Chapter 2

I floated to Mom, wanting to scream and tell her.

I hadn't left in a fit of pique, nor had I abandoned my siblings or the orphanage.

To tell her, Damon killed me.

To tell her, the jade pendant around Damon's neck was the evidence of my death!

It was the family heirloom Mom had given me!

But a veil lay between Mom and me, the living and the dead.

She couldn't hear my injustice, nor could she see my tears.

She just clutched her anxious chest, taking Damon home to cook.

Three years had passed, and the photo wall at home had changed.

My section in the group photo had been removed.

The picture of Mom and me, once proudly displayed in the center, was replaced by a snapshot of Damon, laughing, with his arm around Mom.

Mom, usually so busy, now busied herself in the kitchen, chopping and dicing, preparing a pot of ribs for Damon.

Just like the day I died, Damon arrived with the suitcase containing my remains, tiredly claiming I had stormed off abroad in anger, and he just needed someone to talk to.

Mom offered to make him my favorite ribs, apologizing profusely, saying that "my Anya has a difficult temper."

Damon, acting dutifully, helped Mom wash vegetables, a tolerant smile on his face.

Just as he had always done with me.

I turned my back, unable to watch.

Yet, the memory of meeting Damon for the first time flashed in my mind.

He was the illegitimate son of the city's wealthiest magnate, bullied relentlessly at Northwood University.

I let him out of the locked bathroom, gave him a blanket.

And encouraged him, word by word:

"Your birth isn't something you can control, but you can create everything you desire with your own hands."

I never expected that he would resort to any means necessary, even to the point of getting involved in the underground Industry.

I repeatedly urged him to turn from his destructive path, promising I'd stick by him no matter what.

But I never expected to be imprisoned in that mansion by his deranged cruelty.

Even now, thinking about everything I endured during those three months, my soul still felt phantom pain.

At first, he merely inserted needles into my fingertips; seeing I wouldn't yield, he personally pulled out all my teeth.

To conceal my identity, he burned off my skin, whipped me until there wasn't an inch of unblemished skin.

Finally, in a fit of rage, he put me on an industrial cutting table.

Three months later, Mom received my letter of severing family ties.

But if she had looked closely, she would have seen the handwriting was blurry and shaky.

My fingertips were riddled with needles then; I couldn't even hold a pen.

But Mom just tore the letter to shreds in resentment, cursing me as a heartless beast.

At this moment, I finally understood that the most painful thing wasn't death.

It was the oblivion and abandonment of those closest to you.

I was truly unwilling.

Unwilling to sleep in darkness, forever denied justice.

Unwilling that my tormentor still walked free, and my loved ones were lost to me.

Knowing it was impossible, I still hoped Mom could see me, speak for my injustice, and see justice served.

But Mom's next words, plunged me into an abyss of despair.