Chapter 1

Nights in the San Francisco Bay Area are always cold.

Even standing in this penthouse apartment valued at 30 million US dollars, overlooking the dazzling lights of the Golden Gate Bridge through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I still felt cold—a chill that seeped from the depths of my bones, unrelated to temperature, but related to dignity.

"Arthur, are you just going to stand there and watch?"

Isabella's voice came from behind me, with her signature languidness and sarcasm. I didn't turn around, because I knew she was curled up on that custom-made Italian leather sofa, and Leon—the twenty-three-year-old male model—waxed his head on her lap.

"Isabella, your husband's eyes are so scary!" Leon deliberately drew out his words, like a spoiled child, "Is he angry?"

"Him?" Isabella chuckled, her laughter laced with disdain. "If he dares to get angry, he'll have to unplug his ventilator tomorrow."

My fist slowly clenched in my pocket.

"Honey, that's hurtful," Leon said, sitting up and casually putting an arm around Isabella's waist, his eyes looking at me defiantly. "After all, he's your legal husband. Even if... he's a useless live-in son-in-law."

He deliberately emphasized the syllables of the word "waste".

Isabella didn't push him away. Instead, she spoke with the elegance of someone presenting an academic viewpoint: "Arthur, you should understand that in our social class, love and sex have always been separate. Marriage is merely a contract for resource integration, while pleasure—" she gently stroked Leon's angular jawline, "is a privilege I deserve as the heir to the Crawford family."

I turned around and looked at them expressionlessly.

Leon, thinking I was about to explode, flashed a glint of excitement in his eyes. This fool probably thought it was thrilling to humiliate his dog in front of his master.

"What? You want to fight?" Leon stood up and deliberately walked in front of me. He was half a head taller than me. "Go ahead, hit me. If you dare to lay a finger on me, Isabella can make one phone call and your mother will be moved from the greenhouse ward to the underground morgue tomorrow."

I remained silent.

Because what he said was true.

Three months ago, my mother was suddenly diagnosed with late-stage malignant brain tumor. Only Crawford Group's "Eden" medical system could sustain her life—that specially made life support pod worth 20 million US dollars, combined with targeted drug injections three times a week, was her only way to survive.

Access to the device was controlled by Isabella.

That's why I wore the collar.

"Arthur," Isabella began slowly, her voice carrying a commanding tone, "go to the bar and pour Leon a glass of wine, the '82 Lafite. Remember, bring it with both hands and say 'Excuse me.'"

The air froze for a few seconds.

I could feel Leon's expectant gaze and hear Isabella's fingertips tapping lightly on the sofa armrest—a sign of her impatience.

I turned around and walked towards the bar.

His steps were steady, but each step felt like walking on a knife's edge.

I opened the wine cabinet and took out the bottle of Bordeaux red wine with the vintage stamped in gold. I opened the bottle, decanted it, and poured it into a crystal glass. Throughout the process, I kept reminding myself: Hold back, for Mom's sake.

When I approached Leon with my wine glass in both hands, the smile on his face had become distorted to a morbid degree.

"Say it, say 'I'm sorry.'" He deliberately brought his face closer. "Say 'Young Master Leon, I'm a good-for-nothing, please forgive me.'"

My Adam's apple bobbed.

"sorry."

The voice was very soft, but every word was clear.

Leon took the glass, but instead of drinking, he deliberately spilled the wine on my leather shoes. The crimson liquid stained the Italian handcrafted leather like blood.

"Oops, my hand slipped." He exaggeratedly covered his mouth. "Arthur, you don't mind, do you?"

I looked up and met his eyes.

In that instant, I saw the fear deep in his pupils—yes, fear. Because my gaze was so cold, so cold that even a brainless idiot like him sensed something was wrong.

But this fear was quickly dispelled by Isabella's laughter.

"Leon, you're so mean," she said lazily. "But then again, I bought these shoes for him anyway. If they get dirty, I'll just buy him more."

I lowered my head and silently retreated to the French windows.

Through the reflection in the glass, I saw myself—thirty-two years old, thin, wearing a cheap black T-shirt and faded jeans, like an intruder who could be kicked out of the apartment building at any moment.

On the sofa behind me, Isabella and Leon were already embracing again. Her phone screen was lit up, displaying the back-end of Crawford Group's "Eden" system—the core of her proud medical empire, a digital infrastructure valued at over ten billion dollars.

I stared at the screen, a very faint smile slowly curving up the corners of my mouth.

What Isabella didn't know was that the system she saw as a symbol of technological hegemony was merely a set of low-level code I had casually written in my basement five years ago. At the time, I had just received my PhD from MIT and was working on a side job on the Silicon Valley dark web under the pseudonym "Zero"—building an algorithm framework for a life support system for a medical consortium.

Later I felt that the logic was too crude, so I abandoned it.

Unexpectedly, someone picked up my trash, packaged it as a business miracle, and built the Crawford family's digital empire of today.

And now, this woman has used my code to suffocate my mother.

How ironic.

"Arthur, what are you laughing at?"

Isabella's voice suddenly rang out, filled with scrutiny and suspicion.

I composed myself and turned around: "It's nothing, I was just thinking about some things from the past."

"The past?" Leon perked up again. "What past could a good-for-nothing like you, who lives off his wife, possibly have? You're not thinking about how you tricked Isabella back then, are you?"

I didn't respond.

At that very moment, Leon's phone rang. He answered, his voice brimming with excitement: "Hello? Yes, it's me. I'm with Isabella now... What? Oh, that old woman's hospital room..."

My body stiffened instantly.

"How about this," Leon glanced at me, a malicious glint in his eyes, "under the guise of 'equipment maintenance,' cut the power to the temperature control in her ward in half. Consider it a small... punishment for this son-in-law."

He spoke of it casually, as if he were simply adjusting the air conditioner temperature.

But I know what that means.

The mother's immune system had completely collapsed, and the life support capsule had to be kept at a constant temperature of 23 degrees Celsius; a temperature difference of more than 0.5 degrees Celsius would trigger complications. However, the temperature control power supply was halved, meaning that the temperature inside the capsule would drop below 20 degrees Celsius within thirty minutes.

My phone vibrated.

A bright red medical alert pop-up appeared on the screen:

[Eden System Warning: Abnormal temperature fluctuation in Module 3, currently 22.1°C, expected to drop below the safety threshold in 15 minutes.]

I looked up at Leon.

He was making faces at me, like a schoolboy who had just pulled off a prank.

Isabella picked up her freshly poured glass of red wine and took a small sip. "Arthur, don't be so nervous. It's just maintenance, nothing will go wrong. Of course—" she paused, "if you kneel down right now and beg Leon to retract his order, I might consider having the power restored."

The entire living room fell into a deathly silence.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge still shine brightly.

Standing in this light, I felt the faint warmth emanating from my phone screen—the temperature of my mother's vital signs.

I closed my eyes.

Take a deep breath.

Then, I slowly knelt down.

The moment my knees touched the marble floor, I heard Leon's maniacal laughter and Isabella's satisfied hum.

But I didn't say anything.

Because deep within my mind, a voice is whispering:

"Hold on. For Mom's sake, just one last time."

"Let her leave this world peacefully."

"When she's no longer my weakness—"

The phone screen vibrated again.

A new message popped up:

[Eden System Warning: Vital signs in module 3 are abnormal; heart rate has plummeted to 42 beats per minute. Immediate manual intervention is recommended.]

My fingertips began to tremble.