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.
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