Chapter 3

Moldy peeling walls, dim lighting.

The air reeked of cheap ointment and old wood.

I sat at the paint-chipped wooden table.

Half a piece of cold, hard bread sat before me.

My phone vibrated.

A message from Julian.

"Morgan, I heard from the doctor that if your mom doesn't get that imported medicine, she probably won't make it past next month."

"I know that medicine is expensive—fifty thousand dollars."

"We'll save together. I'll quit smoking, you skip a few lunches. We can scrape it together."

Looking at these familiar words.

I laughed. Laughed until tears streamed down my face.

I'm back. I'm really back.

Back to the day I decided to begin my "hellish economizing."

In my previous life, this message became my death warrant.

I looked at that half piece of bread, nausea churning in my stomach.

Not from hunger. From disgust.

I grabbed the bread and hurled it into the trash.

"Morgan? What's wrong?"

From the shabby bedroom came that woman's weak voice.

That was my "good mother," Betty.

The chairwoman of White Group.

Right now she was lying on that creaking wooden plank bed, playing the role of a dying peasant woman.

I stood up and walked to the door.

Through the crack, I saw her quickly stuffing something into her mouth when she thought I wasn't looking.

A piece of imported chocolate.

When she noticed me coming in, she moved lightning-fast to shove the chocolate under her pillow.

Then switched to an expression of agony.

"Morgan, I'm fine... just hurts terribly..."

"Don't worry about me. Better if I just die, stop being a burden to you..."

Such great acting. You deserve an Oscar.

In my previous life, seeing this scene broke my heart.

I would kneel by the bed, crying and swearing to save her, then immediately go sell my blood.

But now I leaned against the doorframe, watching her performance with zero expression.

"Mom, if it hurts that much, don't hold it in."

Betty froze.

Seemingly unprepared for my calm reaction.

"Morgan, the medicine is too expensive... we can't afford it..."

"Can't afford it?"

I curved my lips, my eyes ice-cold.

"If we can't afford medicine, we'll find another way."

"Mom, didn't you always teach me that people need to know how to utilize resources?"

A flash of confusion crossed Betty's eyes.

This was her critique as an "examiner"—something I shouldn't know about.

But I didn't give her time to think.

"If you're going to die anyway, why care about dignity?"

"Mom, just wait."

"I'm going to get you money."

I turned and left.

Behind me came Betty's slightly panicked voice: "Morgan, where are you going? Don't do anything rash!"

Anything rash? Ridiculous.

I just wanted to make this "Truman Show" a bit more exciting.