Chapter 8

After staying in the interrogation room for 24 hours, when I walked out of the police station, I felt like I'd been through another lifetime.

Ethan's car was parked at the police station entrance. He got out and walked toward me.He patted my shoulder, his voice as warm as a true brother's.

"Zachary, just revise the property division in the divorce agreement. Give the house and savings to Frost."

"Then I'll have them drop the case. Otherwise, as a domestic abuser, you can forget about ever seeing your daughter again."

The night wind blew through me. I was chilled to the bone.

"You're the one who called the police." I said.

Ethan didn't deny it. He just smiled.

"Zachary, I'm doing this for your own good. Look, your health isn't great. Wouldn't living alone be easier? The assets are useless to you anyway. Give them to Frost and Emma, and they'll remember your kindness."

I looked at him. At this man I'd once considered my brother.

The streetlight stretched his shadow long, like a twisted vine.

I signed the case withdrawal agreement.

The house went to Frost. The savings went to Frost. Custody of my daughter went to Frost.

I left with nothing.

Ethan drove away with Frost and Emma.

As they passed me, Frost rolled down the window and said flatly, "Smart choice."

Emma pressed against the car window and made a face at me.

I stood at the police station entrance, clutching that thin divorce certificate.

The night wind blew, and the paper's corner dug into my palm. It didn't hurt. I'd already endured worse pain than this.

The streetlight stretched my shadow long and faint, like ink that could dissolve at any moment.

I remembered the day three years ago when we got our marriage license. Frost didn't smile once. When the clerk said "congratulations," she just hummed in response.

I thought she was shy at the time. Now I understood—that was the politeness of someone completely indifferent to another person.

My phone vibrated. I looked down. It was a voice message from Frost's mother.

I hesitated for two seconds before opening it.

"Zachary, Mom knows you signed the papers today." Her voice was low, as if hiding from someone.

"Mom wants to tell you something from the heart—it's actually better that you're leaving."

"Your face and neck are covered in scars. Emma's still young. If she sees them too much, she'll have nightmares."

"Don't come to the house anymore, and don't come see the child. Let her slowly forget you. It's better for her."

My hand holding the phone trembled. My throat felt blocked by something.

I wanted to say: Mom, those scars are from donating a kidney to save your granddaughter. Those scars are from protecting your daughter when boiling water scalded me. But I said nothing, because I knew it would be useless.

The voice message finished playing. The screen lit up again—Frost's mother had recalled the message.

A few seconds later, she sent a new one: "Zachary, Mom sent the wrong message just now. Take care of yourself while you heal."

I didn't reply. I looked up and saw a 24-hour fast food restaurant across from the police station, warm yellow light glowing through the glass windows.

Inside sat a family of three. The parents were wiping their child's mouth. The child laughed and burrowed into the mother's arms.

I watched for a few seconds, then reached into my pocket for my phone and removed the SIM card.

I bent down and threw it into a storm drain by the road. When the card fell, it made no sound at all—like a complete and utter silence.

I straightened up and hailed a cab.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Airport."