Chapter 2

Late night in my apartment, I sat on the floor organizing old boxes.

My phone screen lit up abruptly in the dim room.

It was a notification for Lily's social media update.

[Grateful for Marcus's careful guidance. My first first-author paper is about to be submitted!]

The attached photo showed Marcus's profile as he leaned down to explain data to her, his eyes gentle.

I turned off my phone and pulled a thick photo album from the bottom of the box.

The first photo showed nineteen-year-old me wearing a white lab coat, standing at the lab entrance with a nervous yet excited smile.

Next to me was twenty-four-year-old Marcus, his hand casually on my shoulder, full of ambition.

He was a third-year graduate student, and I was a freshman "genius newcomer" given special admission to the lab.

He said: "Hailey, you're the most talented student I've ever seen. Follow me, and I'll lead you to work on cutting-edge projects."

I believed him. From then on, my eyes held only him and the lab.

I continued flipping through.

Many photos.

Me in my bachelor's gown with him waving from the audience. Me operating expensive equipment for the first time with him standing behind me, guiding, his arms almost encircling me. A team outing where he blocked a colleague's offered drink, saying "She doesn't drink, I'll take it"...

Every frozen smile now looked like a layer of carefully applied paint, concealing the already rotting wood beneath.

Until the last few pages.

The photos became fewer.

The most recent one was from two years ago, at Marcus's celebration banquet after winning the Young Scientist Award.

He stood under the spotlight holding champagne, giving a speech thanking the team, the university, his parents.

That night, he drunkenly held me, his breath hot against my ear:

"When I win the Lincoln Award, we'll get married. I want everyone to know that half my success is yours."

I believed him then.

I even felt that all that day-after-day toil, those stolen authorships, those late nights walking home alone—all were necessary thorns on the path to that "future."

How ridiculous.

My phone vibrated again. Marcus sent several messages:

[I'm not coming back tonight. Lily's paper has some issues that need handling. Go to bed early.]

[My attitude was bad today, but you have to understand—Lily comes from a difficult background. This authorship can change her entire life.]

[About the photos—as long as you behave, I won't let a third person see them. You know what matters most to me.]

Looking at his words "behave," my stomach churned.

I got up from the floor and felt under a pile of old sweaters, finding a cold metal square.

I pressed play.

"I organized Hailey's data and put your name on it..."

"Don't forget what I have saved on my phone. Do I need to remind you publicly?"

"Be good. Give the paper to Lily."

I turned off the voice recorder, gripping it tightly in my hand.

The metal edges pressed painfully into my palm, but brought a strange sense of calm.

I closed the photo album and opened my computer.

A folder labeled "Ten Years" was densely packed with documents: experimental plans, data analysis, paper drafts, project proposals...

The author on all of them was Marcus.

My name was always in the "Acknowledgments," or simply absent.

I organized evidence until three in the morning.

After finishing, I walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on my face.

Then I lifted my head and, facing the mirror, said very softly:

"Marcus, the scientific career you value, the perfect image you've carefully cultivated, the Lily you want to treasure in your palm..."

"I'll destroy them all, one by one, with my own hands."