Chapter 4

"Young man, your condition has reached a critical point and can't be delayed any longer. The surgery must be done as soon as possible, but the success rate isn't optimistic. If you have any unfulfilled wishes, you should seize the time to complete them."

The doctor's words left me stunned, a strange chill rising in my heart.

I realized that this probably meant the success rate of the surgery wasn't promising, and the doctor's words seemed more like a hint for me to arrange my affairs early.

However, faced with this sudden "death sentence," my heart was strangely calm. After experiencing all kinds of mental torture, death had become a longed-for release for me.

I slowly picked up my phone, my fingertips hovering over the screen for a long time before finally pressing that all-too-familiar number - Isabella's phone.

At the end of my life, I realized that the one I couldn't let go of was still her.

My parents passed away early, and I was raised by my grandmother.

After my grandmother passed away, Isabella became the longest-lasting companion in my life. However, this companionship was full of twists and bitterness.

On the other end of the phone, it was still the cold "The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable."

I put down the phone helplessly, understanding that Isabella had blocked me again.

This was her usual tactic. Whenever I did something slightly against her wishes, I would suffer this treatment.

She never gave me a chance to explain, unless I knelt down to apologize, her expression would only then improve slightly.

Since I couldn't get through on the phone, I could only try to contact her through Twitter.

However, when I opened Twitter, an overwhelming flood of abuse and accusations popped up in my private messages, almost making it hard to breathe.

Isabella had accused me on Twitter of long-term cold violence towards her, portraying herself as a victim who had endured humiliation for the sake of the family.

She claimed that she had taught herself to cook to please me, leaving countless knife scars on her fingers, but her efforts received not a shred of care or understanding from me. She even said that once, when she accidentally broke a cup, I yelled at her loudly.

She even slandered me, saying I often didn't come home at night and always had other women's hair on me.

Whenever she asked about this, I would hit her and then ruthlessly block her.

Reading this tweet that turned black into white, I felt dead inside.

These things did indeed happen, but the victim was me, not her, Isabella.

Her private message was even more heartbreaking:

"Jack, even if I did cheat, what can you do about it? Now everyone is on my side, and you're just like a clown, losing miserably."

These words undoubtedly stimulated my fragile nerves, and my head felt like it was about to split open.

I rolled and struggled on the hospital bed until I fell to the floor, my head continuously hitting the ground.

The thudding sound attracted the attention of the nurse. With her help, I gradually eased out of the pain.

"Mr. Jack, why do you get a headache every time you look at your phone?" The nurse gently massaged my scalp, asking curiously.

I smiled bitterly and mocked myself, "Perhaps this is the obsession before death."

Then, I recounted my story.

By the time the story ended, the nurse was crying uncontrollably, tears rolling down like broken strings of pearls.

Just then, the phone rang suddenly, and I answered with a glimmer of hope.