The day I brought a birthday gift to my fated mate, Alpha Floyd, I witnessed him kissing another woman with my own eyes. I rushed forward to confront him, only to be thrown into the rain and humiliated. Floyd’s sworn enemy, Alpha Isaac, took me away from my pain and kissed my lips, telling me he loved me. He would never hurt me, he said. But on my wedding day, I left the werewolf world behind. Four years later, when the two of them found me, I had become one of the world’s top perfumers. Isaac found me and asked me to come back to him. But I dismissed him with contempt, because I knew the love he showed me all those years ago was nothing but a lie. Caroline POV Seven days. Seven days until I was supposed to marry Isaac, the Alpha of Ironridge Pack. Everyone said I must have received the Moon Goddess’s blessing to go from being Floyd’s rejected mate to Isaac’s beloved. Two powerful pack Alphas both involved with me—many people were envious. Even I believed it myself. These past few years, Isaac had treasured me like a jewel in his palm. He was a noble Alpha, yet he would personally deliver hot soup to me on stormy nights, would cancel all his work to keep me company when I was in a bad mood. He said, “Caroline, I’m going to give you the most magnificent wedding and make everyone shut up.” I believed him. Until ten minutes ago, when I found a woman’s lipstick in his car. To find out who that lipstick belonged to—and more importantly, whether Isaac was cheating—I specifically extracted the dashcam footage. I inserted the card and began reading the data. I quickly found the video. Isaac had finished work and picked up two friends. Just as I was about to adjust the playback time, a mocking laugh came through the speakers. “Isaac, you fooled around with Bethany right there in the car. If Caroline found out, wouldn’t she be angry?” My hand froze on the mouse. I expected to hear Isaac defend me. “Angry?” Isaac’s voice was cold, accompanied by the crisp click of a lighter. “Right now all she’s thinking about is how to be the most beautiful bride. She doesn’t have time to be angry.” My smile froze on my face. The conversation in the car continued, each word cutting like a knife. “Is it really worth spending so much on this wedding just to piss off Floyd? What if Caroline really latches onto you? Are you really going to become her mate? But you haven’t Marked her in four years, so I guess that’s not your plan, right?” On the screen, Isaac exhaled a ring of smoke that blurred his handsome profile. But it didn’t blur the coldness in his eyes. “That small price to see Alpha Floyd’s shitty expression? This deal is worth it.” He chuckled lightly, as if discussing some worthless object. “On the wedding day, I’m going to announce the game is over in front of everyone. Alpha Floyd’s expression will be priceless. After all, no matter what, she was his fated mate. And he still hasn’t found a second one.” Malicious laughter erupted from the men in the car. “What about Caroline after that? So many people know she was abandoned by her fated mate, and then publicly jilted by you. Won’t her life be ruined?” Isaac flicked his cigarette ash, unconcerned. “Adult games—she’s stupid. Who else is to blame?” The video ended abruptly. The study fell into a deathly silence. I sat frozen in my chair, my blood turning to ice. So these four years of deep affection were just an elaborate, calculated lie. This was just a game to him, designed to humiliate Floyd, my former mate and Isaac’s sworn enemy, by humiliating me. My stomach churned violently. I rushed to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet, but nothing came up. Tears hit the floor. I wiped them away viciously. Caroline, don’t cry. A scumbag like this isn’t worth it. My wolf was furious, but she calmly reminded me. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at my pale reflection in the mirror. Since you want to play something exciting, I’ll help you. I returned to the computer, my hands still trembling, but my eyes had gone cold. I clipped that five-minute segment of their car conspiracy, along with the earlier footage of Isaac having sex with his mistress Bethany, and backed it all up to the cloud. Just then, my phone lit up with a message from Isaac: “Dinner tonight? Wear that red dress—you look stunning in it.” I stared at that familiar profile picture, my fingertips white with pressure. Finally, I replied: “Okay.” I put down my phone and walked into the closet. That red dress hung in the most prominent position—he’d had it flown in from Paris last week. He said only my skin tone could do justice to that shade of red. Memory flashed back instantly to that rainy night four years ago. Floyd suddenly rejected me, breaking my heart. But I loved him, so I wanted to win back his heart. But when I brought him a birthday gift, I saw him kissing a woman I didn’t recognize. I tried to confront him, but he threw the birthday gift I gave him into the trash and mocked me in front of everyone: “Caroline, can’t you understand what I’m saying? Just looking at you makes me sick.” Everyone laughed. I was as pathetic as a clown. Isaac emerged from the corner, draped his coat over my shoulders, and blocked those humiliating stares. He also soothed the pain my wolf and I endured. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll take you home.” That night, I thought he was my salvation. Now I know it was all fake.

Caroline POV Seven o’clock that evening, Isaac arrived right on time to pick me up. He’d changed into a dark gray custom suit, wearing the tie I’d knotted for him that morning. As soon as I got in the car, he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Good evening, darling. You don’t look well.” He took my hand, frowning slightly, his eyes full of concern. “What happened?” If I hadn’t heard that recording. Right now I’d think I was the happiest woman in the world. I withdrew my hand, pretending to adjust my dress. “Probably just hungry.” Isaac didn’t suspect anything, smiling as he started the car. “Then let’s go. Can’t let my fiancée go hungry.” The restaurant was on the top floor. We could overlook the entire city’s nightscape. While cutting my steak, I spoke as if casually: “Isaac.” “Hmm?” He switched the cut meat to my plate, his movements fluid. “I ran into your friend Austin today.” I watched his eyes, not missing a single expression on his face. “He asked if I was nervous.” Isaac’s hand paused while cutting the meat. Just for a second, too fast to catch. Then he looked up, his smile flawless. “Ignore him. You just need to focus on being beautiful.” “He also said…” I gripped my knife and fork, my fingertips straining. “Floyd’s back in the country recently. He asked if you’d feel awkward.” “Caroline.” Isaac set down his knife and fork, reaching out to cover the back of my hand. His palm was warm, but his tone carried undeniable firmness. “Why bring him up? I told you, we’re getting married. Everything from the past is behind us.” He looked at me, his gaze so tender it could drown someone. “I only want you.” If that recording wasn’t still sitting in my cloud storage, I might have believed him again. “Right, it’s behind us.” I lowered my head and forked a piece of beef into my mouth. Medium rare, streaked with blood. Despite being top-quality ingredients, it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. “Oh, right.” Isaac seemed to remember something and pulled out an exquisite velvet box, pushing it toward me. “Almost forgot—this is your pre-wedding gift.” I opened it. A sapphire necklace with rich color and considerable value. “Do you like it?” He looked at me expectantly. I stared at that deep blue and suddenly remembered an Instagram story Bethany had posted last month. The caption read: [I love this deep blue so much, but Isaac said it doesn’t suit me.] So it didn’t suit her, which is why it came to me. Or maybe he bought two, and this was the leftover one? “I love it.” I closed the lid and smiled at him. “It must have been expensive.” “Any amount is worth it to spend on you.” Isaac ruffled my hair, his eyes full of affection. I excused myself to touch up my makeup in the restroom. Standing at the sink, I looked at the woman with perfect makeup in the mirror and forced out a smile uglier than crying. Since you want to play the devoted lover. Then I’ll help you along. I pulled out my phone and called Harlan, my father’s Beta. He answered quickly. “Miss Caroline, have you considered the Alpha’s proposal?” I looked at myself in the mirror, my voice terrifyingly calm. “I won’t become an Alpha. That kind of work doesn’t suit me. But I need you to do something for me.” Over the years, I’d rarely relied on my Alpha father’s influence. After all, my brother was deeply insecure about his position as heir to the Alpha title. He always thought I, his sister who had been more combative than him since childhood, would replace him. What a shame—I never had any such intention. Still, to avoid unnecessary conflicts, I tried not to do things that could be misunderstood. There was another reason: whether it was Floyd’s Frostveil Pack or Isaac’s Ironridge Pack, we couldn’t afford to provoke either. Even if I asked for help, my father couldn’t rescue me. But now, I wasn’t asking them to rescue me. “What do you need me to do?” “Tell my family they don’t need to make a special trip for my wedding. Also, book me a flight for the wedding day. I’ll go back and explain to them myself.” After hanging up, I reapplied my lipstick and stared at that crimson shade, my heart hardening bit by bit. Isaac. I’ll remember this final dinner well. When I returned to the table, Isaac was replying to messages. Seeing me, he quickly darkened his screen and stood up with a smile. “Let’s go home.” I took his arm, feeling his muscles stiffen for an instant. “Okay, home.”

Caroline POV Five days before the wedding, Bethany arrived. Under the guise of helping with preparations, she brazenly moved into Gerald Manor. She was the daughter of the previous Beta. Though she’d only inherited her mother’s Omega bloodline, she’d grown up with Isaac. She was also widely acknowledged within the pack as the woman Isaac loved most. If Isaac’s elders hadn’t strongly opposed him marrying an Omega, the Luna position would have been hers long ago. “Caroline, this evening gown is gorgeous.” Bethany stood before the fitting mirror, wearing what was supposed to be my red reception dress. The waist had been altered extremely tight, accentuating her graceful figure. She twirled around and looked at Isaac, who sat on the sofa. “Isaac, don’t I look better in red than Caroline?” Isaac held a financial magazine, not looking up. “Stop fooling around. Take it off. That’s for Caroline.” Though his tone was reproachful, there wasn’t a trace of anger in it. Bethany pouted and reluctantly headed to the changing room. “Stingy. I was just trying it on.” I sat to the side, holding my tea, watching quietly. In the past, I would have gotten angry and fought with Isaac. Then Isaac would patiently coax me, saying I was petty, that Bethany was like a little sister to him. Looking back now, I really was quite the joke. “Caroline, don’t mind her. I’ve spoiled Bethany.” Isaac set down his magazine and reached for my hand. “If you don’t like it, I’ll have her move out.” “It’s fine.” I avoided his hand and poured him tea. “The more people, the livelier it is. Besides, the house has plenty of rooms.” Isaac froze. Clearly he hadn’t expected me to be so magnanimous. In the past, whenever Bethany appeared, all my defenses would go up. “You’re not angry?” He looked at me tentatively. “Why would I be angry?” I smiled back. “She’s a friend who’ll be around often anyway. Besides, it’s just a dress. If she likes wearing it, let her.” After all, I wasn’t planning to wear that dress anyway. A flash of surprise crossed Isaac’s eyes, which then became relief. “Caroline, you’ve really changed. You’ve become more mature.” Mature? You forced me to mature. Just then, a crisp crash came from the changing room. Followed by Bethany’s cry: “Oh no!” Isaac’s expression changed. He threw down his magazine and rushed over at nearly the speed of a werewolf on the hunt. At the changing room door, Bethany sat collapsed on the floor, surrounded by shattered porcelain. It was a sculpture by a contemporary art master—Isaac had spent a fortune at auction to buy it for me. “Isaac, I didn’t mean to…” Bethany’s eyes reddened, looking pitiful. “I tripped just now and tried to steady myself on the sculpture, but…” Isaac didn’t even glance at the priceless artwork. He crouched down directly, gripping Bethany’s hand to inspect it. “Did you cut yourself? How can you be so careless?” “It hurts…” Bethany whimpered sweetly. I stood several meters away, watching this painfully glaring scene. That sculpture had once been treasured by Isaac, who said it represented our unbreakable love. Now it lay shattered on the floor, and he hadn’t even batted an eye. “Caroline!” Isaac turned around, his tone urgent. “Get the first aid kit. Bethany cut her hand.” I looked at him, unmoving. “What’s wrong?” He frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with my sluggish response. “Nothing.” I turned toward the cabinet, my voice flat. “If it’s broken, it’s broken. It was getting old anyway. Time for something new.” Isaac’s form stiffened. He seemed to hear something in my words, yet also seemed to hear nothing. He simply devoted all his attention to Bethany’s wound, which hadn’t even drawn blood. As if he’d forgotten that while Bethany was just a delicate Omega, she wasn’t that fragile. I returned with the first aid kit and set it on the table. “Take your time. I’m tired. I’ll head upstairs to rest.” As I turned to go upstairs, I heard Bethany say softly, “Isaac, is Caroline angry?” Isaac’s voice sounded irritated. “Don’t worry about her. She’s never been this cold-hearted before.” My steps didn’t falter. Reaching the second-floor landing, I pulled out my phone and sent Harlan a message: [Add one pet transport ticket. I’m taking Buddy with me.]

Caroline POV Three days before the wedding, the jewelry company delivered the rings. Isaac was in the study on a video conference call, so he had me sign for them. I signed and carried the heavy box into the study. He was listening to a subordinate’s report, his expression serious. Seeing me enter, his gaze instantly softened. He pointed to the corner of the desk, indicating I should set it down there. I placed the box on the desk. As I turned, my elbow accidentally knocked over a stack of documents. Papers scattered across the floor, revealing a design sketch that had been pressed underneath. I bent down to pick them up. My movement froze the moment I saw the sketch clearly. It was a ring design draft. The center stone was a rare pink diamond, with the word “only” engraved inside the band. The date in the corner was from half a month ago. And the wedding ring I’d just signed for had a white diamond as the center stone, with our initials engraved inside. Isaac removed his headphones and walked over. “What’s wrong?” Following my line of sight to the sketch, his expression stiffened. He casually pulled it away and tucked it into a folder. “Nothing, just a discarded draft.” His tone was natural as he put his arm around my shoulder. “Did you try the ring? Does it fit?” I looked at him and smiled. “Not yet. I’ll try it tonight.” At two in the morning, the person beside me was breathing evenly. I carefully got up and walked into the study. I opened the safe—the password was my birthday. Inside lay two identical navy blue boxes. I opened the one on the left. Pink diamond, engraved with “only.” Dazzling. I opened the one on the right. White diamond, engraved with our surnames. Conventional. Isaac once said, “Caroline, you are my only.” So this was what “only” truly meant. I took out both rings. And switched the boxes. I placed the pink diamond in the box prepared for the wedding ceremony, and put the white diamond in the box that had originally belonged to Bethany. After finishing this, I closed the safe. Returning to the bedroom, Isaac rolled over, his arm instinctively reaching to hold me. I avoided his hand and lay at the edge of the bed. Moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating the calendar on the nightstand. The date was circled in red pen. Three more days until I could leave him.

Caroline POV Next, I began clearing out my belongings. The house was filled with gifts Isaac had given me over four years. Hermès bags, complete sets of Cartier jewelry, limited edition heels. Once, these were all proof of his love for me. I contacted luxury goods resellers. Because of the volume, they brought an authenticator directly to the house. “Mrs. Gerald, several of these bags are brand new. Are you sure you want to sell them all?” The authenticator wore gloves, his face full of regret. “Yes.” I sipped my coffee, my tone calm. “Wire transfer. The faster the better.” When Isaac came home, he happened to witness workers carrying out boxes. The house was half empty, seeming somewhat desolate. “What’s going on?” He frowned, looking at the emptied closet. “I want to redecorate.” I walked over and helped him loosen his tie. “Clear out everything from the past. After the wedding, replace it all with new things. I want our home—every corner—to be a fresh start.” Isaac froze. Then a smile appeared in his eyes. He probably thought I was so madly in love with him that I wanted to completely say goodbye to the past and wholeheartedly become his mate. “Alright.” He held my hand and kissed my fingertips, his eyes full of affection. “Whatever you say. As long as you’re happy, you can tear down the whole house.” “Oh, right.” I pointed to the dog bed in the corner. “I sent Buddy to the pet hotel for boarding. The house is chaotic these days—didn’t want to disturb him.” Buddy was the puppy we’d raised together. Isaac usually doted on him most. “Whatever you think is best.” He didn’t suspect a thing, even seeming somewhat moved. “Caroline, you’ve worked so hard for this family.” After Isaac went into the bathroom to shower, my phone vibrated. A bank notification. The number was long—enough to buy a small apartment outright. I deleted the message and opened my private cloud storage. I set that dashcam footage to send on a timer. The recipient was the wedding venue’s main control station. Send time: 10 AM on the wedding day. After finishing this, the sound of water in the bathroom stopped. Isaac emerged wrapped in a towel, water still dripping from his hair. “Darling, grab me some pajamas.” I handed them to him. As he took them, he pulled me into his embrace, his voice somewhat husky. “The wedding’s the day after tomorrow. Are you nervous?” I leaned against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat. “Not nervous,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.” I was looking forward to how surprised he’d look when he saw the gift I prepared for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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On the night of our eighth anniversary, my boyfriend Fernando suddenly went off the grid when he was supposed to be with me. I called him countless times. No one answered. The next morning, just as I was about to call the police, Fernando called back: “Last night my coworker Ellis’s mother-in-law suddenly passed away. I went to help out. Left my phone in the car, didn’t notice.” I breathed a sigh of relief, but something felt off. After hanging up, I sent Ellis a message: “I heard your mother-in-law passed away. My condolences. Is there anything I can help with?” Three minutes later, Ellis called: “Hello, Juliet, did you send that to the wrong person? My mother-in-law is alive and well!” I quickly apologized to Ellis. After the call ended, my heart felt a sharp pain. This man who had loved me for eight years had lied to me. I opened my chat history with Fernando. The last message was from me, at 4:12 AM: [Where are you? I’m really worried about you.] Scrolling up, there was yesterday’s conversation. When I got home, I’d sent him a photo of the cinnamon cookies my mom made for me. He replied with a “so jealous” emoji. Below that was a video call from him. He was curled up on the couch, the camera shaking around. Mom had called me to help with something, interrupting the video call. After I hung up, he sent a message. He said he missed me. He said this Christmas we’d go back together and ask my mom for permission to marry me. Eight years ago today, he confessed his feelings to me. He said that if he ever deceived me in this lifetime, he’d be hit by a car the moment he stepped outside. Fernando valued his life. Not long after we got together, he spiked a fever of 102 degrees. When the doctor went to draw blood, he held me and cried secretly. He said he’d looked it up online and was afraid he might have leukemia. Choking up, he said he hadn’t lived enough yet, but he needed to settle his affairs. He said his $80,000 in savings should be split—half to his parents, half to me. He said if he was diagnosed, I shouldn’t wait for him. I stroked his head, wiping away his tears, laughing at him for acting like a child. But I also thought to myself that someone so afraid of death who dared to make such a vow would surely keep his word. But we hadn’t even reached a lifetime yet—nowhere near it—and he’d already lied to me. Fernando was extremely superstitious. For him to risk his life fabricating this lie, that person must be very important. My phone suddenly vibrated. I hesitated for a moment but still answered. Let me hear it. Just in case. “You sent Ellis a message?!” Fernando’s voice was low but couldn’t contain his anger. “Yeah.” “What do you mean by that?” “You said her mother-in-law died, so I went to comfort her. Is there a problem?” There was two seconds of silence on the other end. “Juliet, you’re checking up on me.” “I’m not.” “Not? Then why did you send Ellis a message?” Fernando’s voice suddenly rose. “No one in Ellis’s family died at all. I was too tired and said the wrong thing. You rushing to send that message—if word gets out, how am I supposed to face people at the company?!” I gripped my phone, my fingers growing cold. Clearly he was the one who lied, but every sentence seemed to tell me I was the one in the wrong. A heavy sigh came from Fernando’s end. His voice suddenly softened. “Juliet, I know you’re worried about me, but what you did really embarrassed me. Ellis is my supervisor. What will she think of me after this? Will she still think of me when opportunities come up?” “Juliet, we’ve been together eight years. Do you really not trust me?” My nose suddenly stung. Eight years. Fernando knew exactly how to make me feel guilty. “Alright, Juliet, I got too emotional. I’m sorry.” Probably because I hadn’t spoken for so long, Fernando’s tone completely softened. “The family emergency was Enzo from Ellis’s office. You added Enzo on Twitter at the last company dinner. If you don’t believe me, go ask.” After hanging up, I hesitated for a long time but finally found Enzo’s Twitter. I clicked in and sent “Enzo.” But what I received was a notification that I’d been blocked. Blocked. I could still see Enzo’s Twitter updates this morning. Fernando was closest to Enzo at the company. He told me to verify it, and Enzo blocked me.

After the call ended, Fernando sent no more messages. For our eighth anniversary, we’d originally planned to go to Disneyland together. But he said he had to work overtime. He said we were close to saving enough for a house down payment, and he wanted to work overtime to earn more money. So these past days, when Fernando’s messages were few, I never thought much of it. But now… After dinner, I posted a Twitter update with a photo of the pasta my mom made. [The holiday is almost over. I’ll miss my mom’s cooking.] I set it so only Fernando could see it. After posting, I began to wait. One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours—no response. Eight years. Fernando had liked every single one of my Twitter posts. I once asked him, you’re so busy with work, how can you always notice my Twitter posts right away? He stroked my hair and smiled. Because I care, I pay attention all the time. My fingertips rubbed against my palm. My finger accidentally swept across my phone screen. The page switched to Fernando’s Instagram. Just one minute ago, he’d updated his story. The photo was of the evening sky, with a location tag near our house at that little park. The caption read: [Busy day done. Finally can catch my breath.] There was only one comment: [You worked hard today. Next time, my treat~] Fernando replied almost instantly: [It’s a deal. No backing out.] I clicked on the profile of the person who replied to him. It was a young woman with chestnut-colored hair. At Fernando’s last company dinner, she wasn’t there. At 1:45 AM, Fernando liked my Twitter post. Then he sent me messages, still in an exhausted tone: “Juliet, I’m literally dying of exhaustion. Didn’t expect overtime on our eighth anniversary would be this busy.” “At least in two more days you’ll be back. Remember to send me your train ticket. I’ll pick you up.” “You must be asleep, right?” “Good night. I miss you so much.” I stared at these sentences from Fernando for a long time. Then I changed my train ticket.

Mom didn’t expect me to come back two days early. All morning she hurriedly stuffed things into my bag. “Juliet, when you get back, treat Fernando well. That boy came from nothing. It wasn’t easy for him to get where he is today.” “Tell him for me, thank him for the money transfer, but I can’t accept it.” My hands stopped packing. “When did he send you money?” “Just now. Didn’t he tell you?” “When exactly?” Mom put her phone in my hand. “See for yourself.” I opened Mom’s phone. It was at 7 AM. He’d transferred $2,000 to Mom and sent a message: [Auntie, I have to work overtime this time and couldn’t go back with Juliet to see you. Please accept this money. This Christmas I’ll definitely go back with Juliet and call you Mom.] Thinking about how I hadn’t replied to Fernando’s messages from last night until now, my hands suddenly went weak. Fernando really knew how to manipulate my emotions. I forced myself to calm down, stuffed the phone back to Mom, and smiled. “Not taking it is right. After all, who knows what will happen in the future.” “Don’t talk nonsense!” Mom smiled and touched my face. “Your dad said yesterday, boys as sincere as Fernando are hard to find these days. You need to treasure him.” “I know, I know.” I cut off Mom’s nagging. “By the way, don’t tell Fernando about me coming back. I want to surprise him.” Mom laughed. “Alright, I know.” At 3 PM, I arrived at the apartment Fernando and I rented. Fernando wasn’t home. After entering, I put down my suitcase and looked around. Everything seemed normal. I immediately checked the home surveillance footage. But three days ago—the night I left—the surveillance had been turned off. I went to the kitchen. It looked the same as when I left. But in the trash can lay a receipt from the supermarket. From yesterday. It was mostly daily necessities, but at the end were three boxes of condoms. The brand Fernando had begged me to try multiple times. I thought the flavored ones were weird and never agreed. I clutched the receipt and headed straight to the bedroom, pulling open the nightstand drawer. The condoms Fernando and I regularly used were still there. Of those three new boxes, only one remained. I opened the closet. In the most accessible spot, Fernando’s pajamas were neatly folded. Fernando never folded clothes, especially not pajamas. Every time, I followed behind him organizing things. But those pajamas—I didn’t fold them. I yanked the folded pajamas out of the closet. I immediately saw the chestnut-colored long hair on the pajamas. With trembling hands, I took out my phone. I found Fernando’s Instagram, clicked on the profile of the girl who replied to him. I stared at her chestnut-colored long hair, frozen in place. The color—the same. The length—the same. I suddenly pulled back the pillows on the bed. Under my pillow were some overlooked, unprocessed chestnut-colored long hairs. I stumbled into the bathroom. Near the shower drain, I saw more of that chestnut-colored hair. My stomach suddenly began to convulse. I leaned over the toilet and dry heaved. I sat limply on the floor. My fingers accidentally scrolled through that girl’s profile. Three years ago, she posted a photo of intertwined fingers. The caption: [Tonight, I bloom for you.] I recognized it immediately—that hand crumpling the bedsheets was Fernando’s. Three years ago. I scrolled down frantically. Finally, four years ago, in a large group photo from Fernando’s company, I saw that girl. She was his coworker. But in all these years, I’d never seen her at any of Fernando’s company dinners. For him, she was willing to hide herself like this. I forced down the nausea churning in my stomach and sent Fernando a message: [I’m back. I know everything.]

An hour later, hurried footsteps came from outside, along with a tearful female voice: “Fernando, it’s my fault. Let me in. I’ll explain to her.” “No!” Fernando deliberately lowered his voice, but you could still hear the dominance and protectiveness in his words. The Fernando outside the door seemed like a different person from the one I knew. When he was with me, he was gentle and easygoing. But the current him was decisive, firm yet tender. I couldn’t control myself—I got up and walked toward the door. I really wanted to see the Fernando outside that door, and that chestnut-haired girl. I gripped the door handle. The people outside were still arguing. I yanked hard! The door opened. That chestnut-haired girl was curled up in Fernando’s arms, crying. Fernando’s hand kept stroking her long hair, his eyes full of heartache. Watching Fernando’s hand linger on that chestnut-colored hair, in an instant, the hairs from under the pillow and from the bathroom seemed to extend out and wrap tightly around me. The people outside clearly saw me too. Fernando abruptly released his hold on the girl. The girl wiped her tears and stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Juliet. This is all my fault.” “Slap!” I couldn’t hold back. I raised my arm and slapped the girl across the face. As my hand swung toward Fernando, he suddenly rushed forward from behind and shoved me away hard, fiercely protecting that rabbit-like girl behind him. “Juliet, what are you doing?!” Resentment and fury surged in Fernando’s eyes. But my gaze fell on the girl’s ring finger. On her ring finger was a large engagement diamond ring. It was the exact model Fernando bought when he proposed to me three months ago. My nails dug hard into my palm. I turned abruptly and rushed toward the bedroom, yanking open the left drawer of the vanity. I opened the ring box. The ring was gone. I ran out like a madwoman and grabbed the girl’s wrist. I forcibly removed the ring from her finger. Under the dim hallway light, I looked at it. The engraving on the ring’s band wasn’t “Juliet.” That ring was this year’s limited edition. When Fernando and I went to buy it, it was the last one. I shoved the ring in Fernando’s face. “Is this ring mine? Or did you buy two from the start?!” “I begged Fernando to buy it!” The girl stepped in front of Fernando first. “Juliet, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I know I’m not worthy of Fernando. I just wanted to secretly walk part of the road with him.” I looked past the girl’s head, staring hard at Fernando. “So you bought two from the beginning?!” No wonder the sales associate who sold the ring wouldn’t let us sign that one-of-a-kind true love agreement. No wonder on the day we bought the ring, he said he forgot his ID card and used his father’s to purchase it. No wonder that day the sales associate saw him and said, “You’re here again.” So Fernando took her to buy it first. So that true love agreement—he signed it with her first. These past days, that girl came to the house, saw the identical ring in the drawer, and must have gotten angry. So Fernando threw mine away. Perhaps he also promised her daily that he’d marry her soon. Perhaps this very morning, he spoke to her mother the same way he spoke to mine. My heart felt like it was stuffed with a soaked towel—dull, painfully suffocating. “Juliet, let me explain.” “Juliet!” Before Fernando could finish speaking, the girl suddenly dropped to her knees at my feet with a thud. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll break things off with Fernando immediately!” “But I’m begging you, can you please give me back the ring?” I shifted my gaze back to the ring in my hand, glanced at the girl, pulled a cold smile, and extended my hand out the window. “Don’t.” The girl suddenly sprang up and lunged at me. I was originally standing near the staircase. She charged at me, and her whole body slammed into mine. We rolled down the stairs together. The violent collision tore open the girl’s dress. I looked at the special petal-shaped scar on the girl’s shoulder and froze. The first year Fernando and I were together, he told me his father had an affair when he was younger and brought a woman home. That woman had a little girl with her. The little girl had a petal-shaped scar on her shoulder. Because of that woman, his mother committed suicide. After his mother died, his father kicked that woman and child out of the house. I heard that woman had a miserable life afterward. I suddenly looked at Fernando. “Fernando, so it’s her.”

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I bought a pair of novelty handcuffs. While trying them on, the key fell into the crack of the bed, and I had no choice but to call 91 The door was forced open, and fully equipped firefighters burst into my bedroom. The captain leading them turned out to be my ex-boyfriend, whom I had dumped. He saw me wearing a lace dress with pitifully little fabric, my hands locked to the headboard with pink fluffy handcuffs, in an extremely suggestive position. The young team member beside him blushed, stammering: “C-Captain, this requires hydraulic cutters…” My ex raised his hand to stop him, his gaze scraping across my exposed skin like a blade. He walked to the bedside, looking down at me from above, his chest heaving violently, his voice so cold it could freeze: “Quite the games you play, Ares. Where’s the bastard? Did he handcuff you here and run off after pulling up his pants?” 1. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. My hands cuffed to the headboard instinctively clenched, the metal core of the pink fluffy handcuffs digging viciously into my wrist bones. It hurt. But nowhere near as much as the shock of seeing Gustavo’s face. He stood there looking down at me, his firefighting combat gear still covered with wood splinters from breaking down the door, his helmet tucked under his arm, his whole body carrying the cold wind from outside. His features still had that devastating quality. Sharp brows, high nose bridge, a jawline sharp enough to cut your finger. Only those eyes—three years ago when he looked at me, they held entire galaxies. Now they contained only murderous ice. “C-Captain, these handcuffs are novelty ones, there’s no keyhole, we need hydraulic cutters…” Behind him, young team member Kane, blushing to the roots of his neck, held a toolbox, his voice shaking like a sieve. His gaze clearly didn’t know where to land. Well, anyone would be stunned to see a woman wearing a black lace slip dress, hands locked to an iron headboard with pink fluffy handcuffs, positioned like a sacrificial lamb. Especially when that woman was their captain’s ex-girlfriend. Gustavo didn’t turn around. He reached out, snatched the hydraulic cutters from Kane’s hand, then slowly turned back. That look made my spine run cold. It wasn’t the look you give a person. It was the look you give prey. “Everyone out.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was like a knife stabbing into cotton—muffled and vicious. Kane froze: “Captain, this isn’t really regulation…” “I said, everyone out.” Gustavo didn’t raise his voice the second time, but his tone carried an additional layer of unquestionable coldness. The team members behind him exchanged glances, but ultimately left with their heads down. The bedroom door slammed shut, cutting off all sound. The entire world shrank to this space of a few square meters, leaving only him and me. I heard my own heartbeat, racing like it would explode. Gustavo set the hydraulic cutters on the nightstand. He didn’t immediately unlock me. He turned and knelt on the bed with one knee. The mattress sank sharply under his weight, and I slid uncontrollably toward his side. The strap of my lace slip dress slipped off my left shoulder. I bit down hard, desperately trying to pull it up with my cuffed hands, but couldn’t reach it. Gustavo’s gaze slowly moved down from my exposed collarbone, sliding past what the slip dress barely covered, finally settling on my legs that I was trying to press together. He reached out. Five fingers, one by one, closed around my ankle. His palm was burning hot, his knuckles rough—calluses earned from years of gripping fire hoses and climbing ladders. Goosebumps exploded across my entire body. “Gustavo, what are you doing!” He didn’t answer. He just brought his face close to my ear, his burning breath washing over it. His voice was so hoarse it was like sandpaper scraping glass: “This guy’s got no guts.” “Ties you up like this, then pulls up his pants and runs?” “Doesn’t even clean up after himself?” Each word carried the hatred of a dull knife cutting flesh. My eyes instantly stung and swelled. Not from fear, but from guilt. Guilt so profound my organs were trembling. This man—three years ago, I had pushed him away with my own hands.

Gustavo raised the hydraulic cutters, the cold metal blade touching the skin on the inside of my wrist. I hissed—not from pain, but from the extreme cold that made my scalp tingle. His hand was steady. A fire captain’s hand had held up collapsed beams in burning buildings, had single-handedly pulled jumpers from seventeenth-floor window ledges. It never shook. But I could see the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. His masseter muscles pulsing, like he was about to shatter his teeth. “I asked you a question.” His voice pressed down from above, heavy as lead. “Did you use protection.” My brain instantly crashed. What? What protection? What was he talking about? I opened my mouth, and in my panic, without thinking, blurted out two words: “Didn’t.” I meant the handcuffs didn’t have a spare key. But those two words, to Gustavo’s ears, clearly meant something else entirely. His whole body jerked like he’d been electrocuted, his right hand gripping the hydraulic cutters suddenly tightening. The veins on the back of his hand bulged one by one, like snakes crawling under his skin. Click. The sound of metal breaking, crisp and vicious—the handcuff chain snapped. The moment the chain broke, a flying metal fragment cut across the back of Gustavo’s hand. A gash immediately opened, blood flowing down between his fingers, dripping onto my white sheets. One drop, two drops, three drops—shocking to see. “Your hand—” “Don’t worry about it.” He threw the hydraulic cutters on the floor with a dull thud. My newly freed hands immediately grabbed the blanket, wrapping myself from feet to chin, wishing I could bundle myself into a dumpling. “You can leave now.” My voice was shaking terribly, but I tried to maintain the last shred of dignity. “Thank you, Captain Gustavo, for responding. Sorry for the trouble, goodbye.” Gustavo didn’t move. He stood up, turned his back to me, and began unbuckling his firefighting combat gear. One buckle, two buckles, three buckles. The heavy flame-retardant jacket slid from his shoulders, revealing the sweat-soaked black compression shirt underneath. The fabric clung tightly to him, outlining every muscle on his back. My throat tightened. I looked away. The next second, I saw Gustavo grab the chair by the bedroom door— With a bang, he jammed it against the door. Then he turned around, sat down heavily on the chair, legs spread, elbows on his knees. His injured right hand hung down, still dripping blood. He didn’t even glance at it. He just raised his head, staring at me with those bloodshot eyes. “I need to write an incident report.” He said. His voice cold as poison: “Ares, I need you to cooperate.” “Give me a detailed account of what happened.” “When it started, how long it lasted, when the other person left.” “Speak clearly.” I gripped the blanket tightly, my nails digging into my palms. He was settling personal scores. Using the most legitimate excuse to inflict the most extreme humiliation on me. Three years. This was the hatred he’d been holding for three years. Blood flowed from the back of his hand to his fingertips, then dripped from his fingertips onto my bedroom floor. He didn’t wipe it, didn’t bandage it, didn’t even furrow his brow—as if it was someone else’s hand. As if all his attention, all his hatred, all his madness, was focused on me. I couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s wrong with you, Gustavo!” I sprang up from the bed, wrapped in the blanket, and shouted at him: “There’s no man! No one! Just leave!” “This is my house! What right do you have to stay here!” Gustavo squinted slightly at my outburst, but he didn’t move. His lips even curved into a smile so cold it chilled to the bone. “No one?” “So you’re playing with handcuffs by yourself?” “Tying yourself up?” “Dressed like that to tie yourself up?” Each rhetorical question was like a hammer pounding on my skull. I stood there open-mouthed, unable to say a word. Because—everything he said was true.

Gustavo didn’t give me a chance to breathe. He stood up from the chair and began searching through my bedroom like an enraged beast patrolling its territory. He yanked open the closet, hangers clattering. He glanced down—no men’s clothes. He kicked open the space under the bed—storage boxes with a few shoes, an old suitcase. He crouched down, looked for three seconds, stood up. He jerked open the balcony curtains—empty, just a few pieces of underwear on the drying rack swaying gently in the evening breeze. Gustavo scanned each item, his brow furrowed tight enough to pinch a fly. No trace of a man. Not a single trace. This bedroom was as clean as a sealed tomb, inhabited by only one person. I huddled on the bed, clutching the blanket, feeling like a rabbit cornered against a wall. Watching helplessly as he searched through my closet, under my bed, my balcony. Finally— His gaze landed on the vanity. My heart skipped a beat. Don’t go there. Please, don’t go there. But he was already moving. I sprang from the bed like a released spring. The blanket fell and I didn’t even care. I rushed over, blocking the vanity before he could reach it, spreading my arms. “You can’t search here!” My voice had already changed pitch, sharp and thin, with a crying tone. Gustavo looked down at me. He was a full head taller than me. Right now, blocking his path, I looked like a kitten baring its teeth and claws while trembling all over. “Move.” “No!” He didn’t say it a second time. One hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me away from the vanity like picking up a cat, pressing me against the nearby wall. His other hand—the one still bleeding—pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity. Inside the drawer was nothing belonging to a man. Not even a single strand of male hair. Just a delivery box. Already opened, then resealed with tape. The seal was crooked, as if it had been repeatedly opened and resealed. Gustavo frowned, peeling back the tape with one hand. The box opened with a rustle, its contents spilling out. A photo slid to the floor. In the photo were two people—him and me. Three years ago, summer, in front of the fire station. He wore his training uniform, I stood on tiptoe holding a water bottle over his head. Both of us grinning carelessly. Next to the photo was a dark green hardcover notebook. The cover was worn and fraying at the edges, like it had been opened countless times. Gustavo bent down and picked up the photo, his fingertips slowly sliding across my face in the image. Then he picked up the notebook. All the blood in my body froze. “Don’t look!” I lunged at him like a madwoman. My fingers caught the corner of the notebook, desperately pulling it back. Gustavo restrained me with one hand. He held the notebook high over his head. I couldn’t reach it. I jumped. He stepped back. I jumped again. He stepped back again. Finally I stepped on one of the scattered photos on the floor, my foot slipped, and I pitched forward. Gustavo caught me around the waist with quick reflexes, but his other hand never lowered the notebook. He sat me down on the edge of the bed, then stepped back two paces, lowered his head, and opened the notebook. The first page. The first day after we broke up. His pupils trembled slightly. Silence. I saw his Adam’s apple bob sharply. He turned to the second page. It had dried, wrinkled water stains. His fingertips began to shake. The third page. He closed his eyes briefly, the corners reddening quickly. The fourth page. His lashes held fragments of the bedroom’s warm yellow light, glistening with moisture. Then—he turned to the last page. The last page was dated yesterday. Gustavo spoke. His voice sounded like each word was being ground out from his chest, hoarse to the point of distortion. He read—

“Day one thousand and twenty-three since the breakup.” “The fire station downstairs changed their siren sound.” “It took me three days to get used to it.” “Before, when that sound went off, I knew he was going on a call.” “I’d lean out the window and watch the fire truck leave.” “Then count the seconds until it came back.” He paused, his Adam’s apple rolling violently. He continued reading. “Today I passed the mall and smelled cigarette smoke on a man.” “It was Camel brand. He used to smoke those too.” “I stood there in a daze for a long time.” “Everyone around me was staring.” “I pretended to be waiting for someone, but really I was waiting for the tears to go back inside.” At the last sentence, Gustavo’s voice completely shattered, like a piece of glass violently smashed on the ground. “One thousand days since the breakup. Why does the smell of smoke still make me want to cry?” The notebook hung limply from his hand. He didn’t close it. Just held it there halfway, knuckles white, the blood on the back of his hand already congealed into a dark brown scab. His eyes were red—not just slightly bloodshot, but the entire whites burned crimson. The bedroom was quiet as a tomb. Gustavo lowered his head, his gaze moving from the notebook, slowly, slowly, settling on the cut pink fluffy handcuffs on the floor. Then—I saw his expression change. The anger was gone, the mockery was gone, that bone-deep hatred was gone too. In its place was something I’d never seen on his face before. That thing was called—heartbreak. He understood everything now. No other man, no hookup, no one who pulled up their pants and ran. Just a woman he’d left behind, holding his old photos and a diary full of his name through one thousand and twenty-three nights after the breakup, rotting alone. Even buying novelty handcuffs—she was playing alone. I crouched by the bed, burying my face in my knees. My shoulders shook like leaves in the wind. Utterly humiliated. Ares, oh Ares, look at yourself now. Wearing a lace dress, cornered in your bedroom by your ex-boyfriend. He read your diary, recited your most pathetic thoughts, saw your ugliest secrets. In front of him, even your last shred of dignity has been stripped away. Tears fell heavily onto my knees, spreading dark stains. I raised my head and forced a smile at him, uglier than crying. “Satisfied now, Captain Gustavo?” “Now you know.” “Ares is just this pathetic.” “Three years broken up, can’t forget you.” “Are you happy? Can you put this in your incident report?” I roughly wiped my face with the back of my hand, stood up, and pointed at the bedroom door. The final order to leave. “If you’ve seen enough, get out.” “Please.” “Leave me… just a little bit of dignity.” My voice broke in my throat. The bedroom fell into a long, dead silence. Gustavo stood motionless. I thought he would leave. He should leave. Three years ago, I was the one who broke up with him. I was the one who said “I don’t love you anymore.” I was the one who packed his things in a box and left it at the door. I was the one who changed my phone number and moved, cutting ties completely. He had ten thousand reasons to hate me. He should laugh coldly, slam the door, and leave—that would be the normal script. But he didn’t. I heard the notebook fall to the floor with a dull, soft thud. Then footsteps. One step, two steps, three steps, getting closer. Close enough that I could smell the smoke from his fire gear, mixed with sweat and the metallic scent of blood. A hand covered in wounds and dried blood cupped my face. His palm was rough enough to scrape skin, but his fingertips were trembling badly. I was forced to lift my head, meeting his eyes. Red, moist, like a wounded beast with its heart gouged out but refusing to fall. Gustavo knelt on one knee before me. This man who had pried open twisted car doors with his bare hands in fires. This man who had carried two children down from the fifteenth floor through thick smoke. This man I had pushed away with my own hands and then abandoned. He knelt before me, cradling my face. His voice so hoarse it sounded like he was speaking through broken glass. “Since you miss me so much—” His thumb wiped across the tear tracks on my face, the pressure so light it was like touching something fragile. But the emotion churning in his eyes was fierce enough to make your legs weak. He unbuckled his tactical belt, the metal clasps clanging in the silent bedroom. Gustavo pressed his forehead against mine, nose tip to nose tip, breath intertwining. “—why use some cheap toy? Use me.”

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My husband Ethan insisted he had a serious illness and needed money for surgery—$200,000 short. I got a job as a singer at a nightclub, performing until 2 AM every night. One day I was called to sing in the VIP suite on the top floor. I pushed the door open to find a circle of people through the smoke. Ethan had his arm around a woman’s waist, head thrown back in laughter. The second his laughter stopped, he saw me standing in the doorway. He released Luna, the cigarette frozen between his fingers. “What are you doing here?” “I’m here singing to earn money. Money for your treatment.” The corner of Ethan’s mouth twitched. He didn’t respond. Luna spoke up first: “Didn’t Ethan divorce you ages ago? I heard you’re a terrible singer. Where do you get the confidence to sell your voice here?” The people in the room laughed. He didn’t stop them. Luna stood up and walked over to me, lowering her voice: “Actually, half the money you earn singing gets transferred to my account. I’m pregnant with his child. Consider this money your gift to the baby.” I nodded and picked up the microphone. “What song would you like?”

“One hundred per song. Charged by the song.” My voice was so steady even I found it unfamiliar. Someone jeered and requested a love song. I opened my mouth and sang, not missing a single note. Ethan raised his glass to his lips but never actually drank. Luna leaned against his shoulder, smiling as she spoke. “Not bad. Though singing love songs in a place like this is kind of pathetic.” I finished the last song, set down the microphone, and headed for the door. In the hallway, my coworker Fiona handed me six hundred dollars. “Mr. Reed’s table didn’t settle the tab.” I counted it and put it in my pocket. Fiona saw my expression and handed me a bottle of water. “Melody, if you can’t handle this, don’t force yourself.” I twisted open the cap and took a sip. “I can handle it.” Ethan came after me, grabbing my wrist. “You don’t need to work in a place like this.” His tone was condescending, irritating. I looked down at his hand, tightly circling my wrist. “Don’t you need $30,000 a day for hospital fees? I haven’t saved enough yet.” His pupils contracted. I was too calm. So calm that all his prepared lines fell flat. He ground out through clenched teeth: “I’m not sick. You must know that by now.” I looked up at him. “Yes, I know.” This calmness provoked his anger, his voice dropping lower and harder. “Luna is pregnant with my child. Either you accept her moving in, or you sign the divorce papers. Give me your answer within a week.” I slowly pulled my wrist from his grip, the movement gentle. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” I turned and walked away, my pace neither fast nor slow. In the backstage changing room, my fingers started to tremble. I shoved my hands into my pockets and clenched them into fists to hide the shaking. I remembered the day I gave Ethan the antique bracelet my grandmother left me. I slid the bracelet off my wrist and placed it in his hand. My hand had trembled that time too. Not from heartache, but from fear he’d notice how reluctant I was and feel guilty about it. Later he told me the secondhand shop only gave him eighty thousand. Now I knew—Ethan had given it to the woman pregnant with his child. I got home at 2 AM. Sitting on the edge of the bed eating pasta, I looked down and saw the silver ring on my ring finger stuck at the knuckle, unable to come off. I twisted it a few times. It wouldn’t budge. I went to the bathroom and ran it under cold water. The ring finally slipped off, dropping into the sink with a soft clink. I fished it out, dried it, and put it in a drawer. No hesitation. No second look. My phone lit up. Ethan sent a message: Stop working at the nightclub. I stared at it for a long time. Stop working at the nightclub—not because he felt bad for me, but because he found it embarrassing. I locked the screen without replying. The next day I went to the dance center as usual to teach children piano. A five-year-old girl hit a wrong note and looked up at me timidly. I bent down and smiled, saying it was okay, take your time. I maintained that smile until the bell rang and the last parent picked up their child. The second I stepped out of the classroom, every expression vanished from my face. I saw Luna. She stood at the entrance of the dance studio, holding a bag of fruit. “Miss Harper, Ethan said you’ve been working hard lately. I came to check on you.” She casually glanced at my coat, her lips curving slightly. I didn’t take the fruit. Her eyes immediately reddened, her voice fragile enough to be scattered by the wind. “Don’t blame me. He pursued me. I refused many times, but…” She touched her lower abdomen. “The child is innocent.”

I didn’t look at her stomach. My gaze fell on her right wrist. A bracelet. The one my grandmother passed down to me. I thought Ethan had sold it for treatment money. Now it rested securely around another woman’s wrist. Luna followed my gaze and unhurriedly touched the bracelet. “Oh, this? Ethan gave it to me. He said it’s an antique and told me to be careful with it.” I stared at the bracelet for three seconds. “He’s right. It is an antique. Be careful not to break it.” I turned and left. I rented a small apartment and moved out of what used to be my home that very night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened my phone’s photo album. I touched his smiling face on the screen with my thumb, then placed the phone face-down on the bed. Something cracked open in my chest. I pressed my hand against it, not letting any sound escape my throat. On the third day, Ethan asked me to meet at a coffee shop. When he walked in, I was already sitting in the corner, the Americano in front of me untouched. He sat down and pushed a document toward me. “Sign it. You get five hundred thousand. That’s enough.” I laughed coldly. “I sold my family heirlooms and gave you $600,000 total. You’re dismissing me with five hundred thousand.” He frowned. “Those old things of yours were appraised and aren’t worth that much…” “Grandma’s bracelet—you had Luna wear it on her wrist. And my mother’s ring too.” His fingers tapped the table twice. For a moment he avoided my eyes. He glanced out the window, then quickly looked back. “The past is past. Sign. I’m not shortchanging you.” I didn’t sign. As I stood to leave, I left the untouched Americano behind. “I’ll think about it some more.” He called out behind me. “Melody Harper, are you reluctant to let go of this marriage, or just your pride? People already know you’re singing at nightclubs. Your students’ parents will hear about it sooner or later. When that happens, you won’t even be able to teach. Have you thought about the consequences?” I stopped, my back to him. “Are you threatening me?” Two seconds of silence. He didn’t answer. I pushed the door open and left. That night Fiona booked five rooms. By the third room my voice was already hoarse. I sipped some honey water and continued. Fiona leaned against the backstage doorframe watching me. “If you don’t rest that voice, you won’t even be able to speak clearly, let alone sing.” “Fiona, how many more rooms today?” The fourth room was full of Ethan’s friends. Someone recognized me. They raised their glass halfway, then stopped, whispering to the person next to them. Then came a knowing laugh. I gripped the microphone tighter and finished the entire song. As I left the room, my knees buckled. I braced myself against the hallway wall. Fiona caught up and squeezed the bulging veins on the back of my hand. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?” “I ate at lunch.” “You only had two pieces of toast.” She handed me a sandwich. When I got back to the apartment in the early morning, there was a takeout bag by the door. Inside was a burger and mushroom soup, still warm. This was from the place Ethan always ordered from. I picked up the mushroom soup and took a sip. The warm liquid rolled into my stomach, wrapping the hollow space with a layer of warmth. My eyes suddenly stung unbearably. I set the bowl down abruptly and pressed the back of my hand hard against my eyes, holding it there for over ten seconds. The heat subsided. I picked up the bowl again and finished it sip by sip. This was his cruelest trait. When he hurt me, he was decisive and cold. But then he’d casually offer a little warmth, leaving me unable to tell which version was really him.

On the fourth day I went to the bank to withdraw money. The balance on the ATM screen froze at $347. I stood in front of the machine staring at those numbers. Nothing left. Walking out of the bank, I received a call from an unknown number. The caller claimed to be Luna’s best friend. “There are some things you should hear.” At the coffee shop, the woman who called herself Nina wore designer clothes, coffee cup in hand. “Melody, do you think Ethan just made a momentary mistake?” She pulled out her phone and pushed a screenshot of a chat log toward me. Ethan told Luna: “Give me a little more time. I’ll handle her.” The date was three months ago, even earlier than when he told me he was sick. I finished reading the screenshot without saying anything. She put her phone away. “Luna told me that Ethan stopped loving you a long time ago. Marrying you was just an impulse. After meeting Luna, he finally understood what real love feels like.” She lowered her voice, her fingernail tapping the table. “Stop dragging this out. It’s better for everyone.” I stood up. “Thank you for telling me.” Walking out of the coffee shop, I stood by a lamppost for a long time. Three months ago, he said he’d get me a proper ring for my birthday this year. On the fifth day, I went to find Marcus Smith. He was helping in the kitchen of his new restaurant. When he saw me come in, he froze. “Melody? How did you… you’ve lost so much weight.” No small talk. I asked directly. “Ethan faking his illness—how much do you know?” Marcus dropped the cloth in his hand. As he bent to pick it up, he avoided my eyes. “…Who told you?” I didn’t answer, just looked at him. He wouldn’t say much, but his mouth moved faster than his brain, mumbling out: “Ethan didn’t come up with this idea himself. That woman Luna…” Before he could finish, his phone rang. Ethan’s name popped up. Marcus answered the call. His expression changed. He glanced at me and hung up hastily. “Melody, go home. Stay out of this.” Not his own idea. If someone pushed him into it, why didn’t he tell me? Didn’t I even deserve to be treated honestly? On the sixth day, one day before the deadline, Ethan sent a message: Tonight at 7, the usual place. Bring your answer. The usual place was a Japanese restaurant we frequented. When I arrived, he was already seated. “You still remember I love salmon.” His tone was flat, revealing no emotion. Always the same trick—offering a knife with one hand and candy with the other, leaving me unable to tell if he had a heart or not. “I don’t agree to the divorce. You faked illness and deceived me for three months, spending all my savings. What you owe me can’t be settled with a piece of paper and five hundred thousand.” My attitude was firm. His face darkened, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You think dragging this out benefits you? Everyone knows you’re singing at nightclubs now. Your students’ parents will find out any minute. Have you thought about the consequences?” This sentence struck my softest spot. The restaurant door opened. Luna walked in with two of Ethan’s friends, her tone perfectly surprised. “Oh my, Ethan, you’re here? We were passing by and saw your car.” Her gaze swept to me, immediately switching to anxiety and retreat. She turned to Ethan, eyes brimming with tears, voice so delicate it was nauseating. “Didn’t you say you were working late tonight? I even brought you some pastries at the office…” The two friends’ gazes bounced between Ethan and me. Ethan paused for a moment. He looked at me, then at Luna. He stood up, walked to Luna’s side, and draped his coat over her shoulders. “It’s cold outside. Go home first.” He protected her in front of everyone, then turned to me and said: “I’ve said everything I needed to say. Let me know when you’ve decided.” Then he walked out supporting Luna. Through the closing door, I heard her say softly outside: “Ethan, I really didn’t mean to come here. Don’t be angry…” His response was just two words. “It’s fine.”

Early on the seventh day, I went to the dance center to teach as usual. When I opened the piano room door, the director was already inside waiting. “Miss Harper, three parents called yesterday to complain, saying you work at nightclubs. This is a children’s training center. The parents have concerns. Take some time off.” My fingers tightened on the edge of my lesson plan. I nodded. I pulled my teaching materials from under the piano bench and took out a box of candy the children had given me last week from the drawer. Walking out of the piano room, a parent in the hallway who was dropping off their child pulled the child’s hand and deliberately went around me. I knew how the complaints came about. But too many people had handed over knives. I couldn’t tell who was who anymore, and I didn’t want to. My last financial pillar had collapsed. I went to three places looking for work. The supermarket cashier position wasn’t hiring. The restaurant kitchen had me try out that day. I washed dishes for five hours until my hands were so waterlogged you couldn’t see the fingerprints. The housekeeping company said I could train first, but I had to pay a three-hundred-dollar deposit. My entire net worth: three hundred forty-seven dollars. When I left the restaurant, it was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I stood under an awning waiting. A black sedan stopped by the roadside. The window lowered halfway. Ethan looked at my swollen, pale hands and rain-dampened hair. His brow furrowed. “Get in the car.” I didn’t move. He got out and held the umbrella over me. “Melody Harper, why put yourself through this? Sign the papers, take the money, and move on. You don’t have to suffer like this.” He didn’t feel bad about me suffering. He just found my suffering an eyesore. I walked out from under his umbrella into the rain. “Ethan, you faked illness for three months and made me earn money for you.” “I sold all my heirlooms, and you gave them to another woman.” “And now you’re telling me I don’t have to suffer like this?” Rain ran down my eyelashes. I couldn’t tell if it was rain or something else. But my voice made him take half a step back. “You didn’t choose the rules. But if you want to end this, fine. Except this time, I set the terms.” He reached out to pull me back. I stepped aside to avoid him. His hand froze in midair for two seconds, then slowly lowered. That night, Professor Helen Wade called. “Melody, check online right now. Someone posted a video of you singing at the nightclub.” I opened the link. A secretly filmed video: Award-winning piano teacher reduced to nightclub singer—the truth behind the story is heartbreaking. The comments section exploded. Some cursed me for having no self-respect, some mocked the pianist turned hostess, some dug up my old award photos and put them side by side with current footage for comparison. I read all the comments and turned off my phone. My body was trembling, but my face showed no expression. Fiona sent a message: “Melody, the video wasn’t leaked by anyone from our club. I’m investigating. Don’t come to work. Lay low for a while.” My last source of income was gone too. Early the next morning, Luna sent me a message. “Melody, those comments online are too harsh. I already had Ethan take care of it. Don’t take it to heart. Do you want to come stay at the house? I prepared the guest room for you.” The house. She was talking about what used to be my home. Guest room. I was being invited to stay in the guest room of my own house. I put down my phone and walked into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I’d lost nearly twenty pounds. I barely recognized the person in the mirror. Ethan called, his voice unusually urgent. “I had the video deleted. Are you okay?” “Ethan, did you have someone post it?” Three seconds of silence on the other end. I waited for those three seconds. “Whether it was you or not, thank you for deleting it.” I hung up. Those three seconds of silence were the answer. He probably didn’t post it, but he didn’t stop it either. That night I opened my phone’s photo album and scrolled from the first picture to the last. All photos related to Ethan. Photos of us together, him secretly photographing me playing piano, me photographing him sleeping, selfies of us toasting at a small restaurant. Over two hundred photos. Select all. Delete. The photos disappeared one by one. After clearing my phone, the screen was so clean there wasn’t a trace left. I opened my messages and sent Ethan one final text. “I agree to the divorce.” I also took out the silver ring from the drawer and left a note: “Returning this to you!”

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The moment I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t wait to share the news with my Special Forces husband, Ethan Walker. But as soon as the call connected, he told me he’d received an urgent mission and had to leave immediately for preliminary reconnaissance. And just like that, he vanished without a trace. Two years later, Ethan’s mother begged me through her tears to remarry. But I firmly believed he was still alive. I raised our son Lucas alone, waiting for him to come home. Ten years later, I was called to the school by my son’s teacher, Miss Smith. At the office door, I saw a familiar silhouette. He was gently comforting a crying little girl in his arms. “Don’t cry, Zoe. Daddy already taught that bad boy Lucas a lesson.” But the girl pouted and pounded her little fists against his chest in protest. “You’re a bad daddy! You didn’t even scold him, and you won’t let me cry!” So Ethan Walker was really alive after all! He just had a new family now. Miss Smith heard the commotion and walked over, intimately linking her arm through his as she smiled at me. “Serena, this is my husband, Professor Walker.” I looked up and met Ethan Walker’s shocked, stunned eyes.

Ten years—time had been exceptionally kind to him. Except for the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, he was still the tall, handsome man I remembered. Only now, from head to toe, there was no trace of the man who used to be covered in mud, wearing camouflage fatigues. The way he looked at me—shocked, flustered, even frightened. My stomach churned, and the familiar taste of rust flooded my throat. I dug my nails hard into the web of my hand to keep myself from losing control on the spot. Ten years ago, it had been an afternoon just like this. Holding the pregnancy test with its two red lines, I’d been so excited that I immediately called Ethan. His voice had sounded tired but still gentle. “What’s wrong, baby?” I took a deep breath, about to speak, when the sharp sound of an assembly whistle came through his end. “I’ve got an urgent mission. I have to leave right now for preliminary reconnaissance.” “I might lose contact for a while. Wait for me to come back.” *Wait for me to come back.* Those words became my only comfort through ten long years of waiting. But what I got instead was a death notification two years later. Ethan’s mother cried and begged me to remarry while I was still young, to find a good man. But I didn’t believe it. I refused to believe that the man who promised to stay with me forever would be willing to leave me behind. I even wondered if maybe he didn’t know about the pregnancy, if that regret was what kept him from returning. So I stubbornly gave birth to our son and named him Lucas. Day after day, night after night, I thought of him and longed for him. I believed that as long as I waited, he would eventually come back. Now, he was back. With a woman who shared an intimate bond with him, and an adorable daughter. “Serena?” My son’s teacher, Jennifer Smith, smiled warmly, though there was a hint of showing off in her expression. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?” Her hand on Ethan’s arm tightened, as if asserting her ownership. Ethan glanced at Jennifer’s hand on his arm, then looked at me. The little girl in his arms—the one called Zoe—was staring at me curiously with eyes that were identical to his. My chest felt unbearably tight. I forced myself to calm down and smiled slightly. “No, just a bit of low blood sugar.” “Oh, you should really take care of yourself,” Jennifer said with concern, then changed the subject. “Actually, I called you in today because Lucas got into a fight with our Zoe.” “Kids will be kids, but Lucas pushed Zoe down and she hit her forehead. That’s not a small matter.”

I looked at the little girl. There was indeed a cartoon Band-Aid on her forehead. “If Lucas was wrong, I apologize on his behalf. The medical expenses—” “No need for medical expenses.” Ethan finally spoke. He avoided my gaze, looking elsewhere. “Kids roughhousing, it happens.” His defense was for his daughter. But what about my son? My Lucas had a bruise on his lip too. I looked away awkwardly, unable to stay any longer. “Miss Smith, I’ll take Lucas home now. I’ll make sure to discipline him properly.” As soon as I finished speaking, I turned and fled. Behind me, Jennifer’s gentle voice rang out again: “Ethan, let’s take Zoe out for her favorite Italian food tonight. Consider it making it up to her.” My steps faltered. Italian food. When we were dating, Italian food was my favorite. Back then, Ethan had taken me to every Italian restaurant in the city, just to let me taste the freshest clams. He had once said: “When this mission is over, I’ll take you to Tuscany and let you eat to your heart’s content.” So his promises hadn’t gone unfulfilled—he’d just fulfilled them for someone else. As I left the building, my phone buzzed. The name “Sebastian White” flashed on the screen. I answered, and his warm voice came through. “Serena, don’t forget your follow-up appointment tomorrow.” When I got home, Lucas sat sullenly on the couch, the bruise on his lip looking even more obvious. I knelt down and dabbed ointment on it with a cotton swab. He hissed in pain but still looked up at me with his small face, watching me carefully. “Mom, that man today looked just like Dad in the photo.” My hand froze. In the photo, Ethan wore his uniform, standing tall and handsome with a smile in his eyes. Lucas had been calling that picture “Daddy” since he was little. I swallowed the bitter ache in my heart, ruffled his hair, and said softly: “Silly boy, people can look alike. There are plenty of people in the world who resemble each other.” He nodded as if he understood, then muttered quietly: “Mom, do I not have a dad?” Children speak without filters, yet every word pierced my heart. I pulled him tightly into my arms, my chin resting on his soft hair, my voice choked: “You do. Your dad is a hero. He’s in a faraway place protecting us.” This was the lie I’d been telling him for nine years. Before, I had truly believed it. Now, it seemed more like a joke. After settling Lucas to sleep, I dragged my exhausted body into the bathroom. I closed the door, turned on the shower, and let the water pour over me, soaking through my clothes. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I crouched down. Ten years of suppressed grief and pain exploded in that moment. I bit down on my arm to muffle my sobs. Why? Ethan Walker, why did you do this to me? Do you know what those ten years were like for me? For the first two years after you disappeared, I frantically searched for any information about you. I begged everyone I could contact, and the answer was always “no news.” The little life growing inside me was my only hope. When I was six months pregnant, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer. The doctor urged me to terminate the pregnancy and begin treatment immediately. I refused. This was the only connection left between you and me. I couldn’t bear to let go. I hid it from everyone and stubbornly chose the most conservative treatment plan, just so he could be born safely.

The day of my C-section, I hemorrhaged and nearly died. The doctor said it was a miracle I survived. After surgery, I began a long course of chemotherapy. My hair fell out in clumps. I vomited until I thought my bile would come up. Every single time, I wanted to give up. But thinking of Lucas, thinking that you might still be alive somewhere in this world, I gritted my teeth and held on. Until that death notification arrived. I completely fell apart. It was Sebastian. My attending physician, and also my senior from college, who had quietly stayed by my side all along. He connected me with the best specialists and designed the most suitable treatment plan for me. He even secretly paid my medical bills when I was at my most desperate. He played the role of a father in Lucas’s life. He said: “Serena, you have to live. For Lucas, and for yourself.” I lived. With a body full of illness, I raised our son alone. I thought suffering would eventually pass. But you delivered the most devastating blow. You were alive. So what was that death notification about? Or was it all deliberate? If it was the latter, what did my ten years of waiting and devotion mean? I was like a clown, performing a solo act for ten long years. The next day, after dropping Lucas off at school, I went straight to the hospital. Sebastian looked grave as he held my latest test results. “Serena, it’s not looking good.” He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up and sighed. “The cancer cells in your body are spreading faster. The previous medications can’t control it anymore.” I had expected this result. The increasingly frequent pain had been warning me. The time bomb buried in my body was about to explode. I asked calmly: “How long do I have?” Sebastian was silent for a moment before forcing out the words: “If we don’t switch to a more aggressive chemotherapy regimen, at most… six months.” Six months. My life had only six months left. “Then let’s switch.” I looked at him and forced a smile. “Sebastian, thank you for everything these years.” He looked at me with pain in his eyes, reaching out as if to pat my shoulder, but his hand froze in midair. “Serena, you—” He wanted to say something, but was interrupted by an abrupt female voice. “Serena?” I turned around to see Jennifer Smith standing at the office door. “Yes, Miss Smith.” I responded flatly. Sebastian sensed something was wrong and frowned. “And this is?” “I’m Lucas’s homeroom teacher.” “Ethan Walker’s current wife.” I added that last part. “Serena, there’s something I think you should know.” Jennifer pulled me out of the office. We sat down on a bench in a quiet corner. Sebastian stayed at a distance, worried. “Ethan and I were each other’s first loves. We separated for a while, but when we met again ten years ago, we quickly got back together.” “The day he told you about the mission, I told him I was pregnant.” “My father pulled strings and arranged everything for him. All he had to do in return was abandon you.” My brain went blank with a buzz. So that’s how it was. “Why would you do this?” I looked at her in disbelief. “Because I love him. Love means doing whatever it takes, doesn’t it?” “Besides, I was just taking back what was rightfully mine.” “And the facts prove he made the right choice, don’t they?” Jennifer’s smile deepened as she looked at my ashen face.

So I was just someone to fill the void during his heartbreak. So that day, he became a father to two children. So when it came to pregnancy, I was the one who could be abandoned, while she was naturally the one to be protected. I laughed out loud. I stood up shakily. Warm liquid rapidly flowed from my nose. “Serena!” Sebastian cried out and rushed over, holding me and pressing against my nose. He glared furiously at Jennifer. “Miss, please stop provoking her and leave immediately!” Jennifer looked frightened by the situation, repeating over and over: “This has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with me.” Then she turned and left, her heels clicking. The blood wouldn’t stop. It flowed through my fingers, staining Sebastian’s sleeve red. When I left the hospital, I walked home in a daze. Jennifer’s words kept echoing in my mind. “My father pulled strings and arranged everything for him.” “All he had to do was abandon you.” So by throwing me away, he could live the life he wanted. Clearly, for these ten years, I was the one who was discarded. Yet here I was, waiting so desperately. My life was a joke. When I reached the entrance to my apartment complex, a familiar figure blocked my path. It was Ethan Walker. He looked like he’d been waiting for a long time, with several cigarette butts scattered at his feet. Seeing me, he immediately stubbed out the cigarette in his hand. He quickly walked up, his voice sounding guilty. “Serena, we need to talk.” I looked at this well-dressed university professor before me. He gradually overlapped with the man in military uniform from my memory, then slowly separated again. “What is there left for us to talk about?” “I know you hate me, that you blame me. But Serena, please let me explain.” He took a deep breath. “Back then, Jennifer really was pregnant. Her father came to me and gave me two choices.” “One was to continue my original life, risking death on any mission, and he had plenty of ways to make us live in fear forever.” “The other was to accept his arrangement and have a stable future.” He stepped forward, trying to grab my hand, pleading: “Serena, I struggled for a long time.” “I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t want you to live in constant fear with me.” “I sent money home every month. I told them to let you find a good man and start a new life.” So his parents had known all along. I could only say their performance had been all too convincing. “As for Jennifer, we’re only together for the child. All these years, I’ve only felt responsibility toward her.” His explanation sounded even more laughable. “Only responsibility?” “You enjoy the life she’s given you while saying it’s only for the child, only responsibility?” “When you were heartbroken, you seamlessly moved on to me, and not long after we got married, you rekindled things with your first love.” Ethan’s face turned deathly pale. “Do you know that the day I called you, I had just found out I was pregnant!” “I didn’t even get the chance to tell you. And you? For the sake of your bright future, you decisively abandoned me.” “Your parents never gave me a single penny. I was kicked out!”

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