Chapter3

Perhaps I was sick for too long, but I actually caught a fleeting glint of guilt in Alan's eyes.

I calmly slipped the laptop from his grip and snapped it shut.

"Don't worry. I will never steal Chloe's spotlight on stage again. Whatever she wants, I'll give it to her."

I looked up, meeting his gaze.

"Just let me go, okay? Treat me like air. Leave me alone."

Alan grabbed me by the collar, furious rage burning in his eyes. "You blocked everyone's numbers. You vanished for a whole year without a word and hid in this hellhole that doesn't even have streetlights." His voice trembled. "Who is torturing whom here?!"

"What do you mean you can't share a stage with Chloe? What exactly happened to your foot?"

I spoke softly. "Drop the act, brother."

"When my ankle was crushed, I asked the prison guard to get a message to you. To ask you to call a doctor for me."

I kept my eyes on him.

"And on the phone, you said—'Her ankle is hurt? It's fine. Victoria is too arrogant. She always loves stealing the spotlight from Chloe. She needs to be taught a lesson. Send the prison doctor over later.'"

Alan's hands stiffened. The grip on my collar suddenly loosened by half.

"You..."

"I heard everything," I said. "The guard had you on speakerphone."

"No." He took a half-step back. "The guard explicitly told me you accidentally sprained it while performing during yard time. What do you mean 'crushed'? I never said those things."

"Alan."

Chloe's voice drifted in from the doorway. She walked in holding her phone and positioned herself intimately by his side.

"I had Vance ask all the guards who managed my sister back then." She held up her phone. "They all said her foot was accidentally sprained during yard time. Listen, I have the recording."

She tapped the play button.

A woman's voice played, heavy with an accent. "Oh, right. Number 008 was performing during yard time. Pushing a modern dance routine. She just slipped and fell halfway through. We even called the infirmary. Just a sprain. Nobody bullied her."

The recording ended. Alan frowned and turned back to me. "How exactly did you hurt your foot?"

It was always like this. No matter how much I suffered, Chloe only needed to drop a casual excuse, and he bought it without a second thought. If she said it was a sprain, it was a sprain. If I said it was crushed, I was a liar.

I hoisted the laptop—its screen still glowing with the old dance video—and smashed it violently against the floor.

"Get out. Both of you, get out."

Chloe let out a shriek and shrank behind Alan. Then, she raised her phone again, turning the screen toward me.

"Sister, the fans in my livestream heard your voice. They're all asking what's going on." Her tone was achingly gentle. "Say hi to them."

I stared at the screen. It showed thirty thousand current viewers.

Fear surged over me like a tidal wave. It was exactly like back then—when she pushed me into the internet's crosshairs, and all those dance enthusiasts turned into rabid haters overnight. The comment sections had been flooded with "Murderer" and "You ruined Chloe's stage."

"Get out! Get away from me!"

I snatched the phone from her hand and chucked it straight into the trash can.

Chloe gasped. "Ah! Brother, is she crazy..."

"Stop looking for me!" My voice cracked, raw and hoarse. "My foot is ruined. My dance career is over. I'm practically dying, so why do you still have to torture me?"

Alan's face darkened. "Chloe has always loved you. She even begged me to bribe the guards to take care of you, and this is how you treat her?"

I didn't look at him anymore. I dropped to my knees and pressed my forehead against the cold floor.

"I'm begging you, just let me off," I whispered. "Leave. Don't ever look for me again."

Alan stared at my scraped and bleeding forehead, his expression twisting into an ugly scowl. "You really are insane!"

He dragged Chloe away. The door slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang.

I knelt there on the floor. I didn't know how much time passed.

The hot soup Martha brought over was still sitting by the door, completely cold. I didn't touch it.

The shattered laptop screen still emitted a faint glow. That unfinished dance video remained frozen on a specific frame of the opening act.

I stared at that frame for a long, long time.

Then, I pulled out my phone and texted Martha: "I won't be renewing the lease next month."

Then, I made a decision.

It was a decision I built up to for a long time, yet never had the courage to truly execute.

Rather than being found by them over and over again, it was better to end it early. Perhaps after that, there would be no stage, no blinding lights, and no one requiring me to give up my place.

I slept very deeply that night.

At six in the morning, the ringing of my phone woke me up.

I answered it. It was a staff member from the Columbarium Management Office.

"Is this Amia? We're calling to inform you about the C-8 niche you reserved. It has already been transferred to someone else."

I froze dead in my tracks.