Chapter 4

Julia froze, staring at me with wide eyes. Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt as her face flushed with embarrassment.

“How did you know…?” she stammered, before quickly shifting to defiance. “It’s your fault anyway! You’re so stingy! Every time I ask for money, you drag your feet, so I had no choice but to ask him! At least he understands me—he knows what real love is!”

Her defiance turned to scorn as she crossed her arms, giving me a once-over.

“You’re lying about the divorce, right? You think I’d actually believe you? Stop pretending.”

Her eyes fell on the package in my hands, her expression shifting to curiosity.

“What’s that ugly thing you’re holding? Is it… clothes?”

Before I could answer, her boyfriend—a bleached-haired punk with a cigarette dangling from his lips—rested a hand on her shoulder and squinted at the package.

“Wait a second… isn’t that a burial suit? Someone in your family kick the bucket?”

The words hung in the air as Julia stepped forward, reaching for the package.

“Well, let me see for myself! What kind of stunt are you pulling now?”

I frowned and instinctively pushed her back.

Caught off guard, she stumbled and fell to the ground with a thud. From her pocket, a small card slipped out.

I bent down and picked it up.

It was an ID card.

The photo was hers, but the name read: Julia Evans.

For a moment, I felt like the world had gone silent. Then the pain started—a sharp, unbearable ache in my head.

When Julia was born, Monica had a severe hemorrhage. I was terrified I’d lose them both, so I insisted Julia take Monica’s last name as a way to honor her survival.

Years later, when my relationship with Monica soured, Julia had come to me more than once, begging to adopt my last name instead. She’d said she wanted nothing to do with her selfish mother.

But now…

At some point, she had willingly chosen to take Tim’s last name instead.

I clutched my head as my vision blurred.

The doctor had warned me this would happen—that the tumor would eventually press on my nerves, causing vision problems, memory loss, even cognitive decline.

How pathetic I was now, I thought bitterly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push back the darkness. When I opened them again, I could see Julia snatching the ID card from my hand and shoving it into her pocket, her movements frantic.

“Don’t get mad!” she said, her voice rushing out in a jumbled explanation. “I just thought Uncle Tim was really pitiful, you know? He’s getting older and has no kids of his own. It’s just a name change—it doesn’t mean anything! I’m still your daughter. Isn’t it nice to have two dads who love me?”

She glanced at my face, her confidence wavering as she noticed my expression.

“What’s wrong with you now?” she asked, frowning. “Don’t tell me you’re pretending to go blind again. No wonder Mom doesn’t like you—you act like a child, always faking illnesses to get attention.”

I didn’t reply. I simply shook my head, brushing past her as I walked away.

She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more, but she didn’t follow me.

By the time I left, the pounding in my head had subsided somewhat.

I took the bus to my childhood home—it wasn’t far, just on the outskirts of town.

The building was old, its walls stained with years of neglect. Dust coated every surface, and the air smelled faintly of mildew.

This was where I’d grown up, before Monica had taken us in after my father drowned saving her life.

I hadn’t been back in years.

Now, the place felt like a tomb.

I cleaned off the bed, shut the windows tightly, and locked the door. Then, I opened the gas canister I’d brought with me, letting the sharp scent of natural gas fill the room.

Calmly, I changed into the burial suit I’d bought earlier and lay down on the bed, positioning myself so the mortician could find me easily.

As I settled in, my phone buzzed.

I considered ignoring it, but out of habit, I answered.

Monica’s impatient voice came through the line.

“Carter, where are you? There’s a dinner party tonight, and you need to be there. I’m giving you thirty minutes to get ready.”

Her tone was sharp, like I was nothing more than an inconvenience.

I replied evenly, “I won’t make it. I’m about to die.”

There was a loud crash on the other end, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Then Monica’s voice, shrill and angry:

“Carter, what the hell is wrong with you? Stop saying such unlucky things!”

Before I could respond, I heard Tim’s voice in the background, calm and calculated as always.

“Monica, maybe Carter just can’t handle the divorce. If he’s really that upset, why don’t you take him back? I don’t mind—I’ll always be here to support you.”

Classic Tim. Playing the martyr, always angling for sympathy. And Monica, blind as ever, never saw through his act.

Just as I expected, her anger flared.

“Carter, don’t you dare use this to guilt me! Do you think I’m asking you to come because I want to? The CEO specifically requested you, or I wouldn’t have bothered. Fine, don’t come. And while you’re at it, don’t bother coming home either. Don’t expect to see Julia again, either!”

She hung up, leaving me in silence once more.

I exhaled slowly, my grip on the phone loosening until it fell to the floor.

The gas filled the room, thick and suffocating. My limbs grew heavy, my vision darkening.

The doctor had said that the end would feel like drifting off to sleep.

But this wasn’t peaceful.

I could feel every second of my body shutting down, every painful gasp for air. My face felt swollen, my skin tight.

It’s fine, I told myself. It’ll all be over soon.

Death, I thought, was like a quiet summer night—eerily serene.

I could hear the faint hiss of the gas, a sound that seemed almost soothing.

Thank God I’d hired someone to handle my body. Otherwise, I might have rotted here for weeks without anyone noticing.

But just as I was surrendering to the darkness, the door burst open with a deafening crash.

Someone had kicked it in.

An uninvited guest had arrived.