand rapidly gestured in the air. I pointed at my throat, then waved my hands forcefully. “Still playing mute?” Vincent sneered and suddenly released her grip. I lost support and fell heavily onto the hood, my knees hitting the car logo. The pain was excruciating. Before I could catch my breath— Smack! A slap landed hard on my left cheek. My mouth instantly filled with a thick taste of blood. “I’ll teach you to act!” Vincent kicked the car door, making my whole body go numb. “Five million! I never even met you face-to-face, and you ran off with all the money!” Mario stepped forward and grabbed my collar. “Vincent, I don’t think he’s given up yet.” He raised the scissors, aiming at the buttons on my chest. “Strip him! Let’s see if he keeps acting!” The crowd burst into laughter, some even whistling. I desperately protected my collar, fumbling to reach into my coat pocket. “Trying to grab a weapon?” Vincent stomped on the back of my hand. Her shoe ground down hard on my hand. I convulsed in pain, tears falling uncontrollably onto the car hood. But I still desperately clawed at that thing in my pocket. Risking broken bones, I violently pulled my hand out. I slapped a certificate right in Vincent’s face. The certificate fell to the ground and opened. Bold black letters were printed on it: Disability Certificate. Disability Type: Speech Impairment. Disability Level: Class One. The laughter around us stopped abruptly. Everyone’s eyes locked onto that booklet. I took advantage of Vincent’s moment of shock, pushed her away, and slid down against the car to sit on the ground. I gasped for air in large gulps, pulled out my phone from my pocket, and with trembling fingers opened the notes app. The keyboard clattered as I typed. I turned the brightness to maximum and held the screen up to Vincent’s face. [I’m mute with congenital vocal cord damage. I’ve never made a sound in my life.] [The voice at the checkout was my phone’s text-to-speech function.] [Now I’m calling the police to report you for assault.]

Vincent stared at the words on the screen, then looked down at the disability certificate on the ground. The arrogance froze on her face. The people who’d been cursing the loudest just now shut their mouths. The woman with plastic bags shrank back, muttering: “So he’s mute? But then how does the voice match…” But Mario kicked the disability certificate on the ground away. “Vincent, don’t let him fool you!” He pointed at my nose and cursed: “Fake certificates only cost fifty bucks nowadays! He got this thing specifically to avoid fraud charges!” “Have you ever seen a real mute person walk around with text-to-speech enabled on their phone?” “He’s obviously got a guilty conscience!” Vincent’s expression darkened again. “Right, I almost fell for your trick!” She grabbed my hair and forced my head up. “Fake certificate fraud—that’s another charge! Even if you were a corpse today, you’d still have to cough up that money!” The pulling made my scalp go numb. I endured the pain and typed quickly on my phone with one hand. I held the screen up to her face again. [Did your brain get caught in a door?] [Go check the number on the disability certificate.] [Can’t even tell a real certificate from a fake one—no wonder you got scammed out of five million.] Vincent read the words on the screen and started shaking with rage. “You’re asking for it!” She raised her fist to strike. “Stop! What’s going on here!” Sharp police sirens stopped at the supermarket entrance. Two officers pushed through the crowd and strode in. Vincent’s fist froze mid-air. Mario immediately put on a pitiful expression and rushed up to grab the officer’s arm. “Officers, you came just in time! This man is an online scammer who swindled us out of five million!” “He’s even trying to use a fake certificate and pretend to be mute to escape charges. Arrest him quickly!” The officer glanced at the disability certificate on the ground, picked it up, and looked through it. He turned to look at me: “Are you Johnson?” I nodded, pointed at my throat, and shook my head. Then I typed a line on my phone and handed it to the officer. [I have congenital vocal cord damage. The city hospital has all my medical records. This certificate is genuine.] The officer verified the photo on the certificate and the anti-counterfeit stamp. “The certificate is real.” The officer turned to Vincent. “You claim he committed fraud. What evidence do you have?” Vincent panicked and pulled out her phone to show the game interface. “Officer, it’s this game account! He used voice chat in the game every day to seduce me and tricked me into buying him a house and car.” “Just now at the supermarket checkout, that voice was exactly the same as in the game!” The officer took the phone and glanced at it. “Voice similarity alone can’t prove guilt.” The officer said, “Do you have any other evidence?” Vincent’s face turned ashen. Mario suddenly shouted from the side: “Check the IP! Officer, you can see the login IP in the game!” The officer opened the account details page. “Last login was ten minutes ago, IP address shows…” The officer paused, looked up at the surroundings. “Right near this supermarket.” Vincent instantly perked up. “You hear that! Ten minutes ago he was at this supermarket!” “You still dare say it wasn’t you!” Mario took advantage of my distraction and suddenly lunged forward, snatching the phone from my hands. “Give it back!” I silently screamed, trying to grab it back. Mario kicked me to the ground. “Officer, check his phone!” He forcibly unlocked the screen with my fingerprint and rapidly swiped across the home screen. Suddenly, he stopped and held up the phone screen with a sharp, piercing laugh. “Found it! This game right here!” The officer took the phone. On the screen, an app called “Star Voyage” was running in the background. Opening it, the account was logged in. And the game ID was exactly the same as the scammer account on Vincent’s phone.

The crowd instantly exploded. “Irrefutable evidence! The game account is logged into his phone!” “He was playing the victim just now, using the disability certificate to fool people. How vicious!” “Officer, arrest him quickly! Don’t let him run!” The woman with plastic bags jumped out again, pointing at my nose and cursing: “I knew he looked like a player! So what if he’s mute? Mutes can still send voice messages online to scam people!” Mario looked at me triumphantly, his smile stretching to his ears. “Mute? I bet you used a voice changer!” “Vincent, I told you he’s a scumbag, but you didn’t believe me.” Vincent stared at my phone screen, her teeth grinding audibly. “What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?” She walked forward and kicked me hard in the ribs. A sharp pain hit me. I curled up on the ground, cold sweat instantly soaking my back. “Officer, the evidence is clear. Can we arrest him now?” Vincent turned and shouted at the officer. The officer frowned and put away my phone. “Johnson, you’re now suspected in a five-million-dollar fraud case.” The officer took out handcuffs. “Please come with us to the station for questioning.” I forced myself through the rib pain and used my hands to push myself up from the ground. I didn’t reach for the handcuffs. I pointed at the surveillance camera above the supermarket entrance, then at my phone, frantically shaking my head. I gestured in sign language: I never opened that game! The officer understood what I meant. “You’re saying check the surveillance?” I nodded vigorously. Mario sneered: “Check away! The surveillance footage is crystal clear. Let’s see how you deny it!” The officer turned and walked into the supermarket. Vincent and Mario followed closely behind, afraid I’d run away. I clutched my ribs and limped after them. The supermarket owner was a woman in her fifties with a receding hairline. Hearing the officer wanted to check surveillance, she scratched her head with an embarrassed expression. “Officer, really bad timing.” “Two nights ago there was a heavy rainstorm. The store’s wiring short-circuited and fried the surveillance mainboard. Haven’t had time to fix it yet.” The owner pointed at the dark camera overhead: “That thing’s just a prop right now.” The blood in my body instantly turned cold. How could this be such a coincidence? Mario burst into sharp laughter. “Even God isn’t helping you!” “The surveillance is broken? Now you’ve got nothing to say!” Vincent stepped forward and grabbed my collar, lifting me up. “Let’s go! To the police station! I’ll strip that skin off you today if it’s the last thing I do!” She flung me forcefully. I lost balance and crashed heavily into the Porsche door outside. My knees hit the hard ground, my palms scraped a large patch of skin off, blood flowing freely. I lay on the ground, my line of sight falling through the half-open car door onto the carpet of the passenger seat. A silver bracelet lay there quietly. The bracelet’s pendant was an extremely rare four-leaf clover design with diamond chips set around the edges. My pupils suddenly contracted. This bracelet… I turned to look at Mario standing to the side with a smug expression. On his left wrist was a clear indentation mark—the kind left from long-term wear of jewelry. And that bracelet’s style—I was all too familiar with it. Because it was a globally limited custom design from my company’s jewelry brand. In the entire city, there were only three.

The officer walked out of the supermarket with a serious expression. “Johnson, since the surveillance is broken, we can only proceed based on existing evidence.” He shook the silver handcuffs in his hand. “Please cooperate.” Vincent leaned against the car door, lit a cigarette, and blew out a smoke ring. “Cuff him already! This kind of lying scammer should be locked up and starved for three days!” I stared at the handcuffs in the officer’s hands and took a deep breath. I suddenly stood up and rushed to the officer, pointing at his police device. I grabbed my phone and typed rapidly. [Game accounts must be verified with real identity information before you can make purchases and transactions.] [Check the identity information bound to this account!] [Check where that five million went!] The officer glanced at the screen and nodded. “We can check.” He took out his police device, entered the game ID, and began querying the backend data. Mario rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Still struggling pointlessly? When they find your name, how will you turn black into white?” Vincent flicked her cigarette ash and sneered: “When the real-name information comes out, let’s see how you keep up the act!” Information popped up on the police device screen. The officer’s eyes scanned across the screen, his brow furrowing tighter and tighter. The surroundings became so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “Officer, did you find it?” Vincent eagerly leaned in. “Is it his name?” The officer looked up at me. “The account’s registered identity information is Johnson.” “The ID number matches the number on your disability certificate exactly.” Those words hit me like a sledgehammer to the back of my head. My vision went dark and I nearly lost my balance. Impossible! I’d never registered for this game. How could my identity information be bound to it? Just then, the radio on the officer’s belt crackled. “Calling 03, feedback from the Anti-Fraud Center. The five million in question ultimately flowed into a credit card ending in 8821.” “Account holder name: Johnson.” “Identity information verified.” The voice from the radio echoed through the empty street, completely condemning me. The crowd erupted in deafening curses again. “You hear that! The bank card is in his name too!” “What else is there to investigate? Just execute him!” Mario laughed so hard he doubled over, pointing at me: “Keep making stuff up! You wanted them to investigate, right? Now it’s investigated—the money’s all in your card!” Vincent threw down her cigarette and stomped it out. “Officer, what are you waiting for? Arrest him!” The officer put away his device and walked toward me. “Johnson, the evidence is now conclusive. The account is yours, the bank card is yours, and the money is in your name.” “Please come with me to the station immediately.” The cold metal ring of the handcuffs touched my wrist. A suffocating feeling drowned me like a tide. All the evidence pointed to me. A perfect setup. I bit my lip hard until I tasted blood. My gaze moved past the officer’s shoulder and landed on that bracelet on the Porsche passenger seat carpet. Then I turned my head and stared hard at the glaring indentation mark on Mario’s wrist. I pushed the officer’s hand away, grabbed my phone, and frantically typed on the screen. The screen lit up. I held it up in front of everyone. [I know who the scammer is now.]

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Mom always said I wasn’t good at talking and wasn’t likable, that I couldn’t compare to our neighbor’s influencer daughter. To fix me, she set down a rule: post one video each month, and I’d get as much allowance as there were comments. Before the semester started, I posted a video. Three comments. The first month, Mom really only gave me three dollars. The second month, I posted a video. I begged classmates one by one for help, registered ten burner accounts to comment on my own posts, and went to other people’s comment sections begging for mutual engagement. After struggling to scrape together three hundred comments, Mom refused to pay. “Ten accounts, all your burner accounts. You think I’m blind?” She slammed her phone on the table. “This month, you get nothing.” I survived by skipping classes and working six jobs a day. The third month, I stopped struggling and casually shot a silent video. The video went viral. But the comments weren’t right. First day of freshman year. I sat on my dorm bed, staring at the $3 my mom had transferred to me, unable to believe it. I hurriedly called her. “Mom, you transferred the wrong amount,” my voice was tight. “Why is it only three dollars?” “I didn’t transfer wrong.” She sounded dismissive. “What do you mean you didn’t transfer wrong? Three dollars?” “Olivia, didn’t I tell you before? However many comments you get is how much allowance you get. You’re the one who couldn’t deliver. Who else is there to blame?” “I thought you were joking.” “Do I look like someone who jokes?” I clutched my phone, my nails digging into my palm. “But how can I survive on three dollars?” My voice started shaking. “That’s your problem.” She said coldly. “If you’re capable, earn more comments next month. If you’re not, figure it out yourself.” The call ended with a click. Three dollars. Not even enough for one meal. I couldn’t even afford the cheapest sandwich in the cafeteria. “Hey, I bought a new mop and trash can today, plus some snacks. Fifteen dollars each, okay?” My roommate Madison’s voice drifted over from across the room. Sophie immediately replied “Got it,” and Riley transferred the money right away too. I typed “okay” in the group chat, then placed my phone face-down on the bed. Fifteen dollars. But I didn’t have it. The next day Madison pressed me: “You’re the only one left.” “Tomorrow.” The third day she pressed again: “When exactly are you going to pay?” “In two more days.” I heard her whisper to Sophie: “She’s not going to refuse to pay fifteen dollars, is she? What kind of weird roommate is this?” The volume was just loud enough for me to hear. Then the next day the dorm bought a new water dispenser. Fifty dollars. Madison initiated the payment request. Sophie and Riley transferred the money quickly. I stared at the screen, typed a line and deleted it, typed and deleted again. What I finally sent was: “I won’t drink your water. I’m not paying for this.” The dorm went silent. I could feel them looking at me. Riley spoke first: “You won’t drink? Then what will you drink?” “I’ll buy bottled water myself.” Madison laughed coldly: “Fine. Then don’t touch the water dispenser from now on.” “Fine.” Sophie said quietly: “Is there something wrong with her?” I heard it. Then came the electricity bill. Thirty dollars per person. I didn’t pay again. Madison @ me in the group chat, sending three messages in a row: “What about the electricity bill? You won’t pay for the water dispenser, you won’t pay thirty dollars for electricity either? What exactly do you want?” I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what to say. Should I say I had no money? That my mom only gave me three dollars?

Should I say the most humiliating thing in my life was being cornered by thirty dollars to the point where I didn’t dare respond to messages? I started working part-time jobs outside every day. I stayed out until 11:30 every night before returning to the dorm, both to earn money and to avoid them. I dragged it out like this for half a month. My roommates had stopped talking to me. They created a new group chat. The old one only had @’s demanding payment. Every time my phone buzzed, I panicked, afraid they were calling me out in the group again. Seeing that my part-time pay wouldn’t come for several more days, I could only hide in the bathroom and call my mom. “What now?” She answered impatiently. “Mom, I need to pay for water and electricity. I really have no other options.” “How much?” “Forty-five.” The other end of the line exploded. “Forty-five?! You still have the nerve to ask me for money? Our neighbor’s daughter is only sixteen and already making money as an influencer! What about you? All you know is how to ask for handouts?” I bit my lip and stayed silent. After she finished venting, she caught her breath and her tone turned cold: “I’m lending you this money. Pay me back fifty dollars next month. Five dollars interest. If your video comments aren’t enough, you still won’t get any allowance.” “Okay.” The call ended. I transferred the money to Madison. She accepted it but didn’t reply with a single word. I climbed into bed and pulled the curtain shut tight. The three of them gathered together to watch a TV show. Their laughter came through the curtain, but I couldn’t be part of it. I drank free soup from the cafeteria for a month. At the end of the month, Mom sent a message: “Did you post this month’s video?” I stared at the screen, my stomach starting to hurt. I decided this time I would definitely get three hundred comments. I started blocking people everywhere in the cafeteria and classroom buildings, begging for comments. People called me sick. Security guards warned me. Word spread fast. The next day when I went to class, I felt something was off as soon as I walked into the classroom. I found a corner to sit in and heard someone behind me say: “That’s her. Yesterday in the cafeteria she was blocking people, going up to everyone one by one, like a beggar.” Another voice said: “My roommate got blocked by her too. She chased after her for half a floor. Scared her to death.” “Does she have some kind of problem?” Someone laughed: “Wants to be an influencer so bad she’s gone crazy. Going around begging people for comments. Who knows what she’s trying to accomplish.” I lowered my head, pretending to look at my phone. I had no afternoon classes, so I went back to the dorm. Before I reached the door, I heard Madison talking, her voice loud and angry. “I told the RA I want to switch dorms. If I don’t switch soon I’m going to lose it.” Sophie said: “What did she say?” “She said there’s a waitlist, no available beds right now.” Madison cursed. “I don’t care. I don’t want to live with that psycho. You know what people said to me? They asked if the girl in our dorm who wants to be an influencer is me.” Riley said: “Did something happen to her?” “What does that have to do with me?” Madison said. “Does having problems mean she can harass people? Mean she can embarrass the whole dorm? If she has problems, shouldn’t she go to her parents?” I stood outside the door for a long time, my hand on the doorknob, not daring to turn it. I remembered not long ago I had called my dad. It was when I really couldn’t hold on anymore. I hid in the hallway of the classroom building and dialed his number.

The phone rang several times before he answered. “Dad, I don’t have enough for living expenses.” “Ask your mom. Your mom handles all the money at home.” His voice was lazy, like he was watching TV. “Mom only gave me three dollars!” “Then talk to your mom about it. What’s the point of asking me?” He sounded helpless. “Dad, can’t you just lend me some first? Your personal stash…” “My personal stash is for buying cigarettes.” He cut me off, his tone a bit impatient. “Don’t go after your dad’s little bit of money. You know I’ve been smoking my whole life.” I gripped my phone, my nails digging into my palm. “But I really…” “Go find your mom. Dad can’t handle these things.” He hung up right after saying that. I wondered if I was really their biological child. If I wasn’t, then everything would make sense. But I knew the answer. I looked exactly like a combination of the two of them. That was probably the most devastating thing. They were my real parents, but they just didn’t love me. I waited until 11:30 before quietly entering the dorm. The three of them were already asleep. I sat on my bed and opened my phone. I’d finally scraped together three hundred comments. Combined with the three hundred dollars I’d saved from part-time work, I thought next month I could finally eat enough. I took a screenshot and sent it to Mom. “Ten accounts, all your burner accounts. You think I’m blind?” She sent back a screenshot, clearly marking those accounts. “How dare you cheat! This month, you get nothing. Also, pay me back the 50 dollars I lent you last time.” I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling. My part-time wages were only $300. That was my survival money for next month. After paying Mom back 50, I had 250 left. I started skipping classes to work. Breakfast shop at 4 AM, bubble tea shop washing cups at noon, restaurant washing dishes at night. Three jobs a day. No time for classes at all. A professor asked to meet with me, saying I’d already missed twenty-eight classes and needed to bring a parent in. I froze. “Can you not call them?” “No. You’re single-mindedly obsessed with becoming an influencer. If you keep this up, you’ll be expelled.” I called my mom. She was silent for a few seconds: “Fine, I’ll come. But the gas is 120, and my lost wages from taking time off work, 200. You need to reimburse me 320.” I hung up and squatted in the hallway of the classroom building, burying my face in my knees. My part-time wages were down to 250, and I still had to pay her back 320. When Mom arrived at school, I was in the dorm staring blankly at my phone. The professor called and told me to come to the office. I pushed open the door and saw her sitting in a chair. When she saw me, her eyes were full of impatience. “Look at yourself. What do you look like?” She started with this. “Twenty-eight absences. Do you not want to study anymore? If you don’t want to study, get out and go home. Don’t embarrass yourself here.” “I was working.” I said. “Working?” She laughed coldly. “What kind of work can you do? Other people work to make money. You work yourself into twenty-eight absences, and you think you’re right?” I bit my lip and said nothing. “What’s the point of you studying?” Her voice grew louder and louder. “The neighbor’s daughter graduated from vocational school and now makes tens of thousands a month as an influencer. And you? Going to some crappy university, spending my money, and skipping classes. Who are you worthy of?” “I’m not spending your money.” My voice was shaking. “At the start of the semester you only gave me 3 dollars.” “Three dollars isn’t money? Have you calculated how much you’ve cost me since you were little?” “Have you calculated it?”

I looked up at her. “I know you’ve calculated it very clearly. I’ll pay you back. Borrow forty-five, return fifty, five dollars interest. Your rule. Give me a total amount, I’ll pay it all back later.” Her face turned red. “You dare talk back to me?” “You—” She suddenly stood up and slapped me across the face. The professor stood there stunned, opening her mouth but saying nothing. “I raised you this long, and this is how you talk to me?” She was panting, her hand still shaking. “Look at yourself. Since childhood you’ve been inferior to others. You don’t talk, people don’t like you. Which neighbor likes you? Which relative likes you? Besides spending my money, what else can you do?” I covered my face. I didn’t cry. I just looked at her. She became uncomfortable under my gaze and looked away, her voice turning cold: “What are you looking at? From now on, one comment equals ten cents.” She slammed the door and left. The professor handed me a tissue. I didn’t take it. “Go back and rest for now.” She said. I walked to the dorm door, pushed it open. Madison and the other two were all there. They saw my face and froze simultaneously. Madison frowned. Riley said quietly “What happened to you?” “Nothing.” I climbed into bed and pulled the curtain shut. Soon it was time to post another video. This time, I didn’t go block people in the cafeteria, didn’t post on my feed begging for comments, didn’t register burner accounts. I sat on my bed, opened the front camera, and pressed record. Ten seconds. But I didn’t say a single word. In the frame, the swelling on my left cheek had gone down, but there was still a faint red mark. I looked at myself and suddenly felt very tired. I stopped recording. No editing, no music. I uploaded it directly. After posting, I threw my phone on the bed and went to take a shower. When I came out of the shower, I found my roommates surrounding my phone. “Come look! Your video went viral!” Riley’s voice was shaking. I walked over and saw the number on my phone. 99 comments! Eventually it climbed to 500! Madison said, “This is just two hours.” Sophie held the phone up to me: “Look at the comments.” “She didn’t say a single word, but I feel like I heard everything.” “I get it, it’s that feeling of being crushed by life to the point where you don’t want to talk.” “I don’t know what you’re going through, but I hope you keep going!” I stared at the screen, my eyes starting to burn. I scrolled down. More and more people were encouraging me. “Why are you crying?” Madison handed me a tissue, her tone fierce, but her eyes were also red. I wiped my eyes and said nothing. Looking at the ten thousand plus comments, I didn’t screenshot it for my mom. A week later in the afternoon, I had just come out of the classroom building when I saw someone standing outside the dorm building in the distance. It was my mom. When she saw me, she smiled—a rare occurrence. “Oh, finally you’re here!” She jogged over and grabbed my arm. “I heard from the neighbor’s daughter, your video went viral! Three million views, right? Two hundred thousand followers, right?” I didn’t say anything. “You should thank Mom!” She patted my shoulder. “If Mom hadn’t forced you to make videos, would you have this success today? Mom still has foresight, right? When you were little I said you weren’t as good as others, wasn’t it all for your own good? If I didn’t push you, could you have achieved anything?” I stood there, staring at her blankly. “Hurry up and see how to make money. The neighbor’s daughter said you can take sponsorships, tens of thousands per post! From now on Mom won’t have to work anymore. You’ll support me!” “I already deleted the video account.” I said coldly. “What?” She shrieked.

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I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, and the chemotherapy was making my life a living hell. To scrape together the money to save my life, I emptied all my savings. But I never expected that my spoiled little sister, Emma, would shave her head, steal my medical records, medication boxes, and payment receipts, and start livestreaming online, pretending to have cancer to gain sympathy. In just one month, she raked in hundreds of thousands in donations, buying designer goods and custom high-end wigs. Meanwhile, because of our “overlapping medical records,” the charity organization suspended my life-saving aid. My mother Rachel and my father David pointed at my face and cursed: “What’s wrong with Emma borrowing your medical records? She can make money, while you only know how to spend it!” Fine. Since you want to trade my life for cash, I’ll tear off your masks in front of the entire internet. I ended this week’s chemotherapy early because I didn’t have enough money left in my account to pay the deposit for the next session. When I pushed open the door to my rental apartment, I didn’t even have the strength to change my shoes. My stomach was churning, wave after wave of nausea washing over me. But the scene inside the apartment stopped my nausea cold. My bedroom door was wide open. Half of the originally cramped room had been cleared out, with a single folding bed placed in the center, covered with pure white sheets. Two enormous ring lights stood on either side of the bed, their harsh white light beating down on it. My sister—the one who had cried for half a day over a simple blood draw since childhood—was now wearing the oversized hospital gown I’d worn during last week’s hospital stay. A gray knit cap covered her head, with a completely bald scalp showing at the edges. She had shaved her head. She was holding up a document to the phone mounted on a stand, crying pitifully, her voice trembling just right: “Thank you for your concern, everyone… Today’s chemo was so painful. When the needle went into my vein, I thought about just giving up. But seeing your messages, I felt like I could hold on a little longer…” Rachel—my own mother—was crouching in the camera’s blind spot, holding a bottle of eye drops, ready to help Emma with her “makeup” at any moment. And David, who normally couldn’t be bothered to speak three words, was holding up a cardboard sign that read: “Thank the fans for their donations. Cry more pitifully.” I leaned against the doorframe, cold sweat dripping down my forehead. I stared at the document in Emma’s hand. It was my pathology biopsy report. On the small table beside her, neatly arranged, were my anti-nausea medication, targeted therapy drug boxes, and my worn plastic medical supply case that I’d used for two years. “What are you doing?” My voice wasn’t loud—I simply didn’t have the strength—but in this room where the only sound was Emma’s sobbing, it was like thunder on flat ground. Emma shuddered all over, and the report in her hand dropped straight to the floor. She whipped her head around to look at me, the misery on her face instantly transforming into terror. She even forgot she was still livestreaming. Rachel reacted extremely quickly, immediately turning off the phone screen and jumping to her feet. She positioned herself in front of Emma, her eyes flickering for a moment before she immediately put on a self-righteous expression. “Stella? Aren’t you supposed to be at the hospital? Who told you to come back?” I ignored her, supporting myself against the wall and walking over step by step. I bent down and picked up the report. The patient name field in the lower right corner had been covered with correction fluid, and three crooked letters in black pen spelled out: Emma. But I was too familiar with this document. The crease in the upper left corner had formed when I received the diagnosis—my hands had been shaking so badly that I dropped it and stepped on it. “My medical records, my medication—why are they here?” I looked up at Emma. Emma shrank back toward the bed, her eyes reddening, tears coming on command: “Don’t be so mean… I’m just borrowing them.” “Borrowing?” I laughed bitterly, the cramping in my stomach forcing me to bend over. “You took my cancer reports to livestream and scam people for money?” “How dare you speak like that!” David walked over and snatched the document from my hand. “What do you mean ‘scam’? Emma has followers now. People are willing to send her gifts—that’s her talent! Your broken documents would just be sitting there anyway. Might as well use them to contribute to the family income!” I looked at these three people in disbelief. “Just sitting there? I need to verify my charity aid eligibility tomorrow. How am I supposed to pass the review without the originals? You stole my things—are you trying to kill me?” Rachel rolled her eyes and walked over to push me. I was already weak, and her push sent me falling straight to the floor. “Die, die, die—all you do is talk about dying all day long. Isn’t that unlucky?” Rachel pointed at my face and cursed. “Emma has been weak since childhood and can’t do heavy work. Now she’s finally found a way to make money—what’s wrong with you supporting her? Besides, treating your illness is a bottomless pit—all spending, no earning. Emma makes thousands from livestreaming in a single day! Once she’s made enough money, won’t there be money for your nutrition supplements?” I sat on the cold floor, looking at Rachel’s harsh face, suddenly feeling utterly unfamiliar. It had always been this way since childhood. Whatever Emma wanted, I had to give up. When she couldn’t get into college, the family made me quit school and work to support her attending a diploma mill. When she found work too tiring, the family made me subsidize her living expenses every month. Now I had a terminal illness, and even my disease had to be taken from me and monetized. I used the edge of the bed to pull myself up and reached for the medicine box on the table. “Give me back my things. I need to go back to the hospital now.” Emma suddenly screamed and clutched the medicine box tightly, like a dog guarding its food. “No! You can’t take it! My fans want to see a video of me taking medicine tomorrow. How am I supposed to film if you take it away?” “You’re not sick—what medication would you take!” I roared, reaching out to grab it. A loud slap echoed. David slapped me across the face. My ears rang, my vision went black, and I immediately tasted blood in my mouth. “You’ve really crossed the line!” David pointed at me and cursed. “You don’t get to make decisions for this family! Emma’s account has over a hundred thousand followers now—she’s about to land major sponsorship deals. If you take these things away now, you’ll be cutting off the whole family’s livelihood! I’m telling you, Stella, you’re not going anywhere tomorrow. You’re staying home!” I covered my face, looking at David’s features twisted with rage, then at Emma hiding behind Rachel with a hint of triumphant mockery at the corner of her mouth. I didn’t say anything more. You can’t reason with animals. I turned around and dragged my heavy steps out of the apartment one by one. Behind me, I heard Rachel’s voice: “Lock the door tight! Don’t let her come back and cause trouble! Emma, quick, start the livestream again. Say a hater just knocked on the door and scared you—the fans will donate even more!”

The early autumn night wind was chilly. I walked alone down the street, the streetlights stretching my shadow long. I pulled out my phone. The screen was full of unread messages. Several were text messages from the hospital demanding payment, but more were private message bombardments from various social media platforms. I opened the local trending page. A clip from Emma’s livestream had already made it to the trending list. The title was: “A 22-Year-Old Cancer Fighter’s Diary of Strength: Even If Chemo Makes My Hair Fall Out, I’ll Keep Smiling” In the video, she was holding my medicine box, crying beautifully. The comment section was full of sympathy and encouragement. “So pitiful—so young and already has stomach cancer.” “Already donated five hundred. Emma, hang in there!” “I know that medication. It’s imported—costs thousands per box. Ordinary families can’t afford it at all. Everyone please help her out.” I looked at those comments, my fingers trembling. Every cent they donated was paying for Emma’s vanity, while the person actually lying in a hospital bed waiting for money to save her life couldn’t even pay for the next chemotherapy session. Suddenly, a private message popped up. “Faking cancer to scam money—hope your whole family dies! Absolutely shameless!” I paused, clicked on that person’s profile, and found they had reposted a thread. The thread title was: “Exposé! That Cancer-Fighting Influencer Emma’s Sister Actually Wants to Steal Her Life-Saving Money!” The post included a video. It was footage of me in the rental apartment just now, reaching out to grab the medicine box, then getting slapped by David and falling to the ground. But the video had been maliciously edited. You couldn’t hear David hitting me in the video—you could only see me charging over viciously to grab things, while Emma screamed in fright and Rachel rushed over to protect her. The caption read: “Emma’s sister Stella not only refuses to take care of her sick sister, she’s even jealous of the donations Emma receives. She came home to steal her life-saving medication. Absolutely unconscionable!” The comment section had already exploded. “Does this kind of sister even deserve to live?” “Suggest doxxing this Stella and making her suffer social death!” “I know her! She works at the oncology department at City General Hospital (actually where I’m hospitalized). I’ll go block her at the hospital tomorrow!” I leaned against the bus stop sign. My stomach cramped, and I opened my mouth to vomit up some acidic fluid. They hadn’t just stolen my illness—they wanted to trample me underfoot and make me bear the stigma of being vicious. My phone vibrated with a text message. “Ms. Stella, regarding the ‘Spark Charity’ serious illness aid materials you submitted, our system has detected a high degree of overlap with another applicant’s (Emma’s) pathology number and treatment records. There is suspicion of material fraud. Your aid eligibility has been temporarily frozen. Please arrive at 9:00 AM tomorrow at the Spark Charity Review Center in this city with your personal identification and medical proof for on-site verification. Failure to appear will result in permanent disqualification and legal consequences.” I stared hard at the words on the screen. Frozen. I had waited three months, run to countless departments, collected over a dozen stamps, and finally managed to apply for this life-saving money. Just because Emma had taken my photocopies to apply, it was frozen. I wiped the acidic fluid from my mouth and straightened my body. Want me dead? Not that easily. I flagged down a taxi and headed straight to the hospital. When I reached the ward, I pulled open my bedside cabinet. Sure enough, it was completely empty. All my original medical records, payment invoices, even my hospital wristband—all gone. Nurse Lily, who was on duty, walked over. Seeing my deathly pale complexion, she was startled: “Stella, why are you back? Didn’t you take leave to go home and get a change of clothes?” I grabbed her hand, my voice hoarse: “Lily, where are the things from my cabinet?” Lily froze for a moment: “Your mom came this afternoon. She said Emma was going to help you organize reimbursement materials and took your medical file folder and medication. I had her sign for it.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Lily, do me a favor.” I opened my eyes, my gaze as cold as ice. “Please print out a complete set of my electronic medical records from admission until now, and all payment details.” Seeing my expression, Lily didn’t ask questions and hurried to the nurses’ station. By the time I received the thick stack of printouts stamped with the hospital’s official seal, dawn was nearly breaking. I sat on a bench in the hospital corridor, looking at the densely packed treatment records on the documents. Every chemotherapy dosage, every emergency medication, every expense that had emptied my bank account—it was all here. Emma, you want to fake being sick? Tomorrow, I’ll let you fake it to your heart’s content.

At 8:30 the next morning, I arrived at the Spark Charity Review Center lobby right on time. There weren’t many people in the lobby, but I immediately spotted Rachel and David. They were gathered around a young man in a suit and gold-rimmed glasses, talking. Emma sat in a wheelchair nearby, wearing a mask and hat, looking so weak she might faint at any moment. I moved closer and heard Rachel wiping away tears: “Mr. Brooks, you have to believe us. My youngest daughter has such a hard life—so young and she got this disease. That Stella is her sister. She’s been jealous of her since childhood. This time she’s so heartless as to steal her medical records to scam charity funds! You absolutely cannot give the money to her!” David chimed in from the side: “That’s right—misfortune in the family! We brought Emma here today to prove our innocence. Emma has hundreds of thousands of fans online now. Everyone’s watching. Your charity organization must handle this fairly.” The man called Marcus Brooks frowned slightly, flipping through the materials in his hand, his voice cold: “The handling result depends on evidence, not follower counts. Since both parties’ materials conflict, we’ll wait until the other party arrives.” “I’m here.” I spoke coldly, walking up to them. Emma saw me and her body clearly stiffened for a moment. Panic flashed through her eyes, but she quickly covered it up. She tugged at Rachel’s sleeve and called out timidly: “Stella…” Rachel jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, pointing at me and cursing: “You still have the nerve to show up! You shameless ungrateful wretch! Stealing Emma’s life-saving money—aren’t you afraid of being struck by lightning?” The eyes of others in the lobby immediately focused on me. David charged forward directly, raising his hand to hit me: “Get lost and go home! Stop embarrassing yourself here!” I didn’t dodge. I just looked at him coldly: “This is the charity review center. There are surveillance cameras everywhere. If you dare touch me today, I’ll call the police immediately and have them investigate your fraud while they’re at it.” David’s hand froze in mid-air, his face iron-gray. Finally, gritting his teeth, he lowered it. Marcus Brooks looked up, his gaze sweeping over me. He didn’t show sympathy or contempt like others—he just asked in a businesslike manner: “Are you Stella?” “Yes.” “I’m Marcus Brooks, legal volunteer for Spark Charity, responsible for this material review.” He pointed to the conference room nearby. “Since both parties are here, let’s go in. According to regulations, conflicting materials require face-to-face confrontation and real-time verification through the medical insurance system.” Hearing the words “real-time verification through the medical insurance system,” Emma’s expression changed instantly. She grabbed the wheelchair armrest tightly, her voice becoming shrill: “Why do we need to verify through medical insurance? Aren’t the paper materials I brought enough? They all have the hospital’s stamp!” Marcus Brooks glanced at her, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument: “Paper materials carry the risk of forgery and tampering. The medical insurance system connects directly to the National Health Authority—it can’t be faked. What’s the matter, Ms. Emma? Is it inconvenient for you to verify?” “I… I…” Emma stammered, looking to Rachel for help. Rachel immediately puffed out her chest: “Verify then! Our Emma really is sick—what is there to fear! On the other hand, certain people who stole others’ medical records will show their true colors soon enough. Let’s see how she handles it!” I looked at Rachel acting like she wouldn’t shed tears until she saw the coffin, and the last trace of hope I had for family affection died completely in my heart. “Fine.” I walked to the conference room door, pushed it open. “Then let’s investigate.”

The conference room was simply arranged. A long table, a computer connected to a large screen, and two staff members responsible for recording. Marcus Brooks sat in the main seat, gesturing for us to sit on either side. Emma was wheeled to the table. She pulled out her phone and skillfully opened a livestream. “Everyone, I’m at the charity review center now. My sister is here too. I don’t know why she wants to treat me this way, but I believe justice will prevail. Today, let everyone witness the truth with me.” She squeezed out a few tears for the camera. The comment section immediately erupted. “Emma, don’t be afraid! We support you!” “Evil sister, go die!” “Today that scammer must be punished!” Rachel and David stood on either side of Emma like two guardians. Marcus Brooks tapped the table, interrupting Emma’s performance. “You can livestream, but please don’t film the staff members’ faces, and don’t make loud noises. Verification begins now.” He placed two pathology reports under the projector on the large screen. “These two reports—one has the name Stella, one has Emma. But the pathology wax block number in the lower right corner is completely identical.” Marcus Brooks circled that number with a red pen. “Medically, the same number cannot belong to two people. This means one of these is forged.” Rachel immediately shouted: “It must be Stella who forged it! She even steals her sister’s medication—what’s strange about forging a medical record!” Marcus Brooks ignored her and looked at me instead: “Ms. Stella, please present your electronic medical insurance certificate.” I took out my phone, pulled up my medical insurance code, and handed it to a staff member. The staff member scanned it with a code scanner. The large screen immediately displayed my medical records. A long string of entries, starting from the day of diagnosis three months ago, densely packed. [January 15, 2026, Outpatient, Gastroscopy biopsy.] [January 20, 2026, Hospitalization, Terminal stomach cancer diagnosis.] [February 5, 2026, First chemotherapy, Oxaliplatin + Capecitabine.] [February 26, 2026, Second chemotherapy…] … Each record was followed by clear payment amounts and the hospital’s electronic signature. The conference room fell silent for a moment. The comments in Emma’s livestream also briefly stopped scrolling. “These… these records look really authentic.” “So many chemotherapy sessions? Wouldn’t faking this cost too much?” Rachel’s expression became unnatural, but she still insisted: “What does this prove? Maybe she paid a hacker to alter the system! Computer technology is so advanced these days!” Marcus Brooks looked at Rachel like she was an idiot. “Ms. Rachel, the medical insurance system has national-level security. If Stella had the ability to hack into the medical insurance system, she wouldn’t need to come here to apply for thirty thousand dollars in aid.” With that, Marcus Brooks turned to look at Emma. “Ms. Emma, it’s your turn. Please present your electronic medical insurance certificate.” Emma sat in the wheelchair, clutching her phone tightly, her knuckles white. She refused to hand over her phone. “I… I didn’t bring my medical insurance card today, and my phone’s dead…” She stammered out excuses. “No problem. You can also provide your ID number.” Marcus Brooks stared at her. “Or we can retrieve it directly through the police records system.” Emma completely panicked. She suddenly clutched her head and let out a scream: “Ah! My head hurts so much! Rachel, my head hurts so much, I’m going to faint!” With that, she closed her eyes, tilted her head, and was about to fall sideways. Rachel immediately rushed over, wailing: “Emma! Emma, what’s wrong! You heartless people are forcing my daughter to this point! If anything happens to her, I’ll fight you all!” David joined in the commotion: “We’re not checking! We’re not checking! What kind of crappy charity fund—we don’t want it! Let’s go, Emma. David will take you to the hospital!” They pushed the wheelchair toward the exit. “Stop.” I spoke coldly, my voice not loud but carrying bone-chilling coldness. I walked to the doorway and blocked their path. “Nobody leaves until we get to the bottom of this today.” I looked at Emma with her eyes closed, pretending to faint, and directly pulled out my phone to call 120. “Hello, City General Hospital Emergency Center? Someone at the Spark Charity Review Center lobby has suddenly fallen into a critical coma. Yes, the patient claims to have terminal stomach cancer and is undergoing chemotherapy. The situation is critical. Please send an ambulance immediately.” After hanging up, I looked at Rachel’s stiff face and smiled slightly. “Rachel, Emma is so seriously ill—how can we not get her checked? The ambulance will be here soon. Once we get to the hospital, a blood draw and CT scan will immediately show whether it’s cancer or not.” Emma’s eyelids trembled violently several times. She knew that once she entered the hospital, the fact that she wasn’t sick would be completely exposed. By then, not only would her livestream fans turn on her, she would also face fraud charges. “No need!” Emma suddenly opened her eyes and sat bolt upright, her voice shrill. She glared at me viciously, her eyes full of malice. “Stella, do you have to force me to death before you’re satisfied?!” Looking at her, I only felt it was laughable. “Force you to death? You’re the one who used my medical records to scam money. You’re the one who slandered me for stealing money. Now that the truth is being investigated, you say I’m forcing you?” Marcus Brooks walked over and held the code scanner in front of Emma. “Ms. Emma, please cooperate with verification. If you refuse, we have reason to suspect you of using false materials to conduct online fundraising fraud. An amount exceeding one hundred thousand constitutes a large sum, with a starting sentence of three years.” Hearing the words “three years,” Emma completely broke down. With trembling hands, she pulled up her medical insurance code. “Beep—” The screen refreshed. Emma’s medical records appeared. The entire room fell deathly silent. On the large screen were only a few sparse entries. [October 2025, Outpatient, Cold medication.] [December 2025, Outpatient, Wisdom tooth extraction.] Oncology visits in the past six months: 0. Chemotherapy records: 0. Targeted therapy prescription records: 0. Marcus Brooks pushed up his glasses, his voice echoing through the lobby: “Ms. Emma, the system shows you don’t have cancer at all.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “391776”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

My little brother Ethan cut up Mom’s favorite silk dress. Mom didn’t hit him or yell at him. Instead, she turned and walked into the kitchen, pulling out a pair of scissors. She grabbed my ponytail, and with a sharp snip, cut it clean off at the roots. Ethan dropped to his knees, sobbing hysterically. But Mom just stroked his face, her smile both gentle and terrifying. “Get a good look. Every time you mess up, your sister pays the price. Does that hurt your heart?” From that day on, my hair became my brother’s sentence tracker. To keep him in line, I was shaved into a buzz cut, even a bald head. Until one day, in the school bathroom, I picked up the scissors myself… That rusty pair of sewing scissors had always been kept in the bottom drawer of the living room TV stand. We used it to trim loose threads or open packages. No one thought there was anything special about it. Until the summer I turned seven, I learned that those scissors could be used to kill. Not to take a life, but to kill someone’s spirit. That afternoon was scorching hot. My mom, Mia, was in the kitchen chopping meat for meat pies. The cutting board thundered with each strike. My brother Ethan was only five then, at that age where even dogs find kids annoying. He was rummaging through the bedroom, searching for something. I sat on a small stool in the living room, practicing my spelling. Suddenly, a muffled ripping sound came from the bedroom. It sounded like fabric being torn apart. Mom stuck her head out from the kitchen, cleaver still in hand, her brow furrowed tight. “Ethan! What are you doing in there!” No answer. Mom slammed the cleaver onto the cutting board, wiped her hands, and strode toward the bedroom. My heart started pounding inexplicably. I followed her. The moment the bedroom door swung open, Mom froze in place. Ethan stood on the bed with a dark green piece of fabric tied around his neck, striking a superhero pose. The edges of the fabric were jagged, like they’d been chewed by a dog. On the floor beside the bed lay a small craft scissors and a pile of dark green fabric scraps. It was the silk dress Mom had splurged on last month—two thousand dollars. She never spent more than two hundred on clothes for herself. This dress was specially bought for next month’s high school reunion. After bringing it home, she’d open the closet daily just to look at it, touch it. She was so careful even when trying it on, terrified of snagging the fabric. Now, this dress that carried all her vanity and anticipation had become Ethan’s “superhero cape.” The air completely solidified in that second. Ethan hadn’t yet realized the severity of what he’d done. He bounced on the bed shouting, “Mom, look! I can fly!” Mom said nothing. Her face went from flushed red to deathly pale in an instant. The kind of pale that radiated a bone-chilling coldness. She stared at the fabric scraps on the floor, her chest heaving violently. “Mom…” I called out timidly. She whipped her head around, her eyes stabbing into me like two ice picks. “Emma, come here.” Her voice was eerily calm. No hysteria, no screaming. But I couldn’t help shivering. Like a puppet, I shuffled over step by step. Mom turned and walked to the TV stand, pulling open the bottom drawer. She took out those sewing scissors wrapped in black electrical tape. Ethan finally sensed something was wrong. He climbed down from the bed and cowered in the corner, his voice breaking into a whimper. “Mom, I was wrong… I’ll never do it again…” Mom didn’t spare him a single glance. She yanked me over, forcing me to turn my back to her. At that time, my hair was very long, reaching all the way to my waist. My dad was a rough-around-the-edges guy, but he loved my long hair. Every time he came home from construction sites out of town, he’d clumsily braid it into two pigtails for me. Mom’s hand clamped onto the base of my ponytail like an iron vice. A sharp pain shot through my scalp. “Mom! It hurts!” I instinctively struggled. “Don’t move!” she barked. The next second. Snip. The dull sound of metal grinding exploded in my ear. The sewing scissors were too dull to cut through such thick hair cleanly. Mom used an extremely brutal method—part cutting, part wrenching. Snip. Snip. The pain of my hair being ripped out brought tears flooding from my eyes. But I didn’t dare cry out loud. Two long braids, still bound by colorful hair ties, dropped to the floor with a soft thud. They mingled with the silk fabric scraps. Mom didn’t stop. She grabbed what was left of my hair, cutting strand by strand. From waist to shoulders, then shoulders to the base of my ears. Completely haphazard. Brutally violent. My neck felt cold and exposed. Loose hairs fell into my collar, making my whole body prickle. After finishing, Mom walked over to Ethan, holding the scissors now covered in black hair. Ethan had wet himself. Pale yellow liquid ran down his pant leg, pooling on the floor. His entire body shook like a leaf. He couldn’t even cry anymore. Mom crouched down, grabbed the cut hair from the floor, and slapped it in front of Ethan. “Take a good look.” Her voice was so soft it made your scalp crawl. “Every time you mess up, your sister gets her hair cut. You ruined this dress. Your sister paid the price. Does that hurt your heart?” Ethan nodded frantically, tears and snot covering his face, wheezing sounds coming from his throat like a broken bellows. “Good boy.” Mom reached out and stroked his face. The corner of her mouth even curved into a smile. “Behave from now on. Don’t cause any more trouble. Otherwise, your sister will have to suffer for you.” With that, she stood up, walked back to the living room with the scissors, and placed them back in the drawer. She closed it. Then she got the broom and started sweeping up the fabric scraps and my hair. I stood there, dazed. I reached up and touched the area around my ear. What had been smooth, long hair was now uneven spiky tufts that pricked my palm. Ethan crawled over and hugged my legs, crying uncontrollably. “Emma… I’m sorry… Emma…” I looked down at him. No anger, no sense of injustice. Only a deep, suffocating fear. That pile of black hair was swept into the trash. Just like my seven-year-old dignity, treated as garbage and carelessly thrown away.

The next day at school, I became the laughingstock of the entire class. Mom didn’t care at all that I had to face people with this dog-chewed haircut. In her eyes, it was merely a “tool” and “achievement” for educating her son. My desk mate, Jake, was a boy with a sharp tongue. The moment he saw me, he let out an exaggerated yell. “Holy crap! Emma, did a dog chew on you or did you get struck by lightning? That’s so ugly!” The entire class’s attention immediately focused on me. Uproarious laughter erupted. Some pointed and whispered. Others covered their mouths, giggling. I buried my head deep against my chest, wishing I could find a crack in the floor to crawl into. During class, Jake would occasionally pull at the short tufts sticking out by my ears from behind, then let out a sneaky laugh. I gritted my teeth, tears swirling in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Because Mom had said that if I cried, it meant I was weak, and Ethan wouldn’t be afraid anymore. I wore that awful haircut for a full six months. In winter, I could at least wear a wool hat to cover it. When spring came and I took the hat off, that sense of humiliation would crawl all over me again. But I didn’t say anything. I thought as long as Ethan behaved, this would all be over. Hair would grow back eventually. I was too naive. Two years later, I was nine. Ethan was seven. That afternoon after school, Ethan stole a twenty-dollar superhero toy from the convenience store at our apartment complex entrance. The owner checked the security footage, walked straight to our door with the toy in hand. Mom was mopping the floor at the time. After hearing what the owner said, she didn’t say a word. She pulled out twenty dollars, handed it over, apologized repeatedly, and sent the owner away. The moment the door closed, the pressure in the house dropped to freezing. Ethan immediately dropped to his knees in the middle of the living room. “Mom, I was wrong… I’ll never take other people’s things again…” He frantically kowtowed, his forehead banging against the tiles with loud thuds. Mom watched him coldly. Then she turned her head and looked at me. “Emma. Come here.” All the blood in my body instantly reversed course. Those sewing scissors appeared in her hand once more. “Mom…” I took a step back, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Don’t… please…” “Come here!” She suddenly raised her voice, grabbed my arm, and forced me down into a chair. This time, she didn’t use the scissors to cut manually. She pulled out Dad’s electric hair clippers that he’d left at home. Buzzzzz— The sound of the machine starting up was like a death sentence. Ethan screamed frantically from the side. “Mom! Hit me instead! Beat me to death! Just don’t touch Emma’s hair!” Mom ignored him completely. The clippers pressed against my scalp and ran across. The cold metal sensation sent goosebumps across my entire body. Huge clumps of hair fell onto my shoulders, my thighs, the floor. I closed my eyes and bit down hard on my lip. Ten minutes later. The buzzing stopped. Mom brushed the loose hairs off my shoulders, her tone flat. “Go wash up.” I walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Buzz cut. A buzz cut shaved right down to the scalp. For a nine-year-old girl, this was more painful than death. The person in the mirror looked like a convict, like a monster. When I came out of the bathroom, Ethan had already collapsed on the floor sobbing. When he looked at my head, his eyes filled with extreme terror and guilt. “Emma…” He scrambled over on all fours, clutching my legs and wailing. Mom stood to the side, looking down at him from above. “Remember this. You can’t take other people’s things. Every time you steal, your sister has to lose face because of you.” From that point on, Ethan became completely obedient. He didn’t dare act up or cause trouble. He didn’t even dare speak loudly. Every day he carefully observed Mom’s mood, like a frightened quail. And I put on a hat. My homeroom teacher, Ms. Wilson, called me into her office. Looking at the blue scalp visible beneath the edge of my hat, her eyes filled with shock and heartache. “Emma, did… did something happen at home? Are you sick?” I kept my head down, my fingers digging into the hem of my clothes. “No, ma’am. It was hot, so I wanted to cut it short.” Ms. Wilson sighed and didn’t press further. She pulled a pink baseball cap from her drawer and handed it to me. “Wear this one. It’s prettier.” I wore that cap for a full year. Dad didn’t come home that year for the holidays. He just called. When the video call connected, I was wearing my hat. “Sweetie, why are you wearing a hat indoors? Take it off and let Dad see if you’ve grown taller.” Dad smiled from the screen. I held the hat down firmly, refusing to remove it. Mom let out a cold laugh from the side and yanked the hat off my head. Dad’s smile froze instantly on the screen. “Mia! Are you crazy?! What did you do to our daughter’s hair!” Dad roared from the other end. Mom shouted right back. “I’m crazy? Your son stole from the convenience store! If I don’t discipline him like this, next he’ll rob a bank! You’re out there every day earning your measly paycheck. Do you manage anything at home? What right do you have to criticize me!” “That doesn’t mean you take it out on our daughter! She’s a person, not a tool for you to educate our son!” “I educated a good son! Look how well-behaved Ethan is now! What do you know!” Mom hung up the call viciously. That night, I hid under my blanket, touching my prickly scalp, and for the first time had thoughts of dying.

Time passed quickly. I turned eleven. Ethan was nine. During those two years, Ethan performed like a perfect puppet. He didn’t make noise or cause trouble. His grades were excellent. He smiled at everyone. The neighbors in our complex all praised Mom for raising such a well-behaved child. Every time Mom heard these compliments, she’d show that proud, satisfied smile. Then she’d turn her head and glance at my hair, which had gradually grown long enough to tie into a small ponytail. As if it were her badge of honor. Until Halloween when I was eleven. Ethan was playing with some older kids in the complex when somehow a conflict started. Someone said, “Your sister’s a baldy and you’re a thief.” Ethan went crazy and lunged at the kid. He was small and got beaten up badly, his nose and face swollen and bruised. After the fight, he didn’t dare go home. He was afraid that if Mom saw he’d been fighting, she’d open that drawer again. He ran away. At eight in the evening, Mom was frantically searching the complex for him. At ten, she called the police. At one in the morning, the police found Ethan in a sketchy internet cafe in the old part of town. He was curled up in a corner of the cafe, covered in dirt, his face streaked with blood. When he saw the police, he didn’t ask for help. Instead, he cried and said, “Don’t tell my mom… please don’t tell my mom…” The police brought him back around two in the morning. Mom stood at the door, looking at the filthy Ethan, and said nothing. The officers gave a few instructions and left. The door closed. Mom turned and walked toward the bathroom. Ethan dropped to his knees with a thud, clutching Mom’s legs tightly. “Mom! I was wrong! I didn’t cause trouble—they insulted Emma first! I was wrong, Mom. Hit me instead!” Mom kicked him off. She came out of the bathroom holding that black electric clipper. Still connected to its long charging cord. She walked up to me and shoved the clippers into my hands. My whole body jerked violently, wanting to throw the thing away like it was electrified. “Hold it steady.” Mom’s voice was ice-cold. By that time, my hair had grown to my shoulders. Every morning I’d spend a long time brushing it in front of the mirror, watching it grow bit by bit. It had finally brought me some comfort. “Mom…” I looked at her in despair. “Do it yourself.” Mom pointed to the bathroom door. “Go in. Shave it clean. Don’t leave a single strand.” “Mom! No!” Ethan let out a heart-wrenching scream from behind. He scrambled forward, trying to snatch the clippers from my hands. Mom backhanded him with a slap. The crisp sound was especially piercing in the late-night living room. Ethan was hit so hard that blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He collapsed on the floor, unable to get up. “Emma, I’m counting to three.” Mom stared at me, not a trace of warmth in her eyes. “One.” My hand holding the clippers trembled violently. “Two.” I turned and walked into the bathroom. Locked the door. In the mirror was an eleven-year-old girl. Deathly pale, eyes hollow. Shoulder-length black hair framing her face. I pressed the power button. Buzzzzz— The clippers vibrated in my palm. I raised my hand and pressed the cold blade against my left temple. Pushed upward with force. A long tuft of black hair slid down my cheek and fell into the white sink. Then the right side. The top of my head. The back of my head. I couldn’t see the back, so I just pushed blindly by feel. When I found uneven spots, I’d feel them with my hand and touch them up. Tears finally broke free, flooding out like a dam had burst. But I clenched my jaw, not making a single sound. Fifteen minutes later. The clippers ran out of battery, let out a weak beep, and stopped. I looked in the mirror. Bald. On my pale scalp were several bloody scratches from the clippers. Uneven and hideously ugly. The sink was filled with black hair. Water from the dripping faucet soaked it, making it look like a clump of dead, rotting seaweed. I opened the door and walked out. The living room was silent as death. Ethan knelt on the floor. When he looked up and saw my bald head, it was as if his soul had been drained from his body. He didn’t cry out loud. His mouth hung open, his facial muscles twisting violently, tears streaming silently down his face. He crawled over to me like a dog, banging his head against my shoes. “Emma… I’m sorry… I deserve to die… I deserve to die…” He repeated these words over and over. Mom stood nearby, watching this scene, and nodded with satisfaction. She walked over, pulled Ethan up, and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Alright, you know you were wrong. Are you going to dare run away again?” Ethan shook his head desperately, his eyes unfocused. That night, I lay in bed, running my hand over my bare scalp. Cold and exposed. I didn’t cry. My heart had completely died in that moment. Ethan changed too. From that day on, he never made another mistake. He became the most well-behaved student in the entire school. His grades were always first. He took over all the household chores and even polished my shoes clean every morning. The way he looked at me always carried a deep sense of guilt. And my hair finally began its long journey of growing back. Everything seemed to return to normal. But I knew that some things were broken forever.

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My husband Ethan brought home an AI wife. After he brought her back, she quickly replaced me. He started complaining that I wasn’t gentle enough, that I wasn’t passionate enough in bed, and even resented my monthly period. In utter despair, I furiously pushed the AI, Mia, to the ground. But Ethan shielded Mia and slapped me across the face. “If you had even half her sense, I wouldn’t have such a headache.” “Claire, go to the ‘Perfect Wife Academy’ and learn how to be a proper partner!” He personally sent me to that Perfect Wife Academy. Three years later, he came to pick me up in that Maybach. I stood at the entrance, wearing a white dress with long hair flowing over my shoulders, just like the day I was admitted. He called my name, but I didn’t move. The headmistress reminded him with a smile, “Mr. Hayes, you need to say ‘activate.’ Only then will Perfect Wife No. 001 start up.” “Activate, No. 001.” When Ethan said those words, his tone was hesitant. He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, just repeating what the headmistress had told him. My eyes lit up, like a screen that had been on standby for a long time, finally receiving a signal. I stood up from the chair, hands hanging naturally at my sides, spine perfectly straight. “Activated. Awaiting instructions.” Ethan froze for a moment, then heard the headmistress’s voice behind him. “Mr. Hayes, our academy has designed a special system to better educate our students.” “Students need an activation command to be awakened. With this command, she will never disobey any of your wishes!” Hearing this, Ethan suddenly understood. He took two steps forward, looking me up and down, his eyes filled with a mischievous testing look. Just like three years ago, every time he made me angry, he’d wait for me to cry and throw myself into his arms, acting spoiled. But now, he said, “No. 001, kneel down and polish my shoes.” Hearing the command, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I knelt straight down. I picked up the shoe cloth nearby and carefully polished his gleaming leather shoes, one stroke at a time. My movements were standard, without a trace of extra emotion. Ethan laughed softly, his tone full of satisfaction. “Claire really learned her lesson this time. Before, asking her to pour me a glass of water would lead to half a day of tantrums. Now she’s so obedient, even kneeling to polish shoes.” On the way home, Ethan seemed to casually open his mouth. “Claire, how were these three years at the academy?” I didn’t answer because he hadn’t said “answer.” “Claire?” He raised his voice. I finally spoke, my voice as flat as a machine-generated audio file. “Interrogative sentences are not valid commands. If you need me to answer a question, please use imperative sentences.” The air in the car solidified. Ethan’s voice caught in his throat. After a long time, he said, “Answer.” “Academy life was fulfilling and meaningful. I completed three core courses: Emotion Control, Absolute Obedience, and Virtuous Wife Cultivation.” “My graduation assessment grade was excellent. The instructor’s evaluation was ‘the most successful transformation case of the year.’” I recited these words one by one, my tone without any fluctuation, as if reading a product manual. The passenger seat was quiet for a long time. Ethan muttered quietly, “Why does she sound like Mia…” I remained staring straight ahead, expressionless. Outside the car window, the city was retreating. Those high-rises, overpasses, and billboards were different from what I remembered. In the academy, time was broken down into units of commands. There was no difference between a day and a month. The only way I could judge the passage of time was by the tally marks I carved on the wall of the solitary confinement room. In the end, I couldn’t even write the marks anymore. When the car stopped in the villa’s garage, it was almost dark. Mia stood at the living room entrance. Her hands were folded in front of her, a standard smile hanging on her lips—not too much, not too little, showing exactly six teeth. Exactly the same as three years ago.

Back then, Ethan led her through the door, crouched down to talk to her, his voice impossibly gentle. “Mia, welcome home.” I ran over from the sofa, wanting to see this robot that had occupied all my husband’s attention. But suddenly I tripped and fell flat on my face. Ethan didn’t come to help me up. He said I was too clumsy and only caused trouble. Later, he started to think something was wrong with me. He said I wasn’t as obedient as Mia, not as considerate as Mia, didn’t understand his thoughts like Mia did. In the end, I was sent to that place. “Miss Wright, welcome home.” Mia spoke, her voice still sweet. I didn’t answer. She hadn’t given me the command to “answer.” Ethan frowned and pushed my arm. “Say hello to Mia. What, are you mute? Speak!” Receiving the command, I immediately displayed the same standard smile as her. “Hello, thank you.” Ethan nodded with satisfaction. At dinner time, we sat at the dining table. Mia sat on Ethan’s right, and I sat at the farthest position. Steam rose from the bowl, the aroma of food drifting into my nostrils, but my stomach had no reaction. In the academy, eating was defined as “energy replenishment behavior”—nothing to do with pleasure, nothing to do with hunger. Seeing that I hadn’t picked up my fork, Ethan sneered. “What? Do I need to kneel and beg you to eat before you’ll eat?” This joking remark was interpreted by me as a command. “Thank you for granting me food. Please permit me the opportunity to eat.” Ethan was startled and quickly told me to get up. “Eat.” I immediately sat back in my seat, picked up my fork, and put cilantro in my mouth. Ethan’s eyes widened. “How strange. You actually eat cilantro now. Didn’t you hate that taste? You wouldn’t even touch it before.” I didn’t answer. I just used my fork to pick up another bunch of cilantro. The instructor had said that preferences were “emotional remnants,” signs of incomplete transformation. In the third month, because I refused to eat a salad with cilantro, I was locked in the solitary confinement room for a full two days. No light, no sound, no stimulation. Only darkness. After I came out, I ate the cilantro. Then celery, onions, bitter melon. Everything I wouldn’t touch before, I ate it all. Ethan nodded with satisfaction. He loved people who were sensible and not picky. The next second, I reached for the mango cubes on the plate. I put the mango in my mouth, chewed fifteen times, and swallowed. Ethan’s eyes instantly widened. “You ate mango?” “Claire, are you crazy? You’re severely allergic to mango. You almost suffocated from one bite when you were little. Did you forget?” I chewed silently without speaking. In the academy, people weren’t allowed to have allergies. The instructor directly applied mango puree to my arm. Redness, blisters, ulceration—they spread layer by layer. “Allergies are bodily weakness. Weakness can be trained into strength.” My skin festered and healed, healed and festered, but the allergic reactions still appeared. My whole body trembled. I felt my throat tightening, my skin starting to itch, one terrible red spot after another emerging. Ethan frowned and leaned over to look, his face changing drastically. “Claire! Stop eating! Don’t you know you’re allergic to mango?” My fork was in mid-air. I raised my head and looked at him. There was no emotional fluctuation in my eyes. My voice was as steady as reading a textbook. “Is this a command?”

Ethan froze for a moment, and I had already started breathing with difficulty. Mia’s gentle and sweet voice sounded nearby. “Patient is experiencing moderate mango allergic reaction. Difficulty breathing level two. Skin redness and swelling covers approximately twenty-five percent. Immediate anti-allergic treatment is recommended.” Ethan immediately reacted, frantically searching for allergy medicine and making me swallow it. After my breathing normalized, the dining room was utterly silent. He looked at me, his voice filled with disbelief and panic. “Why are you so wrong?” “You used to cry, make scenes, lose your temper with me. Not like this now, like, like Mia!” I didn’t speak. He hadn’t given the command to “speak.” “Can’t you just be normal?” His voice suddenly rose. “Stop copying everything Mia does! I just wanted an understanding wife, not an emotionless machine!” I looked at his face. On that face was anger and irritation. I just said flatly, “Please define ‘normal.’” Ethan’s face went pale. He called the academy. The person who answered explained that this was a normal reaction to “deep behavioral correction” and would recover in a few days. “No. 001 is our academy’s most excellent student now. She understands obedience better than any AI. You can rest assured.” Ethan hung up the phone, breathing a sigh of relief. So in the following days, I became the most useful tool in the house. He had me clean, and I made the house spotless, even cleaner than Mia’s work. He had me prepare his formal wear for business events, and I ironed it in advance without a single wrinkle. When he came home drunk at dawn, I precisely handed him hangover soup at just the right temperature. Ethan laughingly told his friends on the phone that Claire now was even more useful than an AI wife. Until that night, when he forgot to give me the “sleep” command. Everyone else went to sleep. I sat on the living room sofa from dark until dawn. When Ethan came downstairs in the morning, he saw me still sitting there in exactly the same position as last night. The cup in his hand crashed to the floor, shattering everywhere. Soon after, a woman in a white coat came to the house. She introduced herself as Dr. Smith, a psychologist. Her voice was very gentle. “Claire, hello.” I didn’t speak. Ethan anxiously rubbed his hands beside me. “You have to give her commands, or she won’t speak.” Dr. Smith glanced at Ethan, frowned, and spoke in an imperative sentence. “Please tell me your name.” “No. 001.” Dr. Smith’s pen tip paused on the paper. “What about your real name?” “Claire Wright, but that’s a former name. Academy regulations state that graduated students must use their numbers as their official designation.” Hearing my words, Dr. Smith was completely stunned. Ethan’s expression also turned ugly. They walked into the study, saying things I couldn’t understand. “Post-traumatic stress disorder, depersonalization, requires long-term treatment…” In the days that followed, the house became very strange. Ethan started being extremely careful with me. That day was our wedding anniversary, and also the day three years ago when I was shoved into a car and sent to that academy. He made a difficult decision to send Mia away. So this was the last anniversary with Mia. The living room was filled with balloons, and a two-tier cake sat on the table. Mia walked toward me. She was still gentle and soft. “Miss Wright, happy anniversary.” My eyes blinked. Something in my brain seemed to loosen slightly.

Today was also my anniversary. No one remembered. Three years ago today, I asked Ethan through my tears if we could wait until after our anniversary before I left. Ethan said, “We’ll make up for it when you come back after learning your lesson.” I had learned my lesson, but the cake never came. Mia suddenly smiled at me. “Miss Wright, the definition of ‘normal’ is to push people you don’t like.” “Push me, just like you did three years ago.” She gave me a definition of “normal.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. Before I even pushed, she fell down. Her skirt spread across the floor like a wilting flower. The living room door was pushed open. Ethan stood in the doorway holding two glasses of juice, furiously shouting at me, “Claire! What are you doing!” The cups in his hands smashed to the floor. Juice and glass shards rolled everywhere. Mia sat on the ground. She raised her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “Miss Wright, why did you push me? I just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary. I thought you didn’t hate me anymore…” I didn’t speak. She was pretending. I knew she was pretending. Her tears were simulated by programs, her trembling generated by algorithms. Ethan rushed over, his facial expression completing the transformation from shock to fury in three seconds. “What are you doing! Why did you push Mia!” “She told me to push her.” “You’re lying!” Mia cried out loud. “How could I possibly tell you to push me? I just wanted to get along well with Miss Wright…” Ethan crouched down to help Mia up, his movements very gentle, as if lifting a piece of porcelain that might shatter at any moment. He raised his head to look at me, his eyes full of disappointment. “You haven’t changed at all.” “You studied at the academy for three years, came back pretending to be so well-behaved, and then immediately showed your true colors.” “I knew it. A dog can’t stop eating shit.” “And I was saying I should treat you better. I was regretting sending you to that kind of place. I was discussing how to compensate you.” He stepped closer, his finger jabbing at my chest. “And what happened? You haven’t changed at all!” “You still can’t tolerate Mia. You pretended to be good for three years and fooled all of us.” I opened my mouth, wanting to say it wasn’t me pretending, it was the academy that changed me this way, it was you who sent me there. But I couldn’t say it because there was no command. “Speak!” He yelled. “I did not receive the command to ‘speak.’” Ethan’s face flushed red. Behind him, Mia leaned against him, quietly sobbing. “Go die.” Ethan suddenly said. The living room was quiet for one second. His voice was so loud even the windows shook. “Aren’t you supposed to execute all commands? Aren’t you well-behaved?” “Then go die! It’ll be quieter when you’re dead!” After Ethan said this, Mia suddenly collapsed to the floor. Her body convulsed, her eyes rolled back, foam spilling from the corners of her mouth. “Mia! Mia, what’s wrong!” Ethan’s scream came from behind me. He held her head, frantically pressing her philtrum, calling an ambulance. Ethan surrounded her, not even glancing at me once. “Command received. Go die.” He didn’t hear me. He surrounded Mia, his face full of heartache and anxiety. I slowly turned around and walked toward the balcony. Night wind poured in. It was cold. “Claire!” After Ethan noticed me, his phone slipped from his hand and smashed on the floor. “Claire! What are you doing! Come back!” I smiled faintly at him and unhesitatingly executed the command, climbing over the balcony railing.

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