Category: English

After my dad’s ninety-ninth business venture went down in flames, he announced his next big plan: conquering the internet. He had been scrolling through social media, obsessed with the viral plastic Natasha doll trend, and insisted he was going to get head-to-toe plastic surgery to look exactly like her. I tried to warn him. “Viral fame is a flash in the pan, Dad. Plastic surgery is a permanent scar.” He chickened out and gave up. But his childhood buddy went through with it instead, became a massive internet sensation, and made so much money his entire family relocated to a tax haven in Europe. My dad, consumed by the belief that life-changing wealth had been stolen from him, spiraled into a bitter rage. One night, he slipped rat poison into my dinner. When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at the dinner table on the exact day he first brought up the surgery. 1 “If a plastic Natasha doll can pull in millions in sales, the real-life version—me—is bound to make billions!” At the dinner table, my dad’s face was flushed red, slurring his words as he bragged to his friends. I lifted my head and looked at him. The realization hit me slowly: I had actually gone back in time. Back to the night he announced his plan to reconstruct his face into the likeness of that creepy viral doll. In my past life, after yet another failed business, my dad had invited his best friend over for drinks to drown his sorrows. During the dinner, his childhood buddy, Chuck, pulled out his phone and showed us a TikTok of the viral Natasha doll. “Greg, listen to me,” Chuck said, leaning in close. “Our last project—opening a drive-thru vape lounge by the highway—was just rushed. We didn’t do market research, that’s why we lost money.” “This time, I asked ChatGPT. As long as we lean hard into the Natasha meme and sell gourmet hot dogs on the boardwalk, we’ll make a killing!” Lean into it? Like cosplay? My jaw twitched. I felt entirely numb. But my dad was already clapping frantically, his eyes shining with manic excitement. “Yes! That’s brilliant! Chuck, you’re a genius!” “But buying those realistic masks and costumes is expensive, and anyone can copy us… What if I just get plastic surgery to look exactly like the doll?” “I mean, look at those women who get filler to look like Kim Kardashian just to bag a billionaire!” His buddies slammed their fists on the table, cheering and howling like they’d already hit the jackpot. But my chest tightened with panic. My dad was a high school dropout who had never held a real job but was completely obsessed with being a “CEO.” Pet speed-dating, construction-site crossfit, custom adult novelty urns, silent disco funeral services… whatever trended online, he fell for it. To fund his “startups,” he had already mortgaged two of our properties and drained every penny of our savings. The Natasha doll was a creepy, uncanny-valley novelty toy. Actually reconstructing a human face to look like that would be horrific. Plus, our family was completely broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged my mother to stop him, but she just scoffed. “What do you know? A psychic in Vegas told me your father was destined for greatness, like a king. I’m just waiting to take my place as his queen.” My Nana chimed in from her rocking chair. “Kids shouldn’t meddle in grown-up business. After dinner, go search for the best plastic surgeons in the city.” Desperate, I had looked up dozens of graphic, botched-surgery photos to show him. I told him: “Viral fame is a flash in the pan, Dad. Plastic surgery is a permanent scar.” He was thoroughly disgusted by the videos. He hesitated, lost his nerve, and backed out. But Chuck didn’t. Chuck went ahead with the surgery, became a viral sensation overnight, and made so much money his family relocated to a tax haven abroad. My dad blamed me. He believed I had robbed him of his destiny. One night, he slipped rat poison into my pasta. “I was one step away from making it big, and you ruined my entire life!” he screamed as I lay dying on the floor. “I’m ruined, and you don’t deserve to live either!” After I died, my soul lingered. I watched my mother and Nana, and neither of them shed a single tear. Instead, they spat on my memory. “Good riddance,” my mother muttered. “If she hadn’t stopped my sweet husband from getting that surgery, I’d be living in a mansion by now!” “She was always a nosy little brat,” Nana grumbled. “I should have left her in a dumpster the day she was born.” Fine. You think I meddled too much? This time, I won’t stand in the way of your fortune. If my dad wants to turn himself into a plastic freak—hell, even if he wants a sex change—I will support him unconditionally. 2 I started to slide away from the table, but suddenly, every eye in the room locked onto me. Apparently, my dad had already polled everyone else. Now it was my turn. He held up a photo of the Natasha doll next to his face, grinning like an idiot. “Emily, you’re the college kid. You know how the internet works. Do you think I’d go viral if I looked like Natasha?” I forced a wide, supportive smile and gave him a big thumbs-up. “No one on the internet has actually gotten the surgery to look like Natasha yet, Dad. You’d be the absolute first. The views and followers would be insane.” “You’re my father. Of course I support you.” My dad lived for flattery, especially when he had a few beers in him. “Go find out which clinic has the best surgeons,” he ordered, his chest puffing out. “I want to book the consultation tomorrow!” He immediately Venmoed me $200. In my entire life, my dad had never given me a dime. Even when I was working part-time to pay off my student loans, he would hit me up for cigarette and beer money. He was dead serious about this. Once the party cleared out, I washed the dishes alone, not crawling into bed until 1:00 AM. Just as I started to drift off, my bedroom door slammed open. My heart jumped into my throat. My mother stood over my bed, her face twisted in a cold sneer. She snatched my phone off the nightstand. Venmo Notification: $200 received. She immediately transferred the money to her own account, then hard-pinched my arm, digging her nails into my skin. “Bitch! Why are you taking my husband’s money? Emily, are you trying to play his little side-chick?!” The sheer absurdity of her words nearly gave me a stroke. But I forced myself to stay calm and explain. “Mom, you know he only has eyes for you. That $200 is just for the clinic consultation fees.” Her gaze didn’t soften. She stared at me, eyes burning with paranoia. “I saw the way you were smiling and batting your eyes at him at dinner. Don’t lie to me.” “I’m warning you, Greg is my man, and my man only. Don’t you dare try to steal him.” I had to raise my hands and swear to God to keep her from losing her mind. My mother was a textbook codependent, deeply insecure woman. She lived by the twisted logic that daughters are their fathers’ “past-life lovers,” treating me like a romantic rival since I was a child. Actually, she treated every female on the planet as a threat. A few years ago, when one of my dad’s businesses briefly showed promise, a female client had a professional dinner with him. My mother tracked them down, burst into the restaurant, and beat the woman so badly she put her in the hospital. It cost us over twenty thousand dollars in legal fees, and the business went under. My mother didn’t care; she was just proud she had “defended her territory.” She smirked at my panicked explanations, clearly enjoying the toxic sense of superiority. Then, as if remembering something, she let out a dry chuckle. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. You won’t have the chance to tempt him much longer. Old man Roy next door asked about you. He’s offering a forty-thousand-dollar cash settlement, and he already gave me a ten-thousand-dollar deposit. We’re getting the papers signed this weekend.” My blood ran cold. “Mom! Roy is a violent sociopath!” She shrugged, completely unfazed. “He did time, sure, but he’s out now.” “He’s a real man—built like a tank. You can smell the testosterone on him from a mile away. You should be grateful a man like that wants you.” 3 Hearing the envy in her voice made me want to scream. Roy was a monster. He had beaten his first wife to death on their wedding night and served a ten-year sentence. Since his release, the police had been called to his house dozens of times. Everyone avoided him like the plague, yet my mother was practically throwing me into his cage. In my past life, I had fought my father on the surgery, which made my mother despise me even more. This time, because I had agreed with my father, her “threat radar” had gone off. If I married Roy, he would kill me. For a split second, I wanted to burn the whole house down with them inside. But it wasn’t time yet. I had to play along. I forced a sycophantic smile. “Mom, Roy might be a man, but he doesn’t compare to Dad. Nobody does.” “But plastic surgery is a massive procedure. There are so many shady clinics, and his face could literally rot if it’s done wrong. Do you or Nana know what a rhinoplasty or cheek implants entail? I’m younger, I can talk to the doctors and make sure they don’t screw up.” I looked at her perfectly manicured hands, which had never done a day of hard labor in her life. “Besides, after the surgery, he’ll need constant, intensive care during his recovery. If I’m married off, who’s going to look after him? You don’t want to be doing heavy lifting and cleaning up after him every day, do you?” At the mention of physical labor, my mother hesitated. “Fine. We can wait a bit. Your father’s face is the priority.” “But you make sure you grill those doctors. If anything happens to your dad, I’ll make your life a living hell.” I nodded eagerly, promising to treat him like royalty. Just as she opened her mouth to say more, a violent, retching sound echoed from the living room. My mother instantly forgot about me and scrambled out. “Oh, my sweet baby! I told you not to drink so much! Look at you, you’re hurting!” “Let mommy make you some hangover soup.” The baby talk made my stomach turn. But what followed was even worse. My dad slurred, “Silence, woman! Who do you think you’re talking to?” My mother giggled in a high-pitched, childish voice. “It’s your queen, my lord.” “Ah, my queen. Come here.” “Oh, stop it~ You’re so bad~” The neighbor started pounding violently on the shared wall, screaming at them to shut up. Meanwhile, my Nana opened her bedroom door just a crack, watching them with a proud, beaming smile. “That’s my boy. Still as virile as ever! God bless, hopefully we’ll get a grandson out of this!” I put on my headphones to drown out the noise, the urge to escape this madhouse burning like acid in my chest. I spent the rest of the night researching plastic surgery clinics. Finally, I found a listing and sent a photo of the Natasha doll to their inbox. I want a one-to-one replication. Price is not an issue. Recovery is not an issue. Just make him look exactly like this doll. 4 My mother’s toxic devotion to my father was entirely based on one thing: in his youth, he looked strikingly like a 90s Brad Pitt. If that face disappeared, would her devotion survive? Not a chance. When I was in middle school, my dad went to South America for six months to sell counterfeit sunscreen. During that time, I saw my mother bring different men home constantly. Back then, Nana didn’t have her pension yet, so she spent her evenings rummaging through neighborhood recycling bins for extra cash, which is why she never caught her. But eventually, my mother caught an STD. The physical symptoms were so obvious that Nana figured it out. Nana beat her raw in the living room until my mother wept and swore on her life she’d never stray again. If my dad’s face was ruined, my mother would run. And Nana would lose her mind. It would be an absolute bloodbath. The thought made me giddy. I requested a week of paid leave from my job first thing the next morning. I pretended to go to work but spent the day wandering around the mall. If they knew I had time off, they’d have me scrubbing floors at a local diner to bring home extra cash. To them, I wasn’t a daughter; I was a draft horse. I expected my dad to call me by 2:00 PM about the surgery. But by the time I had to go home, my phone hadn’t buzzed once. Had he changed his mind? Panicked, I hurried back, only to find an unexpected guest in the living room: Chuck. And next to him sat a slick-looking man in a designer suit and gold-rimmed glasses. I recognized him instantly. He was the chief surgeon and owner of Aesthetic Edge. During my late-night research, Aesthetic Edge had stood out because of its horrific track record. Botched surgeries, necrosis, and thousands of active lawsuits. The place was a notorious chop shop, and its reputation was completely shot. I looked at Chuck, then at the doctor. A classic kickback scheme. My dad looked up at me, holding a pen over a contract. “Emily, Chuck brought over this specialist. You’re the smart one—take a look at this paperwork for me?” My dad was clever in his own petty way. He wanted to shift the blame to me if things went south. But I wasn’t going to play his game this time. I gave a polite, apologetic shrug. “Honestly, Dad, cosmetic surgery isn’t really my area. Maybe you should call around and get a second opinion?” Chuck jumped in, visibly sweating. “Greg, come on! We’re closer than brothers. You think I’d screw you over?” The doctor gave me a slow, predatory look that made my skin crawl. Sensing danger, I excused myself to the kitchen to “start on dinner.” Through the door, I heard Chuck making grand promises. “Man, I’ve been with you through thick and thin. I’d never snake you. If I’m taking a kickback on this, may God strike my family dead!” He was a childless bachelor; he’d swear on anything. My dad still looked hesitant. But then my mother chimed in. “Honey, internet trends move fast. If we wait, the Natasha craze will be over.” That did it. My dad signed the contract. As the guests were leaving, I walked out of the kitchen with a plate of food. I caught my mother lingering by the door, tugging lightly at her bra strap while looking at the slick doctor. Her eyes were practically dripping with lust.

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At the annual charity gala, right during the awards ceremony, the host suddenly walked onto the stage leading ten children by the hand. “We have a very special award recipient tonight,” the host announced, her voice carrying clearly through the hushed hall. “A young man who tragically passed away in an accident. But before he closed his eyes, he chose to donate every single one of his organs. It is because of his final gift that these beautiful children are standing beside me tonight.” In the very front row, Viola, the eldest daughter of the Harrington family, scoffed behind her flawlessly applied makeup. “I wonder who was stupid enough to throw away their life just to buy some cheap posthumous fame.” Beside her, our mother, Emily, looked on with a face full of delicate, theatrical pity. “To be torn apart like that… how can his soul ever find rest? His parents must have been absolutely heartless to allow it.” Our father, Chris, patted her hand gently in consolation. He turned to his executive assistant and muttered in a low, ruthless voice, “Find out which family this kid belonged to. Cancel any contracts we have with them immediately. We don’t do business with people who put on these kinds of vulgar public displays.” But the host’s voice rang out again, cutting through the murmurs. “Now, please join me in welcoming the parents of this incredibly generous young man to the stage.” “Mr. Chris Harrington, and his wife, Emily.” … The entire ballroom fell into a suffocating silence. Every eye in the room turned, wide and disbelieving, toward the front row. The host, still wearing her bright, rehearsed smile, urged them forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, please come up to receive the award. Your boundless love and sacrifice deserve this honor.” As her words settled, the crowd broke into a flurry of hurried whispers. “The Harringtons? I had no idea they possessed that kind of grace.” “Doesn’t Emily practically live at her church? She’s always talking about keeping the body whole for the afterlife. How did she ever bring herself to let her own son’s body be harvested?” The words drifted over, sharp as needles, piercing Emily’s ears. The soft, patronizing pity on her face fractured, piece by piece. Her skin went an ashen grey, and she swayed as if she might faint on the spot. Clutching Chris’s arm with white-knuckled desperation, her voice trembled. “What… what are they talking about?” “My children are alive and well. Why are they cursing my boys?” Viola’s expression hardened. Her eyes swept over the stage like ice, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. “What kind of sick joke is this? No one in the Harrington family has passed away!” Chris stood, his imposing frame radiating a cold, dangerous authority. “I suggest you think very carefully before you speak another word on that stage.” The host took a step back, visibly shaken by the sheer weight of their hostility. With trembling hands, she pulled up the digital records on her tablet, checking the files three, four times. Beads of cold sweat broke out along her hairline. Finally, her voice wavered, barely audible. “Mr. Harrington… Mrs. Harrington… according to the official medical and state records, the donor is indeed… your son.” “Shut your mouth!” Emily shrieked, her eyes instantly brimming with hot, angry tears. “Austin is in Europe! He’s on his graduation trip. He literally sent me photos of his hotel just a few days ago. How dare you—” Viola placed a firm, grounding hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mom, breathe. Don’t panic.” She turned her fierce, dark gaze back to the host. “I am giving you one last chance to tell the truth.” But Emily, her voice cracking with hysteria, interrupted her. “Viola, call your brother. Call him right now. What if… what if something actually happened?” Viola quickly pulled out her phone and dialed a FaceTime call. Ring. Ring. Ring. One. Two. Three. The hollow tones echoed in the tense space. No one picked up. Beside them, the air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on their chests. Emily stared at the screen, her lips trembling so violently she couldn’t form words. Even Chris couldn’t remain still; he leaned forward, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Then, the screen suddenly flashed. A return call. Viola swiped to answer almost before it could ring. “Austin!” The screen lit up, revealing a young man squinting into the camera, his hair a messy, sleep-muddled crown. He rubbed his eyes, clearly just awakened from a deep sleep, and mumbled grumpily, “Viola? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? Did you seriously forget the time difference?” Emily snatched the phone from Viola’s hand, her voice frantic. “Austin! Sweetheart, are you okay? Are you safe?” “Mom?” Austin blinked, startled, then let out a soft, charming laugh. “I’m having the time of my life here. What could possibly be wrong? I told you guys to stop worrying. I’m a grown man!” Emily’s tears finally spilled over, a chaotic mixture of relief and residual terror. She laughed through her tears, clutching the phone like a lifeline. Chris let out a long, heavy breath, sinking back into the leather of his chair. Viola took the phone back, murmured a few affectionate reminders to her brother, and hung up. Then she turned her gaze back to the stage, her expression completely devoid of warmth. “Are you satisfied now? My brother is perfectly fine.” “The Harringtons will expect a formal, public apology for this disgusting display.” The atmosphere in the ballroom was thick with impending legal threats. Just as the host stood frozen, helpless, one of the older boys on stage—a child of about ten—timidly raised his small hand. “It wasn’t that brother,” he said, his voice small but clear in the quiet room. Every face in the audience turned toward him. The boy bit his lower lip, looking directly at the front row. “My dad showed me a picture of the brother who saved me. His name was Ian.” A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. “Ian? Why does that name sound familiar?” “Wait, isn’t that the boy the Harringtons took in a year ago? The adopted one?” “I heard a rumor… they said Ian and Austin were switched at birth. Ian was the real biological son.” “Are you kidding? If he was their actual blood, why on earth would they treat him like an adopted foster kid?” I drifted quietly right behind them, a formless shadow in the bright, expensive lights of the ballroom. A bitter, phantom smile touched my lips. They weren’t wrong. I was the biological son. Eighteen years ago, Austin’s biological parents had deliberately switched our hospital bassinets, desperate to ensure their own flesh and blood would grow up wrapped in the soft, gilded luxury of the Harrington name. And so, Austin became the golden prince, pampered, adored, and shielded from the harsh realities of the world. While I was sent to live an eighteen-year nightmare. My foster parents were chronic gamblers. Every time they lost at the tables, they came home smelling of cheap whiskey and took their rage out on me. Leather belts, lit cigarettes—whatever was within arm’s reach. My back became a landscape of silver scars, new lacerations constantly blooming over old, tough leather. They didn’t care if I breathed or starved. I learned to survive by digging through the trash cans behind high-end diners, eating the cold scraps of lives I could only dream of. As I grew older, my foster mother’s eyes began to linger on me with a heavy, predatory sickness. It culminated in a suffocating night when she cornered me in my cramped bedroom. Terrified, I grabbed a pair of rusted scissors to defend myself, scratching her arm. They used that scratch to brand me a monster. They claimed I had tried to assault her. They beat me until my ribs splintered, until I was barely drawing breath. It was only because a neighbor heard the sickening thuds and called the police that I survived at all. The subsequent investigation and DNA test finally dragged my true identity into the light. I was returned to the Harringtons. I foolishly believed my long winter was finally over. But the day I arrived, Austin fell to his knees, weeping, declaring that since the rightful heir had returned, he would pack his bags and vanish. My biological parents and Viola rushed to pull him into their arms, whispering sweet reassurances. Then, they looked at me. Their eyes were cold, filled with a subtle, simmering resentment. They said Austin was an innocent victim too. He was just a baby when the switch happened; he shouldn’t have to pay for his parents’ sins. To “protect” Austin from the trauma of being returned to his biological parents, the Harringtons quietly declined to press criminal charges against the abusive couple. Instead, they handed them a massive, multi-million-dollar settlement to legally sever their parental rights forever. And Austin remained in the Harrington mansion, his status untouched. During all those boardroom discussions and quiet family huddles, not a single person asked me how I had survived those eighteen years. I will never forget the cold indifference in my mother’s eyes when she sat me down. “We have raised Austin as our own son for eighteen years,” she had said, her voice smooth and unbothered. “Announcing your true identity to the public would be too damaging to him. It would ruin his life. So, we’ve decided to introduce you to our social circle as an orphan we’ve graciously adopted.” Now, hearing my name spoken aloud in this crowded room, the Harringtons looked utterly blank. Then, a wave of disgust washed over their features. “How could it possibly be him?” Viola sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “He’s the kind of selfish parasite who would abandon his own mother to save himself. He’d never have the guts to die.” I was already dead. But my hollow, weightless soul still felt a sharp, phantom pang in my chest. My mother remained silent for a long moment, her eyes rimming with red before she finally spoke, her voice hard as granite. “I do not have a son named Ian. My only son is Austin.” The crowd erupted into hushed, scandalous whispers. Seeing the confusion and judgment in the room, Viola stood up, a cold, mocking smile on her lips, ready to lay bare my “crimes” to protect their family name. “I see some of you are confused,” Viola said, her voice carrying beautifully across the silent room. “Let me tell you who Ian Harrington really was. A year ago, on Austin’s birthday, Ian threw a childish tantrum. He demanded that our mother cancel all her engagements to take him skiing in Aspen.” “My mother, always wanting to keep the peace, agreed. They went up the mountain. And then, an avalanche hit.” She paused, her eyes darkening with a poisonous hatred. “My mother’s leg was crushed under the snow. She couldn’t move. And Ian?” She let out a harsh, dry laugh. “He didn’t even look back. He ran away, leaving his own mother to freeze to death in the dark.” “If Austin hadn’t rushed up the mountain with a private rescue team he put together himself, my mother wouldn’t be standing here today.” Viola’s voice grew colder, sharper. “In our home, he constantly targeted and harassed Austin, and we tolerated it out of pity. But when a person is so rancid that they would abandon their own mother to save their own skin, and then vanish without a trace to escape the shame—that person is no brother of mine.” The host, swallowing hard, broke the stunned silence. “So… you haven’t seen or heard from Ian since that day?” The Harringtons hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, Viola scoffed. “He obviously knew he could never show his face in civilized society again. He’s hiding in some miserable corner of the world, running from his guilt.” She added, with raw disgust, “That’s who he is. A coward who runs.” My mother and father didn’t say a word, but the cold finality in their expressions showed they agreed with every word. But the host didn’t back down. “But… have you ever considered that perhaps he wasn’t hiding? What if he died on that mountain?” The silence in the ballroom became absolute, heavy as a tomb. “What if he didn’t run away to save himself?” the host continued, her voice soft but steady. “What if he knew your mother was completely immobilized, and that staying with her meant they would both freeze before help arrived?” “What if he went out into that freezing blizzard, entirely alone, specifically to find help? And what if he met with an accident on the way?” “Miss Harrington, did you or your family ever actually launch an investigation after the incident?” “Shut up! How dare you!” Viola slammed her hand onto the table, her face contorted with rage. Beside her, my mother turned a terrifying shade of white, her chest heaving as she struggled for air, looking as if she might slip into cardiac arrest. Chris quickly wrapped his arm around her, his face dark with fury as he shot a warning, lethal glare at the host. Floating above them, I could only manage a sad, hollow laugh. Even a complete stranger could look at the pieces of that day and put them together. Yet my own flesh and blood refused to see. They preferred to believe I was the monster. They had completely forgotten that the day of the avalanche wasn’t just Austin’s birthday. It was mine, too. It was the only time in my life I had ever gathered the courage to ask them for something, just a single day of their presence. I wanted to feel, just once, what it was like to have a family. When the white wall of snow crashed down on us, burying my mother, I didn’t run. I dug. I clawed at the packed, freezing ice with my bare hands until my fingers lost all feeling, until my fingernails ripped away and my blood stained the white snow. I dragged her out. But she was already unconscious, fading fast. I was eighteen, starving, and weak. I couldn’t carry her down the mountain alone. So I took off my heavy winter coat, my insulated gloves, and wrapped them tightly around her frozen body. Left in nothing but a thin, threadbare sweater, I plunged into the howling wind and blinding snow. I walked for hours. I fell more times than I could count, dragging my frozen limbs through the drifts until, finally, on the verge of total collapse, I stumbled onto a highway and flagged down a state rescue vehicle. I gave them her exact coordinates. They put me in the back of a heated rescue cabin and told me to wait. I sat there, shivering, my heart filled with the quiet hope that I had finally saved my mother. But less than ten minutes later, a massive semi-truck lost control on the black ice. It plowed directly into the parked rescue vehicle. By the time the ambulance got me to the hospital, my brain was dead. In my final moments of life, before they turned off the machines, I used the last of my agency to sign the organ donor forms. I couldn’t keep my life, but I wanted someone else to have the chance to see the spring I would never get to experience. In the ballroom, the guests were exchanging uneasy, suspicious looks. If the host’s theory was true, the Harringtons had committed an unspeakable, tragic cruelty against their own son. Just as Chris and Emily’s certainty began to flicker with a terrifying doubt, Viola let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She stood up, her posture rigid and arrogant, looking down at the stage. “I don’t know what competitor or enemy paid you to pull this pathetic stunt tonight.” “But let me make one thing clear: I have absolute proof that Ian is alive.” Chris and Emily looked up at her, their eyes wide with shock. Viola took a deep breath, turning to her parents, her voice dropping to a softer, reassuring tone. “Mom, Dad… I’m sorry. I kept something from you because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.” “Shortly after Ian vanished, I received a letter from him.” “In that letter, he admitted he didn’t regret running away to save his own skin. But he knew the family would never forgive him, so he had no intention of ever returning.” Viola’s voice became cold and flat. “He said that since he was still technically a Harrington heir, he wanted a twenty-million-dollar buyout. He promised that once the money was wired to his account, he would sign the official papers to sever all ties and never cross our paths again.” She lowered her eyes. “I wired the money, and I kept the letter a secret. I just wanted to spare you both the pain of knowing how rotten he truly was.” Emily’s eyes instantly filled with tears of betrayal and rage. Chris’s face contorted with a quiet, dangerous fury. He clenched his fists, his voice shaking as the words forced their way through his teeth. “Unbridled, parasitic trash. We should have left him in the gutter where we found him!” Hearing Viola’s explanation, the whispers in the ballroom shifted back. The pity evaporated, replaced by disgust. “What a sociopathic leech!” “The Harringtons pulled him out of poverty, and he extorts them for twenty million?” “Some people are just born rotten.” The hateful words rained down on my memory like hot ash. But before the slander could settle, the little boy on stage spoke up again, his voice trembling with a fierce, stubborn courage. “You’re lying! Stop saying bad things about Ian!” With tears streaming down his face, he pointed directly to his own bright, clear eyes. “My dad told me! My corneas came from Ian. I can see this room, I can see the lights, because of him!” Then, the other children on stage began to step forward, their voices overlapping in a chorus of defensive pride. “He gave me my kidney!” “I have his liver.” “Ian’s heart is beating inside me right now,” a younger boy said, placing his small palm firmly over his chest. His voice was small, but it carried the weight of absolute truth. “The doctor told me that this heart used to belong to a very, very kind boy who wanted me to live. He wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t be!” I watched them from above, my weightless spirit bathed in a strange, sudden warmth. Because of me, these children were running, laughing, and breathing. They were looking at a world they might have never seen. A soft, glowing peace bloomed in my empty chest. The guests in the ballroom were completely torn now. The children’s desperate testimonies had shattered the narrative. The truth had become a tangled, terrifying labyrinth. Emily gripped her husband’s sleeve, her lips bloodless and shaking. Viola felt a sudden, icy panic clawing at her throat. A suffocating weight pressed down on her chest, a premonition she desperately tried to shake off. She forced herself to maintain her composure, her face hardening into a confident, dismissive smirk. “Fine,” Viola challenged, her voice echoing through the silent hall. “If you are all so certain that Ian is dead… where is his body?” She looked around the room, absolute triumph in her eyes. “He only donated his organs. A body doesn’t just vanish into thin air. Where is it?” The children on stage looked at one another, their faces falling into confusion. They didn’t have an answer. Viola’s smirk widened. “I thought so. There is no body. You’ve all been paid to lie to us!” The silence in the room stretched, tight as a piano wire. At that exact moment, a sharp ping echoed from the host’s phone. She looked down at the screen, and her eyes went wide, her pupils shrinking in absolute horror. Slowly, she raised her head, her hand trembling so violently she nearly dropped the device. “Wait,” the host whispered, her voice cracking. “I… I know where Ian’s body is.”

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I spent five years with Julian. To support him, I spent my days dumpster diving and my nights pole dancing at clubs, and I was barely in my twenties when my body started falling apart from it all. After finally waiting for him to achieve success, he made a grand entrance with a sweet little innocent who still uses a toddler’s bowl for her meals. Not only did he demand I give up my place as his fiancée, but he also wanted me to serve as a foot servant for his sweet little innocent. I let out a cold laugh, flipped over that sweet little innocent’s baby bowl, and turned toward the man standing alone in the corner — the illegitimate son the Blackwood family had exiled for ten years, the one everyone said was violent and crippled. “Damian Blackwood. A hundred-billion-dollar dowry from The Clark Group. Marry me — if you dare?” Crystal chandeliers scattered light like crushed diamonds across the grand ballroom of The Clark Group’s seventieth anniversary gala, casting a warm glow over a room full of designer gowns and glittering jewels. I stood there in a Paris couture dress, holding a single sheet of paper that felt almost weightless in my hand. It was a freshly notarized share transfer agreement — worth over a hundred billion dollars. Tonight, I wasn’t just here to announce Julian as The Clark Group’s co-CEO. I was here to announce our engagement to everyone who mattered in Washington, D.C’s inner circle. Five years of absolute devotion, just to prop him up and push him to where he is now.”. He was the kind of man who would drive across the city at midnight just to bring me a bowl of soup. Who would stay up all night by my side when my stomach was acting up. Who had spent six months planning a trip just because I once mentioned I wanted to see the Northern Lights. I had always believed he was the one I was meant to spend my life with. “And now, please welcome Miss Victoria Clark to the podium.” The emcee’s voice echoed through the lavish hall. I gathered my skirt and walked to the podium, every eye in the room on me — every power player in Washington, D.C’s inner circle watching. Julian was standing just below the stage. His tailored suit made him look sharp and polished, almost impossibly handsome. He was looking at me, but his eyes weren’t warm the way they used to be. There was something cold in them — something I couldn’t read. I pushed the uneasy feeling aside and smiled into the microphone. “Tonight, I have an important announcement to make. What I’m holding is a transfer agreement for thirty percent of The Clark Group’s shares. The recipient is—” Bang. The heavy mahogany double doors flew open, and my words died in my throat. Every head in the room turned. “Wait!” A sharp, breathless voice cut through the solemnity of the hall. A girl stumbled in wearing a faded, washed-out dress, her eyes red and swollen. “Wait. Please.” She looked like a white flower battered by a storm — fragile, trembling, heartbreaking to look at. It was Chloe. The girl I had been supporting for four years. The girl Julian had always introduced to others as his distant cousin. She moved like a startled fawn, stumbling forward and throwing herself into Julian’s arms, sobbing. “Julian, I was so scared. Victoria tried to lock me up — they wouldn’t let me come see you…” The room erupted. Guests exchanged glances, eyes gleaming with shock and barely concealed excitement. Dozens of eyes darted back and forth between the three of us, hungry for whatever came next. I stared at Julian. My fingers tightened around the paper in my hand as I waited for him to explain. He didn’t push Chloe away. Instead, he pulled her behind him — right there in front of everyone — shielding her with his body. Then he raised his head and looked at me with an expression I had never seen on his face before. Cold. Hateful. Like I was a stranger. “Victoria, enough.” His voice rang out through the silent hall, each word landing like a blade. “I am so sick of that self-righteous, hypocritical face of yours.” “Did you actually think I loved you? The Clark Group destroyed Chloe’s family. I never forgot that. Not for a single day.” “You sponsored Chloe to cover up what your family did — all the blood on The Clark Group’s hands. And you kept me around because you loved the feeling of grinding someone’s dignity under your heel.” “Tonight, I’m getting justice for Chloe. I’m going to expose you for exactly who you are and make you pay for it.” Julian’s words detonated like a bomb. The hall went dead silent for one breathless moment — and then erupted into a roar of voices. “Oh my God, The Clark Group has blood on their hands?” “So Julian stayed with her for five years just to get revenge?” “Victoria really took a massive tumble this time; she helped an ungrateful person.” I stood on that stage and looked at Julian’s face — twisted with rage and the sick satisfaction of revenge — and suddenly, I just felt like it was all absurd. Five years. I stayed up countless nights with him, helping him revise his business proposals. When he was hospitalized with a stomach hemorrhage, I stayed by his side for three days and three nights without sleep. I swallowed my pride and used my connections to introduce him to every major player in the industry. And after all that, in his eyes, it was nothing but “charity from someone looking down on him”? A quiet laugh escaped me. Julian’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on me without blinking. “So,” I said, my voice cold and steady — calm enough to surprise even myself, “you’re standing here today, fighting for her, declaring war on me?” “Yes!” Julian lifted his chin, his eyes burning with resolve. “Victoria, as of today, I’m done with you — done with The Clark Group. We’re finished!” Chloe was hiding behind him, pretending to tremble, but I caught it clearly — that fleeting smirk at the corner of her lips. I lowered my gaze and ran my fingers over the transfer document in my hands. The bold heading — EQUITY TRANSFER AGREEMENT — printed across the top of the first page felt less like a legal document now and more like a silent mockery. Mocking me for being blind. I glanced down at the document — a stake worth over a hundred billion dollars. Then, under the stunned eyes of everyone in the room, I gripped the edges of the paper with both hands. Riiip— The sharp, clean tear cut through the silence of the hall like a blade. Julian instinctively stepped forward, but Chloe grabbed his arm. I tore apart the document that so many people would have killed for, and tossed the pieces into the air. White scraps of paper drifted down like snowflakes, scattering at Julian and Chloe’s feet. “Julian, who do you think you are?” I looked down at him, a cold, contemptuous smile playing at the corner of my mouth. “Without me, you wouldn’t even have the right to stand in this room. You want to declare war on me? You really think you have the right?” Julian’s face went ashen. “Victoria, don’t push it! I already have access to The Clark Group’s core client source. Even without you, I can—” “yeah?” I cut him off, my gaze sliding past his furious face toward the quietest, most overlooked corner of the hall. A wheelchair sat there. A man sat in it. He was dressed in an all-black suit, his entire presence blending into the shadows as if he were part of the darkness itself.

Damian Blackwood. The Blackwood family’s illegitimate son — the one they kept hidden from the world. Julian’s older half-brother. Rumor had it that a car accident ten years ago had left him paralyzed from the waist down. He was said to be volatile and dangerous, exiled abroad by the Blackwood family, and had only been brought back last month. he was a total failure. I gathered my skirt and walked down the steps, one step at a time, moving through the crowd as it parted for me, heading straight toward his wheelchair. Every eye in the room followed me. Julian’s brow furrowed deeper with each step I took — he had no idea what I was doing. I stopped in front of Damian and leaned down slightly, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes were bottomless, like they could swallow everything whole. “Damian Blackwood.” I parted my lips, my voice soft but clear enough for the entire room to hear. “A hundred-billion-dollar dowry from The Clark Group, plus a thirty percent stake in The Clark Group. In exchange — marry me.” “Do you dare?” The air seemed to freeze in that instant. Everyone held their breath, eyes wide, staring at the scene unfolding in front of them like it couldn’t possibly be real. The most dazzling star in Washington, D.C’s inner circle — publicly proposing to a paralyzed illegitimate man? Julian stared for a moment, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Victoria, have you lost your mind? You’re throwing yourself at a worthless cripple just to get back at me? He can’t even stand up. What could he possibly give you?” Chloe chimed in, her voice small and timid. “Victoria, don’t be impulsive. Julian just being too angry, Please don’t gamble your whole future over this…” I ignored the noise behind me and kept my eyes fixed on the man in front of me. Damian didn’t move. The cigarette between his fingers was still burning, a thin curl of smoke drifting up and blurring his features. Just as everyone assumed he would stay silent — like a coward — he let out a low, quiet laugh. It was deep and rough, like something dragged across sandpaper, carrying a magnetic edge that sent a chill crawling up your spine. He slowly raised his hand and pressed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the arm of his wheelchair. Then, those long, sharp-knuckled fingers shot out and closed around my wrist. His strength was shocking. I let out a startled cry, lost my balance, and tumbled right into his lap. “Victoria.” His hands gripped my waist. His breath was hot against my ear, carrying the faint scent of tobacco and something cold and sharp that felt almost like a threat. “Think carefully. Once you get involved with me, there’s no walking away.” The look in his eyes was terrifying — like a beast that had been lying in wait for a very long time, and its prey had finally walked straight into its jaws. I forced myself to ignore my racing heart and met his gaze. “I’m only asking you one thing. Do you dare?” Damian’s throat moved in a hard swallow. The next second, his long fingers slid through my hair and gripped the back of my head, pulling me roughly toward him. His lips pressed against the corner of my mouth with a force that felt like punishment, his voice dropping to a ragged, almost unrecognizable rasp: “Vivi, once you belongs to me, for the rest of your life — even in death — you’ll only ever belong to me.” A wave of disbelieving gasps erupted through the hall. Julian’s face went dead white. His eyes locked onto Damian’s hand at my waist, and a flicker of something passed through them — a panic and jealousy he didn’t even seem to notice himself. “Damian! Let go of her!” Julian stormed forward, reaching out to pull me away. But before he could get close, several broad-shouldered bodyguards in black seemed to appear out of nowhere, forming a wall between him and us. “You think you can put your hands on the young master’s fiancée?” the lead bodyguard said, his voice ice-cold. Julian stared at the bodyguards in disbelief, then shifted his gaze to the man in the wheelchair — his older brother, the “useless cripple” he’d looked down on for over twenty years. “You… where did all these people come from?” Damian didn’t even glance at him. He simply reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then said quietly, “Take me out. The air in here is filthy.” The bodyguard stepped forward immediately and wheeled him toward the exit. I walked beside Damian. When we passed Julian and Chloe, I stopped. “Julian.” I looked at his face — twisted with shock and fury. “Remember what you said tonight. Starting tomorrow, I’ll show you exactly what it looks like to lose me. In this circle, you won’t even be worth a stray dog.” I didn’t give him another look. I turned and walked out of the hall. The night breeze was cool, carrying away the stuffiness of the ballroom. Damian’s black Maybach was already waiting at the entrance. The bodyguard helped him into the car. I slid into the backseat right after him. The door shut, cutting off all the noise from outside. The cabin was dim. Damian leaned back against the seat with his eyes closed, looking nothing like the commanding, untouchable man who had just silenced an entire room. “Why me?” he said suddenly. His voice sounded especially low in the quiet, enclosed space. I studied the side of his face, half-hidden in shadow, and answered honestly. “You’re the best fit.” “The best fit?” His eyes snapped open. He turned and stared at me hard. “That’s all?” For just a moment, I caught something complicated in his expression — like a rage he was barely holding back, and beneath it, something that looked almost like hurt. Before I could figure out which it was, he suddenly leaned in, caging me between himself and the car door. “Victoria. Am I just a tool for your revenge against Julian? Or a business match to stabilize your stock price?” His fingers brushed lightly across my cheek, sending a shiver through me. “Fine. so we fit, You’re right — we’re perfect for each other.” A low laugh escaped him, edged with something unhinged. “As long as I can keep you close, I don’t mind being a mad dog.”

The next morning. The top-floor conference room of The Clark Group. The atmosphere was so thick it felt suffocating. Julian sat in what used to be his seat as Vice President, his expression dark and dangerous. Chloe, his so-called “special assistant,” hovered nervously behind him. I pushed open the conference room door and walked in — steady, unhurried — with my lawyers and security team at my back. “Victoria, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Julian shot to his feet, both hands slamming down on the conference table as he glared at me. “Wasn’t last night enough of a scene? You really want to push this that far? Let me be clear — I control the three most critical overseas projects The Clark Group has. if you dare harm me, and the stock price tanks tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.” I pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down, looking at him with cool, steady eyes. “Julian,” I said, “do you have some kind of misunderstanding about what you’re actually worth?” I gave my lawyer a look over my shoulder. He stepped forward immediately, slamming a thick stack of documents onto the table. “Julian Blackwood, during your time at this company, you embezzled one hundred and thirty million dollars in company funds. You made private contact with our competitors and leaked trade secrets. You falsified your academic credentials and doctored your résumé — every piece of evidence is right here.” With each charge, Julian’s face went a shade paler. Chloe was trembling so hard she could barely stand, clutching the hem of Julian’s jacket. “Julian, this… this isn’t true, right? They’re framing you!” “Shut up!” Julian shook her off with an irritated jerk of his arm, his eyes locked onto mine. “Victoria, you had me investigated? You’ve been watching me this whole time?” I let out a cold laugh. “Julian, I gave you my trust, and you threw it in the dirt. Did you really think , i was the kind of fool who’d let love cloud her judgment — who’d hand over the entire Clark Group to someone she hadn’t fully vetted?” “Those overseas projects you were so proud of? The core technology is all in my hands. You thought pulling a few executives to your side would be enough to push me out? How naive.” I rose from my seat and leaned forward, both hands flat on the table, looking down at him with eyes sharp as blades. “As of this moment, in my capacity as Chairman of the Clark Group, I am officially terminating Julian’s position and all associated duties within this company. The legal department will be filing suit against you. I hope you’re ready to spend the rest of your life behind bars.” “Security — get these two out of my sight.” Several broad-shouldered security guards moved in at once, seizing Julian and Chloe by the arms. “Victoria! You can’t do this to me! Everything I did, I did it for Chloe! Your father drove her parents to their deaths — you owe her!” Julian thrashed wildly, his eyes bloodshot. “I owe her?” I walked over to Chloe and looked at that pitiful face of hers. Then I raised my hand. Crack. The slap landed hard across Chloe’s face, shattering the act she’d been putting on all this time. Her head snapped to the side. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. She pressed a hand to her cheek and stared at me in disbelief. “That’s for biting the hand that fed you — eating my food, living off my generosity, and then stabbing me in the back.” I gripped her chin and forced her to look at me. “Chloe, you know better than anyone how your parents really died. Your father embezzled public funds. When his crime was exposed, he took his own life out of guilt. Your mother couldn’t bear the grief and followed him. My father felt sorry for you, so he buried the truth and paid for your education all these years.” “And this is how you repay him. To get close to Julian, you spun this monstrous lie and used him as your weapon.” I let go of her, then pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned my fingers with undisguised disgust. “I have no interest in how you two lovebirds found each other. Now get out of my sight.” Julian went still. He turned to Chloe, his expression hollow with disbelief. “Chloe… is it true? What she said — your parents weren’t driven to their deaths?” Chloe’s eyes darted away from his. She shook her head, sobbing. “No, no, that’s not true — Julian, don’t listen to her, she’s lying to you…” But the guilt flickering in her eyes said everything. Julian looked like he’d been struck by lightning. All the strength seemed to drain out of him at once, and he crumpled to the floor.

By the time I’d finished dealing with everything at the company, I was completely drained. I had just pulled up to my private villa when I noticed a black Maybach parked in the courtyard. Damian was sitting in his wheelchair, out in my garden… pruning roses? He had on a loose black button-down, the collar slightly open, just enough to reveal the line of his collarbone. He held a pair of sharp shears in one hand, trimming away the dead branches with practiced, unhurried grace. The last light of the setting sun fell across him, softening the hard edges of his face with a warm, golden glow. There was something breathtaking about it. He heard my footsteps and paused, turning his head to look at me. “You’re back.” His voice was quiet, carrying a warmth he almost managed to hide. “How did you get in?” I frowned. The security system at my villa was absolutely top-notch. Damian gave a soft laugh and held out a single red rose he’d just cut. “There’s nowhere in this world I can’t get into if I want to. Besides — I’m your fiancé. Dropping by to see my future wife isn’t exactly a crime, is it?” I didn’t take the rose. I just looked at him, my voice cool. “Damian, this is a business partnership. Don’t go getting too caught up in the role.” The light in his eyes dimmed instantly, then was replaced by a flash of wild obsession. He tossed the vibrant rose onto the floor without a second thought and wheeled forward, closing in on me. “A business partnership?” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward him. I tumbled into his arms and ended up straddling his lap. “Damian! What are you doing!” I struggled to get up, but he locked his arm around my waist with a grip that was impossibly strong. “Victoria, I warned you. Once you get involved with me, don’t expect to walk away clean.” His eyes were dark and terrifying, like he wanted to devour me whole. “At the office today, you went off like that for that worthless piece of trash. Do you still have feelings for him?” His voice was thick with jealousy and barely contained rage. “Are you insane!” I glared at him, furious. “I did that to clean house! I don’t have feelings for anyone!” His voice was thick with jealousy and barely contained rage. “Are you insane!” I glared at him, furious. “I did that to clean house! I don’t have feelings for him!” After heard me. The hostility in Damian’s eyes eased, just a little. He suddenly buried his face in the curve of my neck and breathed in deeply. “Good.” His voice came out muffled, and to my surprise, there was a thread of vulnerability in it. “Vivi, you’re mine. Only mine. Anyone who tries to take you from me — I’ll kill them.” I didn’t know what to do with him when he was like this. This man — one moment he was a raging lion, the next he was a giant dog desperate for reassurance. Then my phone rang. It was Julian. I was about to decline the call, but Damian moved faster — he hit answer and switched it to speaker. “Vivi…” Julian’s voice came through the line, hoarse and defeated. “I looked into it. Chloe really did lie to me. I was wrong. I should have believed you. I should never have let her fool me. Vivi, can you forgive me? Can we start over…” Before I could say a word, Damian let out a cold laugh. “Start over?” His voice was like a blade dipped in ice. “Julian, who the hell do you think you are? You really think you can compete with me?” Julian went dead silent on the other end. “Damian?! Why are you at Vivi’s place? What did you do to her?” “What did I do?” Damian’s fingers deliberately traced along my waist, slow and suggestive, sending a shiver through my body. He leaned close to my ear and spoke into the phone. “What any engaged couple does, of course. I suggest you give it up — unless you want your legs to end up just like mine.” Then he hung up and tossed my phone aside. I was shaking with anger. “Damian, what the hell was that!” He looked up at me, eyes blazing, a wicked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Was it a lie, Vivi? Maybe we should make it real.” Then his lips came down on mine — overwhelming, punishing, possessive — leaving no room for me to pull away.

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For seven years, I was billionaire Sebastian Scott’s dirty little secret in Washington D.C. By day, I was his sharp, capable secretary. By night, I was his on-call plaything—always available, always giving him whatever he wanted. I thought seven years of devotion would earn me a public commitment. Then the new intern walked into his office and changed everything. I was forced to hide beneath his darkened desk, listening as he laughed softly for another woman just above me: “Scarlett Blake? She’s nothing but a convenient outlet. How could she ever compare to you?” In that moment, seven years of foolish hope shattered into pieces. I crawled out from under him, wiped the corners of my mouth, and walked straight into the arms of another powerful man in Washington. Later, Sebastian cornered me with bloodshot eyes—desperate, begging me to come back. I just smirked and tilted his chin up with my finger. “Mr. Scott, I’m done playing lapdog.” Sebastian Scott’s office was on the top floor, with panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling D.C. business district. Right now, the blinds were shut tight. He had me pinned hard against the cold glass, my legs forced apart, my black pencil skirt bunched up around my waist. “Mr. Scott… mmm… we’re still at work…” I bit my lower lip, trying to hold back the broken sounds rising from my throat. Sebastian pressed against me from behind, his scorching breath fanning over the curve of my neck. His large hands gripped my waist hard, fingers digging in like a punishment — every thrust sending tremors through my entire body. “What’s wrong with being at the office?” His low, husky voice carried a thread of cruel amusement. His teeth grazed my earlobe. “Wasn’t Miss Blake just begging me for more last night? Why are you playing innocent now?” “Don’t… someone might hear us…” My whole body had gone soft as water. All I could do was grip the window frame and hold on. Seven years. I knew every inch of him — every temperature, every rhythm. All it took was one look, and every wall I had would come crashing down. I’d become his willingly, a toy he could use however he pleased. Then, without warning, the door handle clicked. “Mr. Scott? Are you in there?” The voice drifting in from the hallway was soft and breathy — Sarah Anne, the new intern. I froze instantly. Even my breathing stopped. Sebastian paused too. But instead of pulling back, he drove forward once more — deliberate, unhurried — and only after he heard my sharp gasp did he leisurely zip up his slacks. “Get under there.” His voice was cold and flat. He gestured toward the space beneath the large mahogany desk. I clenched my jaw and yanked my skirt back down. Then I got on my hands and knees and crawled into the cramped dark space — like a rat scurrying out of the light. I had barely tucked myself in when the door swung open. “Mr. Scott, why didn’t you answer when I knocked?” Sarah walked in on her stilettos, hips swaying. She had on a silk blouse today with a deep plunging neckline. Her perfume flooded the room instantly, smothering the warm, intimate scent of us that had still been hanging in the air. Sebastian leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed casually. My face was inches from the hem of his slacks. I could still smell the warmth on him — the scent that was mine. “What is it?” Sebastian’s voice had returned to its usual cool, detached calm. You’d never have guessed that less than a minute ago, he’d been losing himself in me. “I can’t make sense of this proposal,” Sarah said, rounding the desk. She leaned against the back of his chair, her chest brushing against his shoulder — whether by accident or not. “Miss Blake is always so cold. I’d never dare ask her. Could you please teach me, Mr. Scott?” As she spoke, Sarah’s pen slipped from her fingers with a soft clatter and rolled straight under the desk. “Oops — my pen.” She let out a little gasp and started to crouch down to reach underneath. My heart shot into my throat. I pressed both hands over my mouth, cold sweat soaking through my back. If she spotted me — disheveled, tucked between Sebastian’s legs — every shred of dignity I’d held onto for seven years would become a joke. Just as Sarah’s face was about to peer underneath, Sebastian’s hand shot out and hooked around her waist, pulling her straight into his lap. “It’s just a pen.” He let out a quiet laugh, and his voice carried a rare, indulgent softness. “Is it really worth getting yourself?” Sarah slid onto his lap, her voice coy and playful. “Mr. Scott, you’re so naughty. But… Scarlett always looks so uptight, dressing like some frumpy nun. Doesn’t staring at her all day kill your mood? Not like me — I know exactly how to make a man happy…” Under the desk, I drove my nails into my palm until I drew blood. I held my breath, desperately hoping Sebastian would say something in my defense. Even just one sentence — even just “she’s good at her job.” But there was nothing. A low, lazy laugh drifted down from above. One of his hands toyed with Sarah’s hair on the desktop. The other rested on my head beneath the desk — idle and absentminded — like he was patting a cheap little pet. “Scarlett?” Sebastian’s voice was casual, almost bored. But it cut like a blade dipped in poison, driving straight into my chest. “She’s nothing. Just a convenient outlet I keep around to use. Lies there like a dead fish — nowhere near as fun as you.” “Oh, stop it, Mr. Scott~ I’ll be waiting for you at the Hilton tonight…” Their flirtatious voices tangled together above my head. I crouched in the darkness beneath the desk as tears fell silently onto the cold floor. Seven years. Seven years I had stood by his side — from the day he was nothing but an illegitimate son with nothing to his name, clawing his way up, all the way to the moment he secured his seat as CEO of The Scott Group. I had fended off the grabby hands of drunk men at his business dinners. I had stayed up countless nights writing proposal after proposal. And in more moments than I could count, I had humiliated myself to satisfy his every twisted desire. I thought I was something special to him. Turns out, I was just “a convenient outlet he kept around.” In that moment, my heart died. Not with shattering, unbearable pain — just a slow, nauseating wave of disgust rising in my chest. I listened as Sebastian sent Sarah away. The moment the door clicked shut, he nudged my shoulder with the tip of his shoe. “Come out. Let’s finish.” He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his zipper, looking down at me like he was doing me a favor. I slowly crawled out from under the desk. But I didn’t kneel between his legs the way I always had. I stood up straight. I smoothed my tangled hair. I peeled off my torn stockings and dropped them into the trash can beside me. “Mr. Scott, I’ve got my period. I’m not up for it today.” I looked at him. My eyes were calmer than they had ever been. Sebastian frowned, visibly annoyed by the refusal — something that had never happened before. “Scarlett. Stop playing games. Get over here.” “No.” I picked up the documents from the desk and turned toward the door. “Don’t you have the Hilton tonight? Save your energy.” With Sebastian staring after me in stunned silence, I pushed the door open and walked out without looking back. That was the first time in seven years I had refused him.

At eight o’clock that evening, I returned to the apartment I shared with Sebastian. The open-plan penthouse in the heart of the city — I had decorated it myself, piece by piece. The sofa was Italian luxury, chosen for his taste. The rug was the softest wool I could find, picked deliberately because he liked doing things in the living room. Even the double bathtub in the bathroom had been custom-ordered to match his preferences. Every inch of this apartment was a reminder of how low I had let myself sink. I walked into the bedroom and pulled out the suitcase I hadn’t touched in years. I opened the wardrobe. Inside, it was almost entirely his — row after row of expensive suits. What belonged to me amounted to a few dull work outfits, and a drawer full of lingerie I’d bought to please him — scraps of fabric that barely covered anything. I let out a cold laugh and swept every piece of it into a trash bag. God, it was disgusting. I took only my everyday clothes, my laptop, and my documents. When I was done, the suitcase was barely half full. Seven years. And I had nothing left to show for it. I left the apartment key on the dining table. Next to it sat the pumpkin soup I had made for him the night before — completely cold now. I was about to push the door open and leave when my phone buzzed. A SnapChat message from Sebastian. “What’s your problem? Get back here. I want you now.” Even through the screen, I could picture him perfectly — tie pulled loose, staring me down like he owned me. He was so used to me being available whenever he called. So used to me coming running the moment he so much as crooked a finger — like a dog in heat desperate to get to him. I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I typed back: “Go find Sarah if you need it that bad. I’m done.” I hit send, then blocked him and deleted him — all in one smooth motion. Dragging my suitcase out of the apartment building, I felt the early autumn night breeze cool against my skin. But my mind had never been clearer. My phone rang. It was my best friend, Kate Hamilton. “Scarlett, you actually moved out of Sebastian’s place?” Kate shrieked. “You finally woke up! I always said that jerk didn’t deserve you!” “Yeah. Wide awake.” I stood under a streetlight, watching the traffic stream past. “Kate, you mentioned The Hale Group is looking for a Chief Strategy Officer — is that position still open?” “The Hale Group? Nathan Hale’s company?!” Kate sucked in a sharp breath. “The position’s open, but Nathan is Sebastian’s worst enemy. If you go work for The Hale Group, Sebastian will lose his mind.” “Whether he loses his mind is not my problem.” I flagged down a cab. “Get me an introduction. I’m going in for the interview tomorrow.”

“Done! I’ve been waiting for you to absolutely crush it!” The next morning, I put on a full face of makeup, slipped into a fitted wine-red French trench coat, stepped into three-inch heels, and walked into The Scott Group’s HR department right on time. For seven years, I’d stuck to blacks, whites, and grays to fit Sebastian’s preference for keeping a low profile. Today, I was going back to being myself. HR Director Amy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head the moment she saw me. “Scarlett — Miss Blake? Today you’re…” “Amy, this is my resignation letter.” I slid the white envelope across the desk. My voice was clipped and final. Amy jumped to her feet. “Resignation?! Scarlett, are you joking? You’re Mr. Scott’s right hand — if you leave, what will Mr. Scott—” “I already send him by email.” I brushed a curl back and gave him a slow, effortless smile. “I’ve given the required one month’s notice, but I have seven years of unused paid time off. Once I finish the handover today, I’m done.” Amy wiped the sweat from her forehead and couldn’t bring herself to take the envelope. Less than five minutes later, the intercom from the executive office rang down to HR. “Tell Scarlett to get her ass to my office.” Sebastian’s voice crackled through the speakerphone, barely containing his fury. I walked to the CEO’s office at my own pace, heels clicking, and pushed open the door. Sebastian sat behind the massive desk, tie half-undone, eyes shot through with red. Looked like last night with Sarah had been a long one. When I walked in, his gaze landed on my wine-red trench coat and red lips and stayed there for a full five seconds. His Adam’s apple moved — he couldn’t stop it. But he covered it quickly, trading the flash of surprise for a mocking smirk. “You dress like that to hand in a resignation? Scarlett, your little ‘playing hard to get’ routine is embarrassingly transparent.” He crumpled the resignation letter into a ball and tossed it cleanly into the trash. “You blocked me last night, now you’re in here with a resignation letter.” He stood and walked over until he was right in front of me, staring down at me. He reached out to lift my chin with his fingers. “All because I said a few nice things about Sarah yesterday? Are you really that jealous?” “Come over tonight.” He lowered his voice, all suggestion and entitlement. “I’ll make it up to you.” I turned my head away in disgust, stepping out of his reach. “Mr. Scott, you’ve misread this.” I took a step back, putting space between us. “This is a real resignation. You already have the handover checklist in your inbox.” Sebastian’s hand froze in the air. His expression went cold. “Scarlett, don’t push your luck. Walk out of The Scott Group, and tell me — who in Washington is going to hire you?” “That’s not your concern, Mr. Scott.” I held his gaze without flinching. “Please sign. I’m on a tight schedule.” Sebastian stared at me, searching my face for any trace of spite, or regret, or reluctance. There was nothing there but impatience. He let out a short, cold laugh. “Fine. Great. You want to get out of here? Then go. I want to see how long you last without me.” He strode back to the desk, signed his name with a sharp stroke, and flung the documents at me. “Go do your handover with Sarah. That ten-billion-dollar project in the south — it’s hers now.” I caught the papers without flinching. “No problem.”

That afternoon, the handover took place right in the middle of the open office, in front of everyone. Sarah sat beside my desk in a tight bodycon skirt, flipping through the City South project files I’d put together, her expression dripping with disdain. “Miss Blake, don’t you think these files are a little… much?” Sarah whined in that saccharine voice of hers, her eyes sliding smugly to the coworkers around us. “There’s so much data here. Who’s actually going to read all of this?” Every single person in the office had their ears perked up, soaking in every word. Everyone knew the City South project was my ace in the hole — three months of sleepless nights and a bleeding ulcer just to close that deal. And now, with one word from Sebastian, it was being handed over to Sarah, who had barely been here five minutes. This was a flat-out humiliation. But inside, I felt nothing. “Everything’s in these files. I’ve marked the key negotiating limits in red,” I said, pointing to one of the pages. “Mr. Lane is a cunning old fox — he doesn’t care about surface-level profits. What he really cares about is equity dilution down the line. When you sit down with him, do not budge on giving up more than five percent equity. Not even close.” Sarah rolled her eyes and cut me off. “Okay, okay, I get it. Mr. Scott already told me — once I walk in there, Mr. Lane will play ball. Your whole rigid negotiating style is completely outdated.” I looked at her — all overconfidence and zero self-awareness — and decided she wasn’t worth another single word. “The USB drive has all the recordings and backups. The password is The Scott Group’s founding date. Handover’s done. I’m out.” I grabbed my bag and turned to leave. That’s when Sarah let out a sharp cry. “Wait — Miss Blake, this spreadsheet you gave me is wrong! Mr. Lane just called. He said our quote shows no sincerity and he’s pulling out of the deal!” Sarah shot to her feet, eyes instantly welling up with tears. She stared at me with that wounded look. “Miss Blake, I know you’re jealous that Mr. Scott gave this project to me — but you can’t just mess with the numbers to set me up!” That outburst was enough to drag Sebastian out of his office. “What’s going on?” He strode over, brow furrowed. Sarah lunged toward him and grabbed his sleeve. “Mr. Scott, the bottom-line price sheet Miss Blake gave me is wrong, and Mr. Lane is furious—” Sebastian’s cold, sharp gaze locked onto me. “Scarlett, there’s a limit to throwing a tantrum. You think you can play games with a billion-dollar deal just because you’re upset?” He didn’t ask a single question. He just convicted me on the spot. I looked at this man I had loved for seven years, and suddenly found the whole thing almost funny. I walked forward, snatched the spreadsheet straight out of Sarah’s hands, and held it up. “Mr. Scott, I suggest you open your eyes and actually look at this. The bottom-line price on this sheet is the version you personally agreed to at that business dinner last week — the concession you made to impress Sarah, right in front of Mr. Lane. I warned you at the time that price would blow through the company’s profit floor. You told me to shut up.” My voice rang out clear and sharp across the entire office. The whole room sucked in a breath. Sebastian’s face went ashen. His eyes flickered. I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I slammed the spreadsheet straight into Sarah’s face. “If you don’t have the brains for this, don’t embarrass yourself in public. The City South project is a disaster waiting to happen. Since you two filthy lovebirds are so fond of it, it’s all yours — enjoy.” I reached up, unclipped my badge, and tossed it into the trash can beside me. “Sebastian, we’re even. Seven years of my life — wasted on you.” In the dead silence that fell over the entire office, I walked out of The Scott Group on my heels, head held high. Behind me, Sebastian’s voice erupted in a furious roar. “Scarlett! You walk out that door today, don’t ever think about coming back!” I didn’t even turn around. I just flipped him off.

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Five years into our marriage, I believed I had the most perfect life imaginable. My wife was gentle and devoted—and she wore the same face as my first love, the woman who died years ago. I told myself it was a gift from the universe. Compensation for everything I had lost. Then, on our wedding anniversary, an anonymous package arrived at our door. No bomb inside. Just a bloodstained ring, and a photograph of a woman burned beyond recognition. On the back of the photo, someone had written words that turned my blood to ice: “What kind of monster are you holding every night?” On our fifth wedding anniversary, I cleared my entire schedule and came home early. The dining table was set with seared steak, a decanted bottle of red wine, and a bouquet of white roses still beaded with water. Aria was in the kitchen, wearing the white dress I loved most. Her figure was slender, her long hair pinned loosely with a wooden clip, a few soft strands falling against the pale curve of her neck. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. “Thank you for this,” I murmured. “All of it.” She turned around. In the warm amber light, her face was breathtaking. Especially when she smiled—those two faint dimples at the corners of her mouth were an exact copy of Aurora’s. The Aurora who had died in a fire five years ago. Five years ago, my fiancée Aurora was killed in an accidental fire. I fell apart after losing her. There were moments I didn’t want to go on. Then, six months later, I walked into an art exhibition and met Aria. She told me she was an orphan. A freelance illustrator. And she looked so much like Aurora it stopped my breath. I fell for her helplessly—or maybe I fell for that face. Five years of marriage, and she had been nothing but gentle and patient. She tolerated every one of my bad moods. She even learned to cook Aurora’s favorite dishes, just for me. “Lucien, what are you staring at? Go wash your hands.” Aria tapped the tip of my nose with a teasing smile. Then the doorbell rang. “Who’d come at this hour?” She wiped her hands on her apron and started toward the door. “I’ll get it.” I touched her shoulder and walked to the entryway. No one was there. Just a black cardboard box sitting alone on the doormat. No return address. Only four printed words: For Lucien. Open personally. I frowned, picked it up, and brought it inside. “Who sent it?” Aria called from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of soup. “No idea. Probably someone’s idea of a joke.” I found a box cutter and sliced through the tape. Inside, black raffia padding cushioned a single transparent zip-lock bag. Inside the bag was a diamond ring—slightly warped, as if it had been through a fire. The moment I saw it, my mind went blank. The blood drained from my body. That was the ring I had used to propose to Aurora. After her death, it was supposed to have been buried with her ashes. So why was it here? My hands started shaking. “Lucien? You look terrible.” Aria stepped closer. “What’s wrong?” “Don’t come over here.” My voice came out sharp. She froze, her eyes wide with confusion and hurt. I ignored her. Because I had just noticed what was beneath the ring—a manila envelope. I swallowed hard and tore it open. Several photographs slid out, along with a photocopied medical file. The first photo showed a woman wrapped head to toe in bandages, lying in a hospital bed. The exposed skin was covered in ragged burn scars, dark and raised like deep welts running in every direction. The second photo showed the same woman with some of the bandages removed. It was a completely unfamiliar face—a wide jawline, a flat nose, eyes hollow with despair. The third photo showed her on an operating table. Her face was covered in surgical markers. Reconstructive procedures were already underway. The medical file read: Patient Name: Iris Diagnosis: Severe full-body burns. Facial disfigurement. Surgical Plan: Facial contouring, cartilage rhinoplasty, eyelid reconstruction… Reference template: Aurora (photo attached) At the bottom of the file, written in red ink by hand: “What kind of monster are you holding every night?” I stared at the photos. Then I looked up at Aria, standing a few feet away, her face pale with panic. The same eyes. The same dimples. It had all been a lie. Not a gift from the universe. Not a miracle reunion. A face, built from scratch with a surgeon’s blade. I stood up and hurled the photos and the file directly at her. Papers scattered across the floor like snow. “Tell me what this is.” My voice came out barely human. “Tell me right now.” Aria looked down at the photos. Every drop of color left her face. Her legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled to the floor, trembling violently. “Lucien… just let me explain…” “Explain?” I laughed, a cold and ugly sound. I stepped toward her, grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at me. “Explain how this face was carved out one cut at a time? Explain why you put on my dead fiancée’s face and climbed into my bed?” “Tell me who you are. Are you Aria? Or are you the one who burned—the one they called Iris?”

She could barely breathe with my grip on her jaw. Tears poured down the face that looked exactly like Aurora’s and fell onto the back of my hand, scalding hot. “Lucien, I love you.” She choked on the words, clawing at my fingers. “I really do love you—” “Don’t make that expression with her face.” I shoved her away and turned aside, nausea rising in my throat. Five years of sleeping beside her. Five years of her warmth, her laughter, her hands in mine. I had convinced myself I was holding a miracle—that I had somehow gotten Aurora back. Yet I never imagined that every inch of skin I kissed was a forgery, meticulously sculpted by a surgeon’s scalpel. “Get out.” I pointed at the front door, one word at a time. “Leave my house. Before I call the police and have you arrested for fraud—disappear.” Iris sat on the floor and sobbed. She didn’t argue. She didn’t beg. She just stumbled to her feet, left without grabbing a coat or a bag, and pushed out into the dark. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud. I dropped onto the couch, surrounded by scattered photos and that charred ring, and pressed my hands over my face. These past five years have been nothing short of an utterly absurd nightmare. The next morning, I called Vincent. Vincent had been a year above me in college. After graduation he’d opened a private investigation firm—he had connections on both sides of the law. We met at a quiet tea house off the main road. I dropped the package on the table in front of him. He lit a cigarette and went through the photos and the medical file, his expression tightening with each page. “Jesus,” he muttered, blowing out a long stream of smoke. “This reads like a thriller. A full face reconstruction? That takes serious money and serious pain. What was she after? Your money?” I shook my head. “My accounts have always been separate. She lived on a small monthly allowance. She never bought designer bags, never bought jewelry.” That had always confused me. If Iris was after money, she could have drained accounts and run. She didn’t. She just stayed—a flawless, quiet, model wife—for five years. “Not for the cash, then. Must be the man. ” Vincent tapped his cigarette ash. “But something still doesn’t add up. Even if she was obsessed with you, where does a nobody orphan get the cash for surgery like this? The procedures on this file—we’re talking millions, minimum. Where did she get it?” I looked up sharply. “That’s exactly what I want to know. Vincent, dig into all of it. Find out who Iris really is, which clinic did this, and—” I tapped the envelope— “find out who sent this package.” Vincent tucked the photos away and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I’m on it. Watch yourself in the meantime. Someone’s been pulling strings behind this whole thing.” While I waited, I stayed in a hotel. I couldn’t go back to that apartment. Iris’s phone went straight to voicemail. She had vanished completely, as if she’d never existed. Three days later, Vincent called me to his office. When I walked in, his face was grim. He dropped a thick stack of documents on the desk. “Lucien, it’s worse than you think.” He pointed to the first page. “Iris is a real person. Five years ago, there was a serious explosion and fire at a chemical plant on the outskirts of the city. She was a line worker there at the time. After the fire, she was listed as missing—several bodies recovered at the scene were burned beyond identification.” My stomach dropped. Five years ago. A fire. Aurora also died in a fire five years ago. But Aurora’s was at an art gallery downtown. “Is that a coincidence?” My voice came out tight. “No.” Vincent pulled out a photograph. A young man in a white coat—clean-cut, gold-framed glasses, something cold and unsettling in his eyes despite the composed expression. “This is Julian. One of the top plastic surgeons in the city.” Vincent tapped the photo. “And the attending physician on that medical file.” I stared at Julian’s face. Something about it nagged at me—familiar in a way I couldn’t place. “You might not know him directly,” Vincent said. “But here’s his background.” He drew a slow breath. “Julian went to the same high school as Aurora. He was obsessed with her. Pursued her relentlessly—until she got engaged to you. That’s when he backed off.” Boom! The silence hit me like a physical blow. Julian. I remembered now. At our engagement dinner, there had been a man sitting in the corner the entire night—watching me with this flat, reptilian stare. That was him. “So…” My voice was unsteady. “Julian found Iris in the wreckage, funded her recovery, and paid to have her reconstructed to look like Aurora?” “Exactly.” Vincent nodded. “He runs a private clinic—very discreet. Iris was there for a full year. Thirteen major surgeries. Every bill paid from Julian’s personal accounts.” I sank back in the chair. A man who had been obsessed with my fiancée had spent a year sculpting a living replica and then placed that replica in my life. For what? To watch me hold a counterfeit and feel grateful? To watch me live out a lie? “Who sent the package?” I asked, jaw locked. Vincent shook his head. “Can’t trace it. Delivered by a local courier app, ordered from a burner number. Security footage shows someone in a mask and a cap—can’t make out a face. My best guess? Someone who knew about the whole setup—a rival of Julian’s, or someone who stumbled on the truth and wanted leverage.” I grabbed my car keys off the desk. “Where are you going?” Vincent caught my arm. “To find Julian.” My voice was flat. “I want to know where Iris is. And I want to know what he’s been planning.”

Julian’s private clinic was housed in a standalone building on the edge of the city, marked by a small, understated sign: Julian Aesthetic Surgery. The place radiated the particular kind of wealth that doesn’t need to advertise. I parked down the road and waited. At eight o’clock, staff began filtering out. By eight thirty, a black Maybach rolled out of the underground garage. Julian was driving. I fired up the car and tailed him without making a sound. The Maybach pulled up to a high-rise residential building in the heart of the city—a luxury river-view complex with full-floor units. I hid the car and watched Julian walk into the lobby. I followed close behind, noting that the elevator stopped at the top floor, 28. No key fob, so I took the fire stairs, climbing all twenty-eight flights. The door to unit 2801 was closed. I pressed my ear against it. The soundproofing was too good—nothing came through. Then I heard it. A sharp, muffled scream. The crash of something heavy hitting the floor. I stepped back and drove my heel into the door. The electronic lock was heavy-duty, the door remained completely immovable. Scanning the area, I yanked a fire axe from its box and swung it viciously at the lock. Crash! Crash! Crash! After a few brutal chops, the mechanism shattered. I kicked the door wide open and charged inside. What I saw stopped me cold. Iris was crumpled on the floor like a discarded piece of cloth, wearing a thin nightgown. Blood at the corner of her mouth. Hair tangled across her face. Julian stood over her, looking down with calm contempt, a surgical scalpel in his hand. The tip of the blade was pressed to her cheek—like Aurora’s cheek— “Stop.” I crossed the room in three strides. Julian startled. Just for a second. I put my fist through his face. He went backward over the arm of the sofa, the scalpel spinning away across the floor, and landed hard. I pulled Iris up from the floor and put myself between her and Julian. “Lucien.” Julian touched his bloody lip. And then, incredibly, he laughed—a fraying, unhinged sound. “You’re right on time. I was just correcting some bad behavior.” “You’re out of your mind,” I said. “What the hell is this?” Taking his time, Julian rose to his feet and casually adjusted his disheveled suit. “What is this?” He spread his arms wide like a curator presenting a collection. “Lucien, you should be thanking me. Aurora was gone and you were destroying yourself. So I gave her back to you. Look at her—” He gestured at Iris. “Every angle of that face, I measured twice. The geometry of her smile. The spacing of her eyes. One to one. Perfect.” His expression went somewhere else—bright and vacant and wrong. “To make her into Aurora, I broke her jaw and reset it. I rebuilt her eyelids. I cut away the scar tissue piece by piece. A full year of surgeries. And what did I get? The most precise replica ever constructed.” He pointed at Iris, his voice cracking into something colder. “And then this ungrateful thing goes and actually falls in love with you. She forgot what she is. She’s a stand-in. A vessel. Nothing more. She was secretly throwing away the anti-rejection medication I gave her. She was trying to get out from under me.” I felt something go cold in my chest. “So the package—that was you?” “No.” Julian’s smile thinned. “I wouldn’t sabotage my own work. That was a nurse I fired. She stole the files and tried to use them for blackmail. I’ve already handled her.” He said “handled her” the way you’d say you’d taken out the trash. I turned to Iris. She was gripping the back of my shirt with both hands, trembling, holding on like I was the only solid thing in the room. “Lucien… take me out of here. Please.” She cried and begged. “Take her?” Julian burst out laughing. “Lucien, who exactly do you think you’re taking? You think you’re getting Aurora back? Wake up. She’s a factory worker from a town you’ve never heard of. She could barely read when I found her. She signed a contract and traded her body for a roof over her head.” “Shut up.” My voice came out low and final. Julian’s laughter cut off. His eyes went flat and poisonous. “What gives you the right to speak to me like that? You think you loved Aurora? You couldn’t even protect her. If she had chosen me back then, she would still be alive!” The mention of Aurora’s death ripped something open in my chest. “That was an accident,” I said. “The gallery fire—it was an accident.” “An accident?” Julian looked at me like I was something almost too pathetic to bother with. A slow smile spread across his face. He took a step closer, dropped his voice until only the three of us could hear it. “Lucien. Do you actually believe that was an accident?”

The air in the room went completely still. I stared into Julian’s eyes, and my heart missed a beat. “What are you saying?” Taking a deliberate step backward, Julian threw his hands open in surrender, wearing a triumphant smirk. “Think about it. Why did Aurora end up at that gallery that night? Why did every single fire suppression system in the building fail? Why were there no signs she even tried to escape?” Because…” Julian enunciated every single word, “I was the one who injected her with succinylcholine. Succinylcholine. A powerful paralytic. It shuts down every voluntary muscle in the body—including the muscles that control breathing—while leaving the mind completely awake and aware. My mind went blank with a sudden rush, as if ten thousand needles were simultaneously piercing my temples. “You killed her?” My voice came out as barely a sound. “If I can’t have something, no one gets to.” Julian’s face came apart—whatever mask he’d been wearing dissolved, and what was underneath was not a person. “She was about to marry you. I went to her. I told her I still loved her. I begged her to come back to me. And she slapped me across the face and said I disgusted her.” “So I let her stay perfect. Preserved. I watched the fire reach her. I watched until—” He made a slow, satisfied exhale. “It was beautiful.” “Ahhh—!!!” I let out a scream of sheer despair and rage, throwing myself at Julian with reckless abandon. I’ll kill him! I’m going to rip him to shreds! I was just on top of him—my hands finding his collar, my fists finding his face. One hit, two, three. His nose broke. Blood poured down over his mouth and he was laughing, laughing— “Hit me harder! Hitting me won’t bring her back!” “Lucien, stop! You’ll kill him!” Iris had her arms around my waist from behind, throwing her whole weight into pulling me away. “Let go of me! I’ll kill him!” My eyes were bloodshot, and my sanity had completely shattered. And then Julian’s hand moved. He had found the scalpel on the floor. He came up with it in one motion and drove it toward my stomach. “Lucien—!” Iris let out a piercing scream and shoved me violently aside, throwing herself in front of me. Shhhk— The sickening sound of a blade sinking into flesh rang out, deafeningly loud in the dead silence of the living room. Time seemed to stand still in that very moment. I just stood there, staring blankly at Iris. Julian’s scalpel was buried in her left shoulder. Her white nightgown flooded red from the wound, a vivid crimson bloom spreading through the fabric. Julian stood frozen. He clearly hadn’t expected her to step in front of me. He yanked the blade free and stumbled back. Iris made a low sound and folded. “Iris—” I caught her before she hit the floor. Her blood was on my hands, warm and real. It was the first time I had called her by her real name. She looked up at me. Through the face that belonged to Aurora, she gave me a faint, ruined smile. “Lucien… I’m sorry… I lied to you…” Her voice was getting fainter. “I just… didn’t want to let go of the warmth you gave me…” “Stop talking. I’m taking you to the hospital.” I pressed my hand against the wound. My eyes were burning. “Don’t talk. Hold on.” I hated what she had done. I hated the face she was wearing and the lie she had built around it. But the soups she had left simmering for me. The light she kept on when I worked late. The way she used to look at me—like I was enough, like I was everything— That had all been real. I was already trying to get my arms under her to lift her when the back of my head exploded in white pain. A wave of agonizing pain washed over me, and the world around me began to spin wildly. In the last second before I lost consciousness, I saw Julian standing over me, a bronze ornament in his hand, looking down at us the way you look at something that is already finished. “Since you’re so devoted to each other,” he said, “I’ll send you both down together.”

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I was bullied by the entire school. The only light in my life was the student council president — someone untouchable, someone I looked up to. He stepped in for me again and again, gently telling me to stop being weak and letting people walk all over me. Then one day, I was cornered again — punched and kicked by a crowd. I made up my mind. I pressed the button on the voice recorder, determined to finally fight back with evidence. But through all the noise — the shouting, the hitting — a familiar voice cut through. A voice I had come to depend on more than anything. It was dripping with mockery and contempt: “You guys haven’t seen the way she begs and grovels, have you? God, it’s absolutely hilarious.” It had all been an act. Every rescue, every kind word — a performance. I was nothing but a toy for his amusement. Vanessa’s slap landed hard across my face. It really hurts. Her cronies had me cornered on the rooftop, backs to the wall, nowhere to run. “Lily.” Vanessa’s voice was thick with contempt. “Did you go tell Tyler again?” I didn’t answer. I just looked at her. This had happened so many times before. Every time they came after me, the student council president — Tyler — would show up right on time. He’d protect me behind his back, just like a prince, tell Vanessa and her friends go away, righteous authority. Then he’d turn to me, gentle and reassuring, and tell me not to be afraid. He was the only person in this entire school who was ever kind to me. My one source of light. “What, are you dumb now?” Vanessa sneered when I didn’t respond. She reached out to grab my hair. Then the rooftop door swung open. Tyler walked in. He was wearing his crisp white uniform, his expression carrying just the right amount of anger. “Vanessa. What is going on here?” The moment she saw him, Vanessa’s bravado crumbled. She even managed to look a little wronged. “Ty, I didn’t do anything. She tripped on her own.” Tyler ignored her. He walked straight over to me and crouched down, helping me up with a gentleness. “Lily, are you okay? Are you hurt?” I shook my head. The tears came anyway. “Hey. Don’t cry.” He pulled out a tissue and carefully wiped my face. “I’m here. I won’t let them bully you.” He walked me back to class. Vanessa and her cronies left, fuming with resentment. After school, Tyler was waiting for me at the front gate. He pulled me aside under a large tree, his expression serious. “Lily, You can’t keep backing down anymore.” I stared at the ground. I didn’t know what to say. “If you keep backing down, they’re only going to get worse.” He reached into his pocket and pressed something into my hand. It was a small black voice recorder. “Next time they come after you, turn it on.” He looked me in the eyes, his gaze steady and certain. “Record everything — what they say, what they do. That’s your evidence. With that, I can actually go to the school and get them disciplined.” I closed my fingers around the recorder. It felt like a talisman, warm against my palm. My chest was so full of gratitude I didn’t know what to do with it. “Thank you, Tyler.” “Little silly. Go home. Be careful on the way.” He ruffled my hair, smiling that warm smile of his. The next day, Vanessa and her cronies cornered me on the rooftop again. Same spot. Same people. My palms were sweating. The recorder in my pocket was the only thing keeping me steady. “So, Lily.” Vanessa’s smile was cold. “Tyler came to your rescue again yesterday? Aren’t you just so talented.” One of the girls shoved me. I stumbled and hit the wall hard. Another one grabbed my bag and dumped everything out onto the ground — my textbooks, my notebooks, all of it scattered across the floor. Then they started stepping on my books. I was shaking. Rage and fear twisted together inside me until I couldn’t tell them apart. Now. It has to be now. I pretended to fall. I curled up on the ground, and while they weren’t looking, I slipped my hand into my pocket and pressed the button. The little indicator light on the recorder blinked once. It was working. I waited. I waited for them to say something more, something damning. I waited for them to make their move, so I’d have everything I needed. But the moment I pressed record, there was a brief burst of static — and then a voice came through the recorder, loud and clear. Tyler’s voice. “Now. Make it convincing. Don’t let her figure out we’re acting.” My mind went completely blank. Every sound on that rooftop disappeared. All I could hear was the recorder. Tyler’s voice, still going. “Vanessa, make sure you push her down. She needs to look like she’s really suffering.” “Yeah — step on her books. Make her feel hopeless.” “Once she hits record, the plan is done.” The wind moved across the rooftop. I couldn’t feel it at all. I felt frozen solid, from the inside out. All this time, my light had been my abyss. The prince who repeatedly saved me time and again was the very demon who dragged me into hell. Vanessa and the others froze, shooting me confused looks. They hadn’t heard the sound coming from the voice recorder. It was a pre-set command — only I could hear it. 2 My world shattered completely in that moment. Every warmth, every ounce of gratitude, every bit of dependency I’d built up — it all became one massive joke. I lay there on the cold floor, listening to Tyler’s voice coming through the recorder. That voice had once been my only comfort. Now it crawled into my ears like a venomous snake. So every single act of bullying had been a carefully staged performance. Vanessa was the actress. Tyler was the director. And I was the only one in the audience who never knew. He loved playing the savior. He loved the way I trusted him completely, the way I depended on him. I don’t know how I managed to pull myself up off the floor. I don’t know how I quietly picked up my books, scattered all over the ground, with Vanessa and the others watching. There was only one thought in my head: don’t let him find out that I know. I had to keep playing the part — the stupid, helpless, Tyler-dependent Lily. I gathered my schoolbag, kept my head down, and left the rooftop in silence, just like always. I didn’t go looking for Tyler. I went straight home. That night, I locked myself in my room and listened to the recording over and over again. Every word Tyler said was like a knife, slicing through my heart on repeat. I hated him. That hatred was ten thousand times more intense than anything Vanessa and her cronies had ever done to me. The next day, I went to find Tyler myself. He was in the student council office, going through some paperwork. When he saw me, his face settled into that look of concern — the I-knew-you’d-come kind. “Lily? You’re here. How are you? Yesterday…” He trailed off, as if he was waiting for me to hand over some kind of evidence. I dropped my head, wringing the hem of my shirt, letting my voice go shaky like I was about to cry. “I’m sorry, Tyler… I… I was so scared…” I took out the voice recorder and held it out to him. “I couldn’t do it… When they surrounded me, I just froze… I didn’t get anything.” Something flickered across Tyler’s face — just for a second — before the warmth came flooding back. He took the recorder, let out a small sigh, and reached over to ruffle my hair. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault — I was too rush.” His voice was as smooth and disarming as ever. “I didn’t think about how you’d be feeling. Of course you were scared, facing them like that.” I swallowed down the disgust rising in my throat and nodded. “Don’t worry, Lily.” He gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll take our time and figure this out. I’ll think of a way.” “Thank you, Tyler.” I looked up at him, eyes shining with what looked like grateful tears. “You’re always so good to me.” He smiled — a flawless, perfect smile. “Alright, get to class. Come find me anytime you need something.” I turned and walked out of the student council office. The moment I was out of his line of sight, every trace of vulnerability vanished from my face. The game started right this moment. Tyler, you love being the director, don’t you? Fine. I’ll keep playing along. I would go on being that naive, dependent little victim — lull him into letting his guard down. And then, on his own stage, at his most triumphant moment, I would tear that mask right off his face. I started watching him. Every move, every interaction. What I found was that I wasn’t the only show he was acting. He wore a different mask for everyone. With teachers, he was the outstanding student — responsible, capable, the one they could always count on. With classmates, he was the helpful, warm, upstanding role model everyone looked up to. He soaked up the praise and admiration like it was sunlight, the perfect idol on a perfect pedestal. And Vanessa? She was his most devoted follower, the most useful tool in his arsenal. She was obsessed with him. So she’d do anything for him — including directing every one of those bullying scenes on his behalf. I needed an opportunity to completely shatter this massive lie. 3 The opportunity came fast — and Tyler handed it to me himself. I started trying to record things on my own phone, hidden in my pocket. I knew how risky it was. If he ever caught on, the fragile peace between us would be gone. But I had no other option. He’d given the voice recorder back to me, but I didn’t dare use it again. I had no idea if there were other tricks built into it. One afternoon, Vanessa cornered me in the stairwell again. I pressed my back against the wall and pretended to tremble with fear — while my hand, buried in my uniform pocket, quietly hit record on my phone. “Lily.” Vanessa’s face was inches from mine. “You really think having Tyler’s back you means I won’t touch you?” I caught a whiff of her sharp, overwhelming perfume. “Let me tell you something — Ty only feels sorry for you. Don’t push your luck.” My heart was pounding. I wanted her to keep talking. I needed more about Tyler. But just then, Tyler appeared around the corner of the stairwell. This time, he didn’t step in right away like he usually did. He just stood there, watching Vanessa, his eyes carrying a coldness I had never seen in him before. The moment Vanessa spotted him, she shoved me even harder — like she was trying to impress him. “What are you staring at?! You little bitch!” My phone slipped out of my pocket and hit the floor. The recording screen was still lit up. The air froze. Vanessa’s face went pale. Tyler walked slowly around the corner toward us. He didn’t look at Vanessa. He bent down and picked up my phone. He glanced at the screen, then stopped the recording. He looked up at me, and for the first time, every trace of his fake smile was gone. What was left was pure, undisguised malice. “Lily, you really disappoint me.” His voice was quiet, but it hit me like a hammer to the chest. He gestured for Vanessa to leave. Taking the hint, She scrambled away like her life depend on it. We were alone in the stairwell. “When did you figure it out?” He turned my phone over in his hands, casual, unbothered. I knew the game was over. I didn’t answer him. I just stared back, cold and still. “Was it the day with the recorder?” He answered his own question, then let out a light laugh. “My mistake. I figured someone like you would be easier to manage.” He moved toward me, step by step. He backed me into the corner until my shoulders were pressed flat against the cold wall. “You think recording me actually you can do anything about it?” He held up my phone and waved it in my face. “You think anyone’s going to believe you over me?” He leaned in close to my ear and dropped his voice so only I could hear. “Lily, you’re a rat in the gutter. And I’m the one standing in the sun.” “I decide if you live. I decide if you die.” His words cut like a poisoned blade, each one aimed straight at the heart. “Stop playing these little games.” He straightened up and looked down at me. “Be a good little victim and stay in your lane. Because if you don’t, what happens to you next will be a hundred times worse.” He tossed my phone back at me and walked away. I sank against the wall, slowly sliding down. Fear and fury crashed through me all at once. I finally saw him for what he really was. He wasn’t a hypocrite. He wasn’t even pretending to be good. He was just a completely monster. 4 The midterm grades came out. I ranked third in my entire grade. That score meant everything to me — it was my hope to get ride of here. But to Tyler, it seemed like a threat. And soon, a much bigger storm came crashing down on me. I was called into the dean’s office. Tyler was already there. So was Vanessa. On the desk sat a copy of the midterm math exam. The dean’s expression was grim. “Lily, a student has reported that you stole the midterm exam papers. how do you explain this?” I froze. “I didn’t.” I looked the dean straight in the eye, every word deliberate. “Didn’t?” Vanessa let out a cold laugh from the side. “Someone saw you sneaking into the teachers’ office the night before the exam. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” “I was never in that office.” “She’s lying!” Vanessa pointed at me. “It’s all on the security cameras!” The dean opened a video file on the computer. It was footage from the hallway outside the office. The clip had been edited down to just a few blurry segments. A girl in the same school uniform, with a similar figure to mine, entered the office late at night and slipped out a few minutes later. The lighting was too dark to make out a face. “That’s not me,” I said. “Lily, none of us want to suspect you.” Tyler spoke up then, his voice full of what sounded like genuine regret. “But your improvement has been so dramatic. It’s hard not to suspect you.” His words were a soft knife — quietly suggesting my grades weren’t earned. “In order to get to the truth, and to make an example for the entire student , the school has decided to hold a grade-wide assembly,” the dean concluded. The assembly was held in the school auditorium. Over a thousand students and teachers from the entire grade were seated below. I stood alone on the stage, like a criminal waiting to be sentenced. The dean of students first announced the “stolen exam paper” incident. Then Tyler, as student body president, took the stage to speak. He started by passionately lecturing about the importance of integrity, then pivoted to me. “Lily has always been a very introverted student.” He looked out at the audience, his voice loud and clear. “We all know she faced some unfair treatment in her class before.” He was slipping into the role he played best — the messenger of justice. “However, that cannot be an excuse for making mistakes.” “When faced with solid evidence, the right thing to do is to bravely admit your mistakes.” He played the edited security footage. Then Vanessa went on the stage as a “witness.” She gave a tearful performance, describing how she had “accidentally” caught me stealing the exam, and how she had “struggled internally” before finally deciding to report me “for the sake of justice.” The entire auditorium buzzed with whispers. Everyone stared at me with suspicion and contempt. I had been nailed to the post of shame, branded a cheater. Finally, Tyler walked over to my side. He picked up the microphone and spoke in a tone of practiced “tolerance” and “compassion”: “It is never too late to mend. The school has decided to give Lily one more chance.” “We now hope that Lily will admit her mistakes in front of everyone, and thank Vanessa for being willing to forgive her.” He held the microphone up to my lips. Every eye in the room was on me. I looked out at the sea of faces below — the mockery, the scorn written plainly across them. I saw the school administrators sitting in the front row. I saw Vanessa, practically glowing with satisfaction. And then I looked at Tyler. His face wore a perfect, victorious smile. He didn’t want me to admit my mistake. What he wanted was to crush my dignity completely — right here, in front of the entire school — and grind it beneath his heel. This was his public execution. My lips trembled. I couldn’t get a single word out. “Go on,” he murmured in my ear, his voice laced with amusement. “Apologize, then thank her. This is your only chance.” I knew I had no choice.

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I’m an acoustic architect. I was testing a top-of-the-line bone conduction monitoring headset, and at two am in the morning, I switched on full-spectrum reception. I expected to hear the sleeping breath of the city. Instead, what I heard was a sound coming from the ceiling directly above me — a scraping, like fingernails clawing desperately into concrete. I assumed the upstairs neighbor was a lunatic. Until I pulled up the building’s architectural blueprints, and what I found scared me. There was no floor above me. Just a sealed-off phantom mezzanine. A hidden layer, bricked up and forgotten. And at that moment, that low-frequency vibration was crawling through the ventilation ducts, inch by inch, toward my bedroom. I. It was a Thursday. well past midnight. It’s pouring outside. The whole city felt like it had been submerged in dark, suffocating water — heavy, oppressive, still. I sat in the center of my top-floor apartment, surrounded by roughly $700,000 worth of acoustic testing equipment. My name is Silas Vance. I’m an acoustic architect — I design soundscapes for high-end concert halls, private theaters, and even classified conference rooms. My ears are my livelihood. I’d just signed the lease on this apartment. It was on the top floor of a late-nineties high-rise on the edge of the old district. The view was wide open, but more importantly — it was dead quiet. I’d spent a small fortune on the walls: soundproofing treatment, acoustic foam panels, triple-pane insulated glass. In this room, you could hear a pin drop from across the floor. 2:15 AM. I slipped on my custom monitoring headphones and pushed the full-spectrum gain fader up on the mixing board. I wanted to test the noise floor limit of the new equipment. At first, the headphones gave me absolute silence. The stillness was so absolute, it brought on a faint tinnitus. Then I slowly cranked the gain higher — and I picked up the faint vibration of raindrops hitting the glass, the distant hiss of a car tire rolling over wet asphalt two blocks away. Everything was normal. Perfect, even. Until 2:20 AM. That’s when the sound appeared. Not from outside the window. Not from the hallway. The phase readings told me exactly where it was coming from — directly above me. The ceiling. It wasn’t an ordinary noise. it was a deeply viscous, bone-chilling scraping sound. Shhhk — shhhk — Like something heavy being dragged across rough concrete. And underneath that, something else — faint, but unmistakable. A sharp, hard object, scratching and digging into the floor above. Like fingernails. Like something clawing. A sudden chill washed over me, making every single hair stand on end. I pulled off the headphones and looked up, staring hard at the white ceiling. The room was dead silent. My bare ears caught nothing. I swallowed. Put the headphones back on. The sound was still there. And now, beneath the dragging, something new had crept into the noise floor — a deep, resonant hum. very strange. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard from a household appliance. It had a penetrating quality to it, dense and heavy, like a massive animal growling somewhere in the dark. I watched the spectrum analyzer on the mixing board. The green waveform lines were jumping wildly. I zeroed in on the anomalous frequency band. Fourteen hertz. Infrasound. The lower threshold of human hearing is twenty hertz. At fourteen hertz, your ears can’t detect a thing — but your body can feel it. The moment I locked onto that frequency, a wave of nausea hit me hard. My stomach lurched. My heartbeat turned erratic, stumbling out of rhythm. And then a fear unlike anything I could describe poured down my spine and flooded straight into my brain — cold, like ice water. This wasn’t psychological. This was the resonance effect of infrasound on the human body. Fourteen hertz sits dangerously close to the natural resonant frequency of human internal organs. At sufficient intensity, infrasound can cause the organs to vibrate in sync with the wave — triggering nausea, dizziness, overwhelming panic, and in extreme cases… cardiac arrest. I ripped the headphones off and gasped for air. I looked at the coffee table. There was a glass of water sitting on it. The surface was trembling — tiny, perfectly rhythmic ripples spreading outward in rings. The vibration was real. It was right above my head. But I was on the top floor. The only thing above me was the roof. In the middle of a rainstorm. Two in the morning. Who would be dragging something heavy across the roof? Who — or what — would be generating infrasound at fourteen hertz? I sat on the floor, cold sweat soaking through my shirt. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t know how to explain it. “Officer, I picked up a fourteen-hertz infrasound signal through the ceiling using a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar rig?” They’re going to treat me like a psycho. So I just sat there, staring at the ceiling, until the sky began to lighten. The ripples in the glass went still at exactly 3:40 AM. II. The next day, I was jolted awake by a splitting headache. The sunlight was brutal. I peeled myself off the carpet, every bone in my body aching like it had been ground to dust. I dragged myself to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was ghostly pale. My eyes were shot through with red. But the worst part — there was a thin streak of dried blood along the edge of my nostril. A nosebleed. That was a classic physiological response to prolonged exposure to high-intensity low-frequency sound waves. Everything that happened last night was real. That fourteen-hertz vibration had done actual, physical damage to my body. I splashed water on my face and forced myself to calm down. I’m a technical person. I believe in logic. I believe in data. Every sound has a source. Every vibration has a medium. I changed my clothes and decided to check the rooftop. The building had four units per floor and two elevators. I took the emergency stairwell up, rounded the half-landing, and came to the iron door that led to the roof. It was sealed shut. Not with the kind of ordinary padlock the building management usually used — this was a massive, brand-new industrial combination lock. And the gaps around the edges of the door had been packed solid with black acoustic foam sealant. I stood there, frowning. This wasn’t right. Fire code strictly prohibited permanently sealing a rooftop emergency exit. It was a serious violation. And the lock and the foam sealant both looked fresh — definitely less than a month old. I reached out and touched the black foam. The material was unusual. High-density polyurethane — an extremely specialized soundproofing and vibration-dampening material. The kind you’d only find in professional recording studios or heavy industrial equipment rooms. No ordinary building management company would ever use something like this to seal a rooftop door. Someone was intentionally covering up whatever noises were coming from the rooftop. I stepped back and headed downstairs. I found the building’s property manager in the security booth on the ground floor. His name was Frank. Frank was an old man in his sixties, always wearing a smile, listening to the radio in that little booth of his. I handed him a cigarette and asked, as casually as I could manage, “Frank, why is the rooftop door locked up so tight? I heard something on the roof last night and wanted to go check if there was a leak, but I couldn’t get it open.” Frank’s hand jerked the moment he took the cigarette. It slipped right out of his fingers and fell onto the desk. He looked up at me, and for just a second, I caught a flash of unmistakable panic in his eyes. He didn’t hold my gaze. His eyes immediately slid away to somewhere else. “Ah… that door…” Frank stumbled over his words. “That… the waterproofing layer on the roof is damaged. It’s dangerous up there. The company ordered it sealed. You… you heard something last night?” “Yeah. Like some kind of machine running.” “Wind! It was definitely the wind!” Frank’s voice shot up almost an octave, sudden and jarring. “There was a terrible storm raging outside last night — the ventilation ducts on the top floor were resonating. Old building like this, it happens all the time. Don’t overthink it. Stop asking around.” With that, he turned his back to me, grabbed a rag, and started furiously wiping down a desk that was already perfectly clean — a clear signal that this conversation was over. I didn’t push any further. I already had the answer I came for. Frank was lying. And he was scared. He was scared of whatever was on that rooftop. Or more precisely — he was scared of whoever was up there. I left the security booth and walked quickly back to my apartment. Things just took a dark turn. This wasn’t a simple noise complaint anymore. This was something premeditated, something hidden — something that carried a whiff of real danger. I opened my laptop and loaded last night’s audio recording into my acoustic analysis software. I was going to strip this sound down to its skeleton and find out exactly what it was. III The waterfall display on the software’s interface looked like a colorful cross-section scan, sound waves cascading in layers across the screen. I put on my headphones and began the tedious work of audio separation — filtering out the rain, filtering out the wind, filtering out the ambient noise of the city. What remained was a single, pure band of audio, rendered in deep crimson on the display. Fourteen hertz. I ran a pitch-shifting process on the segment, pulling it up into a frequency range the human ear could actually distinguish. When the sound came through my headphones again, I felt cold sweat soak through my shirt in an instant. That was not duct resonance. That was absolutely not a sound produced by nature. It was mechanical. Rhythmic. Unmistakably man-made. Click… hum… click… hum… The rhythm was terrifyingly steady — like some enormous, precision medical instrument cycling through its operation. And what truly made my blood run cold even more were the smaller details buried beneath that mechanical drone. I kept boosting the gain, peeling back frequency layers one by one. I heard liquid. Not rainwater — something viscous, being pumped through tubing. I heard metal striking metal. Sharp. Clean. The kind of sound that only comes from high-grade stainless steel making contact with itself. Like a scalpel dropping onto a metal tray. I finally heard it — a sound so faint it was almost nothing. A gasp, muffled inside some kind of sealed space. A human gasp. Full of agony. Full of suppression. It lasted less than half a second before the roar of machinery swallowed it whole. I shoved the keyboard away and shot up from my chair. My stomach lurched violently. I ran to the washroom and hunched over the toilet, dry-heaving. This is insane. This is absolutely insane. What the hell is happening above my head? I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my own bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Fear was tearing through my veins like wildfire, but some deep professional instinct kept me unnervingly calm. I need the blueprints. I have to figure out the structure of this building. At two o’clock that afternoon, I called in a favor from my contacts at an architectural design firm and got my hands on the original construction drawings from when this building was completed. I spread them out across the living room carpet and started marking them up with a red pen. This was a high-rise tower built in the late nineties, back when building codes were nowhere near as strict as they are today. I found my floor — the top floor, the 24th. I traced my finger upward along the cross-section diagram, from the 24th floor toward the roof. My finger stopped. My heart clenched. According to the blueprints, there was a full five-foot gap between the ceiling of the 24th floor and the underside of the roof deck. Five feet. In architectural terms, this is called a “structural transfer layer” or a “mechanical interstitial space.” But in the building notes, this gap was labeled as “fully sealed solid fill.” Means, according to the drawings, above my head should be five feet of solid concrete and insulation. Solid concrete cannot produce that kind of hollow, dragging sound. And solid concrete cannot contain mechanical equipment capable of generating 14-hertz infrasound. There was only one explanation. This interstitial space was never filled in. It was hollow. Five feet tall. Spanning the entire footprint of the top floor. A ghost space. Someone had built an extremely hidden facility up there — above my head, inside that lightless, five-foot-high void. And inside that facility, there were medical devices. There was thick liquid. There was… a person. IV Night fell again. The whole city lit up, but my apartment felt like a cold iron box. I didn’t turn on the lights. I sat in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Tonight, I didn’t switch on the monitoring equipment. I didn’t need anymore. That nauseating low-frequency vibration came back on its own. Hummmmm— The 14-hertz infrasound rolled over me like an invisible tide, washing past my ankles, climbing up my knees, and finally closing around my heart like a fist. The water glass on the coffee table rippled again. My breathing felt tight. My temples throbbed. I had to fight back. I couldn’t just sit here and let this happen. I pulled out the equipment I’d rented that afternoon — a military-grade infrared thermal imaging camera and a high-precision laser vibrometer. My hearing had already proven something was there. Now I needed visual evidence. I aimed the laser vibrometer’s red dot at the ceiling. The readings on the screen immediately went haywire. The vibration source wasn’t directly above me. It was slightly to the left — above my bedroom. I picked up the thermal camera and crept quietly into the bedroom. The room was pitch black. I raised the camera and pointed it at the ceiling. The screen should have shown a solid field of deep blue — the color of cold, inert material. It didn’t. Right in the center of the screen, where the ceiling was, a massive blaze of red burned back at me. Bright, aggressive red. The color of intense heat. It was a huge heat source, its shape completely irregular — like some enormous creature crouched in the darkness above me. I adjusted the contrast on the camera, trying to make out the edges of the heat signature. Slowly, the red mass began to separate into distinct shapes. I could see the outline of a machine. Rectangular. Radiating enormous heat. Almost certainly the source of the infrasound. And beside the machine — several human-shaped outlines. One of them was lying flat. Completely still. The other two were standing over the motionless figure, their arms moving in slow, deliberate motions — like they were performing some kind of extremely precise procedure. I bit down hard on my lip to keep from making a sound. They were performing surgery. Above my head. Inside a lightless, five-foot-high phantom mezzanine hidden in the bones of this building. two figures were performing surgery on someone lying there. No sterile environment. No legitimate medical equipment. Just 14-hertz infrasound and a space designed to never be found. What was this? Some kind of underground clinic? Or was it something worse— A phrase flashed through my mind, and my blood ran cold. Illegal organ harvesting. Only transactions this dark and bloody required such extreme measures of concealment. Then, without warning, the image on the thermal imaging screen changed. The two standing silhouettes suddenly froze. One of them slowly turned its head. On the thermal screen, the figure’s face was nothing but a blurred smear of red. But I could feel it — he was looking directly at me. Through five feet thick of solid concrete and insulation, through the endless dark, he had locked onto my exact position. Had he spotted me? Impossible. Infrared can’t penetrate concrete. There was no way he could see me. But the next second, the standing silhouette suddenly dropped into a crouch. He pressed himself flat against the floor of the hidden space — the same floor that was my ceiling. On the screen, his face was flush against the surface. Then, from directly above my head, came a sound — sharp, clear, and absolutely chilling. Knock. He was tapping on the ceiling. He was saying hello.

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When Ryan Sterling pursued me, he knelt outside my house for an entire night. The heavy rain drenched him, and the next day, he was rushed to the hospital with a raging fever of 104 degrees, still calling my name. Everyone in our elite circle told me, Olivia Hayes, you’ll never find another man who loves you this much. Until he returned from volunteering in a disaster zone, bringing with him a timid female volunteer. The girl cried, claiming that Ryan had contracted a rare blood disease in the disaster zone, and only a bone marrow match from his spouse could save his life. Ryan grasped my hand, his eyes red as he pleaded, “Ellie, save me.” I didn’t say anything, just smiled at him. He’d had a full physical last month. His physique was better than a professional athlete’s; he didn’t even have mild anemia. I took the consent form and signed it right in front of him. The wild joy in his eyes hadn’t even fully faded when I slowly added, “Ryan Sterling, you’d better pray you actually survive with my bone marrow.” “Otherwise, I’ll show you what it means to wish you were dead.” **Chapter 1** In the living room, a humidifier puffed white mist. Ryan sat on the sofa, clutching the bone marrow consent form. His shirt cuffs were still stained with mud from the disaster zone, his face pale, looking as if he might collapse at any moment. Only his gaze towards me held a plea that was impossible to refuse. “Ellie, the doctor said this disease makes you wish you were dead when it flares up. The pain is unbearable…” He pulled up his sleeve, and indeed, his arm was covered in crisscrossing dark purple marks, a truly shocking sight. Sitting next to him was Chloe Davis, the volunteer he’d brought back from the disaster zone. Chloe wore a simple, plain dress with a small white flower clipped in her hair. Tears welled in her eyes as she called out to me with a choked voice. “Ms. Hayes, Ryan contracted this illness saving people in the disaster zone. Even though I’ve studied medicine, this disease is too dangerous; only a spouse’s bone marrow match can save him. If you don’t agree, Ryan… he might not make it through the month!” With that, she made to kneel before me. Ryan, quick-witted, grabbed her arm, his voice a pained growl. “Chloe! What are you doing! If anything happened to you, what would be the point of me living!” The words had barely left his lips when Ryan seemed to realize he’d let something slip. He snapped his head up to look at me, his eyes darting away. “Ellie, I didn’t mean it like that… Chloe has been taking care of me all this time, I just see her as a sister. You’re the only one in my heart.” I sat on the single armchair opposite them, looking down at this ‘tragic’ pair of lovers. Bone marrow match? I had congenital anemia, and my family had spent a fortune to finally bring some color back to my cheeks. Taking my bone marrow would cost me my life. Didn’t Ryan know that? He knew better than anyone. I played with the Cartier bracelet on my wrist, making it clink softly. “If she’s just a sister, why all the hugging?” My voice was calm, betraying no emotion. Ryan’s hand recoiled as if burned, instantly letting go of Chloe. Chloe stumbled, falling onto the carpet, looking delicate and boneless. But a flicker of venom flashed in her eyes. “Ellie, believe me. I’m really dying.” Ryan slid off the sofa, trying to grab my hand. I subtly shifted, avoiding his touch. “Leave the consent form. I’m tired.” Ryan froze, looking at me in disbelief. “Ellie, you won’t save me?” “I said, leave it.” I looked at him coldly. Ryan gritted his teeth, placed the consent form on the coffee table, and gave me a deep look. “Then get some rest, I’ll come back tomorrow.” Late at night. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the crabapple tree Ryan had personally planted for me in the yard. Years ago, to pursue me, he knelt in a downpour all night, falling into a coma from a high fever and being sent to the ICU. He pleaded with my father on his knees, his forehead practically raw from bowing, just asking my father to let him be with me. He said, “Sir, I’ll be Ellie’s bodyguard my entire life. I’ll never leave her, not even in death.” Back then, I believed him. “Ms. Hayes.” Liam, my assistant, quietly pushed open the study door and placed a stack of documents on the desk. “Did you find out?” Liam opened the file. “Yes. The marks on Ryan’s arm aren’t from an illness; they were drawn on with a chemical agent called ‘Uracil Toxin.’ The situation in the disaster zone was also brought under control long ago. For the past two weeks, he and Chloe have actually been staying at a nearby resort.” **Chapter 2** I took the documents, flipping through them page by page. “And what else?” Liam lowered his voice. “Chloe isn’t a volunteer. She and Ryan were college classmates and his first love. They were together before he even met you.” I scoffed, tossing the documents onto the table. “A fine ‘first love,’ a fine ‘bone marrow match’.” It wasn’t my bone marrow they wanted. They wanted me to gradually weaken on the operating table from blood loss and complications, eventually dying “legitimately” from a post-operative infection. That way, Ryan could, as the grieving fiancé, smoothly inherit everything from the Hayes family, and then marry his first love. “Ms. Hayes, should I send someone tonight to…” Liam’s hand rested on his phone screen, his gaze as cold as a knife. “No.” I turned around, my eyes utterly freezing. “Taking action now would be too easy for him. Since he likes to act, I’ll play a good show with him.” “I want him to watch everything he owns turn to dust, little by little. I want him to kneel on the ground, unable to live, unable to die.” The next morning, I had Ryan called to the study. When he arrived, his face was even paler than yesterday, his steps faltering. He had to lean on the doorframe to stand steady. “Ellie…” he called my name weakly. I sat behind the desk, a document laid out before me, my face equally pale. “Ryan, I thought all night yesterday. We’ve been together so many years, how could I watch you die?” Ryan suddenly looked up, his eyes exploding with wild joy, which he then tried desperately to suppress. “Ellie, you agreed? But your health…” I gave a bitter smile. “My health isn’t great to begin with. If I can use this life to let you live, it’s worth it. It’s just that Chloe said bone marrow transplants have high risks; a slight mishap could cause an accident.” “No, it won’t!” Ryan urgently rounded the desk. “Chloe studied medicine, she’ll make sure you’re safe!” “Is that so?” I looked at him steadily. “You trust her that much?” Ryan’s eyes flickered, and he quickly explained. “She was a top student at medical school, of course I trust her. Ellie, I just want to live so badly, I want to stay with you.” I lowered my eyelids, hiding the mockery in my eyes. “Alright. In that case, go call her. I’ll sign.” Ryan trembled with excitement, turning to run out, almost tripping on the threshold. Less than twenty minutes later, he rushed back with Chloe. Chloe carried a medical kit, unable to hide the smile on her lips. “Ms. Hayes, your generosity is truly great. I thank you on Ryan’s behalf.” I looked at her, speaking calmly. “Chloe, how exactly does this bone marrow transplant work?” Chloe opened the medical kit, pulled out a surgical consent form, her eyes glinting. “It only requires a small procedure in the operating room, just to extract a small amount of bone marrow. Ms. Hayes, rest assured, you won’t feel anything after the general anesthesia.” “Wait a moment.” I raised a hand, and Liam walked in from outside, holding two cups. One of water, one of milk. “Chloe, since you’re a medical professional, you wouldn’t mind tasting this milk for me, would you? My nutritionist just sent it. I’m afraid I might be lactose intolerant, so could you try it?” Chloe’s face changed, and she instinctively looked at Ryan. Ryan was also stunned. “Ellie, what do you mean?” I looked at them with a half-smile. “What? Chloe, you don’t even dare to drink a cup of milk? Could it be that there’s something in it?” Chloe forced herself to be calm. “Ms. Hayes, you’re joking. I’ll drink it.” She picked up the milk cup, closed her eyes, and drank it all in one gulp. However, as soon as the milk went down, her face instantly turned deathly pale. She clutched her stomach and writhed on the floor in agony. “Ah! It hurts so much! Ryan, help me!”

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The sound of a champagne flute shattering on the red carpet drowned out the wedding march. Everyone thought I was just overcome with emotion. Only I knew that face had been etched into my very being for five years. My best friend pushed me onto the stage to give a speech. I smiled through the blessings, only to be yanked into his arms. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You’ve lost weight.” During the toasts, he slipped a note into my hand: “She forced me to break up with you. Meet me on the rooftop tonight.” I looked up, meeting Serena’s meaningful smile. The note in my palm was drenched in cold sweat. Tonight’s wedding, who was the real bride? The sound of a champagne flute shattering on the red carpet drowned out the wedding march. Everyone thought I was just overcome with emotion. Only I knew that face had been etched into my very being for five years. My hands trembled, and shattered glass scattered at my feet. A server quickly came to clean it up. My best friend, Serena, rushed over, holding up the hem of her wedding dress, a bride’s sweet smile on her face. “Autumn, what’s wrong?” I forced a smile. “Nothing, just slipped.” She linked her arm through mine, her grip so tight my wrist ached. “Good. I thought you were too excited seeing the groom.” Her words were a sharp jab right behind my eyes. I looked up, meeting her curved, smiling eyes. Serena was my best friend of ten years. From high school to college, we were inseparable, shared everything—secrets, clothes, even a dorm room. When I had my heartbreak five years ago, she stayed up with me until 3 AM every night for three months. But her expression now sent a chill down my spine. The groom stood still, impeccably dressed, his gaze fixed directly on me. That look was all too familiar—five years ago, whenever he waited for me outside school after classes, that was the look he had. Liam. I silently repeated the name in my heart, my tongue feeling as if it had been burned. “Autumn, why don’t you come up and say a few words?” Serena pushed me forward. “You’re my best friend.” She guided me to the microphone. Dozens of tables of guests watched me. Liam stood to my left, close enough for me to catch the faint scent of pine from him. “I wish you both…” My throat tightened, my voice wavering. “I wish you a lifetime of happiness, and may your hearts always be one.” A round of applause filled the room. Serena smiled contentedly, linking her arm through Liam’s and resting her head on his shoulder. I turned to step off the stage, but a hand suddenly pulled me back. Liam pulled me into his arms, a motion so forceful it was almost like he was snatching me. He lowered his head, his lips almost touching my ear, and whispered in a voice only we could hear, “You’ve lost weight.” I froze. His embrace was still as wide and strong as I remembered, his chest still as solid. But this hug should have belonged to his bride. Serena stood right beside us, her smile unwavering, as if this were all a pre-arranged part of the ceremony. “The groom is just too enthusiastic!” the MC quickly smoothed over, chuckling. “It seems the bride’s bridesmaid is simply too stunning, even the groom couldn’t resist a hug!” The guests burst into laughter. I pulled free from his embrace, practically fleeing off the stage. I grabbed a glass of champagne and gulped it down. The icy liquid burned a path down my throat, but the fury in my chest only intensified. During the toasts, I hid in a corner, hoping to slip away unnoticed. “Autumn.” Liam was suddenly behind me, holding two glasses of wine. He handed one to me, his eyes holding something I couldn’t decipher. I took the glass, my fingers brushing his, and recoiled as if I’d been shocked. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered. “Your invitation had my name on it,” I retorted, a cold laugh escaping me. “What, afraid I’d cause a scene?” He didn’t speak, just quickly slipped a piece of paper into my palm. His movement was so swift that none of the surrounding guests noticed. “10 PM tonight, rooftop.” I looked down at the words on the note, my palm instantly drenched in cold sweat. When I looked up, Serena stood not far away, holding a glass of red wine, and gave me a meaningful smile. That smile was too perfect, so perfect it sent shivers down my spine. I crumpled the note, my nails digging into my flesh. This wedding, from the moment the champagne glass shattered, was destined to be anything but a normal celebration.

I clutched the note, feeling like I was holding a ticking time bomb. Serena walked over, red wine in hand, her heels clicking on the marble floor, each sound like a drumbeat in my chest. “Autumn, you don’t look so good.” She smiled gently, reaching out to touch my face. I instinctively took half a step back. Her hand froze in mid-air, her smile faltering for a second before returning to normal. “Are you drinking too much? Should I have someone bring you some water?” “No, thanks.” I tucked the note into my clutch, forcing a smile. “I’m just going to the restroom.” Serena nodded, but her eyes lingered on my face for a few seconds. That gaze was too sharp, as if trying to dissect me. I quickly turned and walked to the restroom, pushed open a stall door, and leaned against the wall, taking deep, gasping breaths. Five years ago, Liam disappeared without a word. I called him hundreds of times, sent countless messages, all of them vanishing without a trace. Finally, I received a single text: “Don’t look for me. We’re not right for each other.” Those eight words sentenced my five years of love to death. I cried for a whole month, losing ten pounds. Later, I heard he went abroad, and I forced myself to let go, to start a new life. But now? He was back, as my best friend’s groom. I unfolded the note. The handwriting was definitely his. I knew his script intimately; he’d written me countless love letters in college, every curve and line burned into my memory. “She forced me to break up with you. Meet me on the rooftop tonight.” That sentence was like a knife, plunging directly into the softest part of my heart. She forced him to break up? Serena? I crumpled the note, an unspeakable mix of anger and hurt churning in my chest. A knock suddenly sounded. “Autumn, are you in there?” Serena’s voice came from outside the door. I quickly tore the note into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. “Yes,” I took a deep breath and opened the stall door. Serena stood in front of the sink, touching up her lipstick in the mirror. She wore a custom-made wedding dress, her makeup perfect; she looked every bit the happiest bride. I walked over to wash my hands, catching her reflection watching me. “Autumn, I’m so happy you’re here as my bridesmaid.” She finished her lipstick, then turned and took my hand. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you these past few years, being on your own. Liam and I will take good care of you from now on.” “Take care of me?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course, we’re best friends, aren’t we?” She blinked, her expression impeccably sincere. I looked into her eyes. Those eyes were so familiar; we’d been crazy together, laughed and cried together. I even thought she was the person who understood me best in this life. But at this moment, her face suddenly felt alien. “Serena, are you happy?” I asked. She paused, then smiled brightly. “Of course I’m happy. Liam is wonderful to me.” “That’s good,” I pulled my hand from hers. “Congratulations.” With that, I turned and walked out of the restroom. Her voice drifted after me: “Autumn, you’ll be on stage to give a speech later, I’ve already arranged it all.” My steps faltered. A speech. She wanted me to give a speech at Liam’s wedding. When I returned to the banquet hall, the MC was warming up the crowd. Liam stood on stage, impeccably dressed, a polite smile on his face. I couldn’t make out his expression, only saw him glance in my direction. “Next, let’s invite the bride’s best friend and bridesmaid, Autumn, to the stage to offer her blessings to the happy couple!” Applause erupted. All eyes were on me. I took a deep breath and walked onto the stage. The microphone was handed to me, my palm slick with sweat. “Hello everyone, I’m Autumn, Serena’s best friend.” I heard my voice tremble. “Serena and I have known each other for ten years. She’s the most important friend in my life.” Serena waved to me from below, her smile radiant. “Seeing her find her happiness today truly makes me happy.” I paused, my gaze involuntarily falling on Liam. “The groom is wonderful, and they are a perfect match.” Liam watched me, expressionless. “I wish you a lifetime of happiness, and may your hearts always be one.” I raised my glass. “Cheers.” The guests below raised their glasses. I tilted my head back and gulped the wine, tears almost spilling from my eyes. The MC took the microphone, asking the bride and groom to embrace. Liam hugged Serena, then released her and walked towards me. “Thank you, bridesmaid,” he reached out and gave me a ceremonial hug. Just as he leaned close to my ear, I heard a low, husky voice: “You’ve lost weight.” I froze. That tone was too familiar, laced with tenderness, guilt, and something else I couldn’t quite place. I abruptly pushed him away, stumbling back two steps. The guests below chuckled, thinking the groom’s humor had amused me. But I saw a glint of tears in Liam’s eyes. Serena walked over and linked her arm through his, smiling at me. “Autumn, are you okay?” “I’m fine.” I set down the glass, almost running away. Reaching a corner, I pulled out my phone. A new message on the screen, from an unknown number. “Ten o’clock, rooftop. I’ll tell you all the truth.” I stared at the words, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst. This wedding, from the moment the champagne glass shattered, was destined to be anything but a normal celebration. This was a trap.

The toasts began. Serena walked table to table with Liam, smiling radiantly, showing no hint of a flaw. I stood in a corner, clutching my glass, my fingers white against the stem. That text message still lay in my phone, every word like a burning brand, scorching my palm. “Autumn.” Serena’s voice suddenly chimed. She pulled Liam over to me, her face alight with a sweet smile. “Why are you hiding here? I’ve been looking for you.” She offered me a glass of red wine. I took it, realizing my hand was trembling when my fingertips touched the glass. “A toast to you,” Serena raised her glass, her eyes bright and clear. “Today is the happiest day of my life, thank you for being my bridesmaid.” She finished speaking and drank it all in one gulp. I watched her throat move, the wine sliding down my stomach like a knife. “Drink,” Liam’s voice was low, I couldn’t discern his emotion. I raised my glass and took a sip. The wine was bitter, so bitter my eyes stung. Serena smiled again, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “You don’t look well, are you feeling sick? Do you want to go rest?” “I’m fine,” I forced a smile. “I’m just going to the restroom.” The moment I turned, my wrist was grabbed. It was Liam. His grip was tight; I couldn’t break free. “Liam?” Serena’s voice came from behind, laced with a hint of displeasure. “I need to speak with the bridesmaid,” Liam didn’t turn back, just looked at me, his gaze intense. “About some wedding details, I wanted to ask her.” “Then hurry up,” Serena’s tone was a bit cold, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to analyze it. Liam led me to a corner. The noisy chatter of guests surrounded us; no one noticed us. He released my hand and pulled a piece of paper from his suit pocket, quickly slipping it into my palm. “Read it and burn it,” his voice was hushed, so low only I could hear. “Ten o’clock tonight, rooftop.” Then he turned, walked back to Serena, and his smile returned to his face. I clutched the note, my palm drenched in sweat. I went to the restroom, closed the stall door, and opened the note. The handwriting was messy, but it was his familiar script. The love letters he wrote me five years ago, every single one had this handwriting. “She forced me to break up with you. Meet me on the rooftop tonight. I’ll tell you all the truth.” I stared at the words, my head buzzing. She forced me to break up. Five words, like five knives, one by one plunging into my heart. That night five years ago, he sent the breakup text, then vanished without a trace. I called hundreds of times, sent thousands of messages, all of them vanishing without a trace. I thought he was dead, thought something had happened to him, thought he had been kidnapped. Only Serena stayed by my side, hugging me, crying with me, saying, “Autumn, he must have his reasons.” How genuinely she cried back then. I thought she was the best friend in the world. The note was crumpled in my hand. I shoved it into my bag and pushed open the door. At the sink, Serena was touching up her lipstick. She saw me come out and smiled faintly. “Still don’t look well. Should I have someone take you to the hospital?” “No, thanks.” I washed my hands and looked up into the mirror. In the mirror, Serena and I met each other’s gaze. Her eyes were calm, as still as a ripple-less lake. But I always felt there was something hidden beneath that calm. “Autumn,” she suddenly spoke, her voice very soft. “Do you hate me?” I froze. “Hate you for what?” I asked. She smiled, finishing the last stroke of her lipstick and putting the tube back in her bag. “Nothing, just asking.” She turned, her heels clicking crisply on the tile floor. At the doorway, she paused, looking back at me. “Oh, by the way, the fireworks show starts at ten tonight, up on the rooftop.” “You might want to check it out.” With that, she pushed the door open and left. I stood alone in the restroom, the note in my hand drenched in cold sweat. Ten o’clock, rooftop, fireworks show. She had calculated everything. I pulled out my phone and looked again at the message from the unknown number. “Ten o’clock, rooftop. I’ll tell you all the truth.” Was it from Liam, or from her? I didn’t know. But I knew, no matter who was waiting for me on the rooftop tonight, I had to go.

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The first time I heard a corpse speak was in the autopsy room at the police station. My mentor, Dr. Elias Thorne, flipped through the autopsy report. “Typical suicide. Let’s close the case,” he said flatly. Detective Ryan Stone, head of the investigation unit, nodded silently. Outside the door, Sarah Davison’s mother knelt, sobbing uncontrollably, almost collapsing. Only I heard a hoarse female voice: “I didn’t kill myself.” The hemostatic forceps in my hand clattered onto the tray. Everyone looked at me. Dr. Thorne frowned. “Maya, you’re just an intern. Can’t you even maintain basic composure?” I stared intently at the corpse’s pale, blue-tinged face. The next second, she spoke again. “The killer is in this autopsy room.” The air instantly froze. My gaze slowly fell on Dr. Thorne’s blood-stained hands. On my first day, my supervisor told me: “In forensic science, the most important thing is to be calm. The dead don’t lie, but the living do.” Back then, I didn’t dare tell him. The dead really do talk. Since childhood, I’ve heard strange voices. When our old cat died, I hugged it and cried, but it complained in my ear, “Stop crying. You’re getting snot on my fur.” I was so scared I didn’t sleep for three days. Later, my grandmother passed away. At her funeral, everyone cried, but her body was murmuring in my ear: “Your Aunt Cathy stole my money again. There’s a savings book under the third floorboard beneath my bed. Don’t let her get away with it.” I searched where she said, and sure enough, I found the savings book. From then on, I knew I wasn’t normal. But I also knew that the dead were more honest than the living. So, when it came time to choose a major for college, I secretly enrolled in forensic pathology, hiding it from everyone. I thought, if I’m destined to hear these voices, then at least they should be useful. But I never expected that on my very first day at the police station, I would hear a deceased person crying out for justice. The woman on the autopsy table was Sarah Davison, twenty-eight years old, a product manager at an internet company. The case was straightforward. She was found dead in the bathtub of her rental apartment, a deep incision on her left wrist. The doors and windows were locked from the inside, the bathtub filled with a large amount of bloody water, and a knife lay nearby. Her phone’s notes app contained a suicide note: “I’m tired. I’m sorry, Mom.” The evidence seemed complete, the logic sound. Suicide. But she said she didn’t do it. I stood rooted to the spot, a cold sweat breaking out on my back. Dr. Elias Thorne glanced at me, his voice cold. “Maya, continue recording.” Dr. Thorne was a renowned senior forensic pathologist in the department. Forty-seven years old, with over twenty years of experience, he had handled thousands of bodies and solved countless major cases. My university professors spoke of him with reverence. If he declared it a suicide, almost no one would question it. But at that moment, the woman’s voice in my ear was still trembling. “I didn’t cut it.” “When I woke up, my wrist was already being held under the water.” “He was wearing gloves.” “He was smiling.” My throat tightened. I looked down at the corpse. Sarah Davison’s face was bloodless, yet the corners of her lips seemed to have been forcefully torn open by pain, maintaining an eerie, stiff curve. I couldn’t help but ask: “Dr. Thorne, isn’t the edge of the incision on her left wrist too neat?” Dr. Thorne was in the middle of removing his gloves. At my words, his movements paused. The autopsy room instantly fell silent. Detective Ryan Stone looked up at me. Sarah Davison’s mother, who had been kept outside the door, also looked up sharply when she heard my voice. Dr. Thorne slowly turned, his gaze fixed on my face. “What did you say?” I swallowed. “I just think the direction of the incision is a little strange. If someone uses their right hand to cut their left wrist, there are usually hesitation marks, but she has none. And the wound edge is so clean, it looks like it was done in one go.” Dr. Thorne chuckled. “Maya, this is your first day of internship.” I clutched my pen tighter. “I know.” “Good that you know.” He closed the autopsy report. “Classroom theory isn’t for showing off in a real-world case.” The other assistant forensic pathologists bowed their heads, saying nothing. Dr. Thorne continued, “There were trace amounts of blood on the webbing between the victim’s right thumb and forefinger, the victim’s fingerprints were on the knife handle, there were no signs of forced entry, and the suicide note was confirmed to have been typed on the victim’s phone. Tell me, if it’s not suicide, what is it?” I opened my mouth. In my ear, Sarah Davison’s voice suddenly grew shrill. “I didn’t take the knife!” “I didn’t write on the phone!” “He knew my password, he knew!” My heart pounded faster and faster. I couldn’t say I heard a corpse talk. No one would believe me. They’d just think I was crazy. Seeing my silence, a hint of mockery flickered in Dr. Thorne’s eyes. “It’s good for young people to be skeptical, but skepticism needs to be based on evidence. Doubts without evidence are just grandstanding.” His words felt like a slap across my face. My cheeks burned. But just as he turned to leave, Sarah Davison suddenly spoke again.

“My nail.” “Look at my right middle finger.” “There’s his skin there.” I sharply lowered my head. Sarah Davison’s right hand was placed by her side, fingers slightly curled. Her nails were short, with a light pink polish, showing almost no abnormality. Ignoring Dr. Thorne’s cold expression, I put on gloves and picked up a magnifying glass. In the nail bed of her right middle finger, there was indeed a tiny, dark reddish speck of tissue. It was so small. If I hadn’t been looking specifically, it could easily have been overlooked as a blood clot. My breath hitched. “Detective Stone.” I looked up, my voice tight. “There’s suspected skin tissue in the nail bed of the victim’s right middle finger. I recommend DNA extraction.” Detective Stone walked over. He was in his early thirties, with sharp, stern features, a notoriously dedicated workaholic in the homicide division. He bent down for a look, his expression shifting slightly. Dr. Thorne also walked back. He only looked for a second, then his face darkened. “The bathroom scene was complex; it’s normal to find impurities in the nails.” I said, “But if it was suicide, why would she have scratched skin tissue?” “Can you confirm it’s skin tissue?” “No, that’s why it needs testing.” Dr. Thorne stared at me. “Maya, do you know what you’re doing right now?” Of course, I knew. I was questioning the conclusion of an authoritative forensic pathologist. I was, as an intern, holding up a suicide report that was about to be officially stamped. I also knew that if I was wrong, my internship at the police station might be over. But Sarah Davison’s voice was crying. “Please.” “My mother only has me.” Outside the door, Sarah Davison’s mother stood up, leaning against the wall, her eyes red and swollen, her voice hoarse beyond recognition. “Officers, my daughter would never kill herself.” “Just yesterday, she told me she’d take me for a follow-up appointment at the hospital this weekend.” “She wouldn’t abandon me.” In that moment, I suddenly remembered the day my grandmother was buried. Before the coffin was closed, she had said in my ear: “Maya, don’t be afraid of the dead. The dead won’t harm you.” “What’s truly frightening is when the living close their mouths.” I looked up and said, word for word: “Detective Stone, I request a re-examination.” The air in the autopsy room seemed to freeze. Detective Stone didn’t speak immediately. Dr. Thorne’s face, however, had turned incredibly grim. He took off his glasses, slowly wiped them with a cloth, his voice eerily calm. “You request?” He looked at me as if I were some ridiculous joke, completely out of my depth. “Maya, you don’t have the authority to independently issue an expert opinion yet.” I said, “I know, so I’m only making a suggestion.” “A suggestion?” He sneered. “Your ‘suggestion’ will make the detective team restart their investigation, it will ignite unnecessary hope in the family, and it will delay a case that is already clear. Can you bear the consequences?” My fingertips grew cold. Detective Stone finally spoke: “Dr. Thorne, since suspected tissue has been found, extracting and sending it for testing won’t hold up the process.” Dr. Thorne’s movements paused. “Does Detective Stone also think my judgment was wrong?”

Detective Stone’s expression remained unchanged. “I only believe in evidence.” His words made the autopsy room even quieter. Dr. Thorne stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly chuckled. “Fine. Since you’re all so insistent, send it for testing.” He put his glasses back on, his gaze returning to me. “But Maya, let me remind you, forensic science isn’t like a detective novel. The dead don’t cater to your fantasies.” I lowered my head. Sarah Davison softly whispered in my ear: “Thank you.” Her voice was very light, like a fading breeze. Expedited DNA testing takes time. Detective Stone ordered the evidence re-sealed and the case closure put on hold. I helped the assistants tidy up the autopsy room, my mind restless. Sarah Davison said the killer was in this autopsy room. But at the time, besides me, Dr. Thorne, and Detective Stone, there were also two assistant forensic pathologists and a female officer recording. Detective Stone was the homicide captain, the two assistants were under my watch the entire time, and the recorder was a female officer. So who was “he” that Sarah Davison spoke of? My gaze involuntarily fell on Dr. Thorne. He was washing his hands. Water flowed over his fingertips, carrying away faint traces of blood. As if sensing my gaze, he suddenly looked up and met my eyes in the mirror. In that instant, my heart gave a violent lurch. Dr. Thorne smiled. “Maya.” “Yes.” “Come to my office after work.” His voice was gentle. But I inexplicably felt a chill. At seven in the evening, only the nightlights were on in the Forensic Science Center. I knocked on Dr. Thorne’s office door. “Come in.” The main lights in the office weren’t on; only a desk lamp illuminated the room. Dr. Thorne sat behind his desk, my internship file resting beside his hand. He didn’t invite me to sit. “Your university grades are excellent.” I stood by the door, saying nothing. “First in your class, perfect score in anatomy, your mentor’s recommendation letter was also very strong.” He flipped through the file, his tone flat. “Pity you’re too eager.” I pursed my lips. “Dr. Thorne, I wasn’t trying to show off.” “I know.” He looked up. “You want to prove yourself.” I paused, surprised. He closed the file. “Every year, there are interns like you. Smart, sensitive, ambitious, thinking they can change the world.” “But the Forensic Science Center isn’t a school. Every single word here can affect the direction of a case, every judgment concerns both the living and the dead.” He sounded so pompous. If Sarah Davison’s voice weren’t still echoing in my mind, I almost would have doubted myself. Dr. Thorne stood up and walked towards me. “I can overlook what happened today.” I looked up at him. His tone softened: “Tomorrow, you write a statement saying you lacked experience and mistakenly identified contaminants as skin tissue. Withdraw the re-examination request, and I won’t let it affect your internship evaluation.” I finally understood why he had called me here. It was pressure. I said, “But the sample has already been sent for testing.” Dr. Thorne smiled. “It can still be recalled.” “Why should it be recalled?” The office was silent for two seconds. The smile slowly faded from Dr. Thorne’s face. “Maya, don’t back yourself into a corner.” My back was pressed against the door, my palms already sweating. Just then, from a storage cabinet in the corner of the office, a faint voice suddenly emerged.

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