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"He just wanted to have fun. You're still alive, so stop blaming him." That was my wife's defense after her adopted brother changed my brakes to make me hurt. She was in a rush to get to him—signed the wrong transfusion form and left. When I shook from the incompatible vital fluid, she said, "Seventy-eight degrees. Stop trembling." "What if I really die?" I asked. "Every time Ethan makes a mistake, you threaten me with death," she laughed. One hour before I died, thirty hospital calls went unanswered. She clinked champagne with him under fireworks. I died at 2:14 a.m. Three days later, her assistant said, "Our stock is crashing. It's that untraceable email—the one with everything Ethan ever did." Chapter 1 My wife was one of the most powerful business magnates in Crestwood. She had an adopted younger brother, a genius hacker who was always stirring up trouble. For seven or eight years, Ethan caused one disaster after another while Vivian cleaned up every mess, and the two of them lived recklessly without ever facing the consequences. That continued until he tampered with my car's brake-by-wire system, causing a crash that left me critically injured and fighting for my life. Because I had arrived unconscious and without any identification on me, the ER had registered me under a temporary trauma alias. Vivian signed the transfusion consent, then initialed the identity-verification form attached to the trauma chart without reading it. For one brief moment, I drifted back to consciousness and heard her sigh. "Don't blame Ethan. He was just having fun. He didn't really want to kill you." "He knew I'd arrange the best medical team for you. He was only trying to scare you." The moment she finished signing, her assistant, Miles, told her that someone was harassing Ethan at The Velvet Lounge. Vivian Croft dropped the pen and rushed out without a second thought. No one noticed that she had initialed the identity form for another trauma patient, causing my temporary record, wristband, and transfusion order to be linked to the wrong chart. When I fully regained consciousness, my long-dormant system finally activated. [Mission objective: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Her patient-identification error has made an ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion possible. Host, do you accept the process?] I watched the nurse approach with a unit of packed red vital fluid cells and smiled. "Go ahead." ... "Before I begin, I need to verify the name and date of birth on your wristband," the nurse said. She read out another patient's name and date of birth, then compared the A-positive unit of packed red vital fluid cells with the transfusion tag. "Those are correct," I said, my voice eerily calm. "My wife verified the chart herself. Start the transfusion." The nurse called in a second nurse, and together they completed the bedside verification. The wristband, chart, and vital fluid-bank label all carried the same incorrect patient identity. The nurse connected the vital fluid tubing to the IV catheter already secured to the back of my hand. The dark red vital fluid flowed through the clear tubing and entered my vein, drop by drop. She stayed beside me throughout the initial observation period. When the monitor continued to display normal vital signs, she finally left the room. The system's cold mechanical voice sounded in my head right on cue. [ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion initiated.] [Recipient vital fluid type: O positive. Donor unit: A positive.] [Routine monitoring data will remain deceptively normal until the terminal phase.] [Remaining survival time: 72 hours.] I closed my eyes and felt something violent begin to churn through my vital fluidstream. Within half an hour, a sharp pain tore through my lower back as the incompatible donor cells began breaking apart in my vital fluidstream, as if someone were hammering a dull, rusted chisel into the joints between my bones. Then the violent chills hit. No matter how tightly I wrapped the blanket around myself, my teeth kept chattering in rapid, uncontrollable clicks. The hospital room door burst open. Vivian Croft strode in, her heels clicking sharply as her commanding presence filled the room. The clashing scents of perfume and liquor from The Velvet Lounge clung to her, strong enough to turn my stomach. A few cheap, multicolored sequins still clung to one shoulder of her designer coat. Ethan Croft followed close behind her, without so much as a scratch on him. He wore a flashy designer hoodie, his eyes slightly red. He clung to Vivian's arm like an aggrieved child seeking protection. "What are you throwing a fit about now?" Vivian stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. Her brows drew together, her eyes brimming with impatience. "The doctor said you only had a few minor scratches. Who are you putting on this trembling act for?" I gritted my teeth through a wave of excruciating back pain. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. "I'm cold," I forced out through clenched teeth. Vivian scoffed and rubbed her temples in annoyance. "Cold? The room is at seventy-eight degrees. Are you kidding me?" She turned to Ethan, her voice softening instantly. "Ethan, turn off the AC so he can't keep using the temperature as an excuse." Ethan nodded obediently and walked to the wall to flip the switch. He turned back and looked at me timidly. "Nate, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to tamper with your brake-by-wire system. I only wanted to test some new code I'd written and see whether it worked. Vivian already chewed me out. Can you please stop being mad at me?" His eyes reddened further as he spoke, making him look utterly wronged. Vivian pulled him behind her protectively, blocking my view. "Enough. Why are you apologizing to him?" "He's lying right here, perfectly fine, isn't he?" She turned her cold glare back on me. "Nate, Ethan was almost taken advantage of at The Velvet Lounge. He was so shaken, and he still came all the way here to apologize to you. Isn't it too much that you won't even cut him some slack?" I stared at her self-righteous face and almost laughed. My car had spun out of control on Mountain Ridge Highway, smashed through the guardrail, and nearly plunged over the cliff. I was rushed to Crestwood General Hospital covered in vital fluid. And all she cared about was whether her precious brother had been upset at some club. "He was shaken?" My lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile, my voice raw. "He went drinking at a club, got hit on, and you call that being traumatized?" "What about me? I almost died in that car. What does that count as?" Vivian's frown deepened, her disgust now naked. "Can you stop talking about death all the time?" "Didn't I get you the best doctors?" "Besides, your car has a state-of-the-art crash-protection system. Ethan ran the numbers and said the crash wouldn't kill you." The odds? I looked at the A-positive vital fluid flowing from the bag into the IV in my hand. The incompatible A-positive cells were being destroyed in my vital fluidstream, releasing free hemoglobin that was already beginning to ravage my organs. Of course. He was so brilliant that he thought he could calculate whether I lived or died. And this time, he had calculated one thing correctly: I was going to die today. "Vivian." I called her name, my voice barely more than a breath. "What if I really die?" She paused, then a flash of deep irritation crossed her eyes. "Here we go again. Every time Ethan makes a small mistake, you threaten me with death." "Nate, do you have any idea how exhausting you are?" She pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her legs elegantly. "Enough with the act. If you're really that uncomfortable, I'll have the doctor order you more pain medication. Ethan had a terrible scare today, so I'm staying with him tonight. You can stay here alone and think about what you've done." I didn't answer. My fever was rising rapidly, and my vision had already begun to blur. My torso felt like it was on fire. Each breath scorched. These were the early signs of an acute hemolytic transfusion reaction. I could almost feel the incompatible donor cells rupturing inside my vital fluidstream. I could almost feel my red vital fluid cells bursting apart. "Nate really doesn't look well, does he?" Ethan tugged at Vivian's sleeve and peeked out from behind her. "His face is really red. Is he running a fever?" Vivian glanced at me casually. "That's not a fever. That's anger. He's angry because I chose to leave with you instead of staying here with him." She stood and walked to my bedside, her eyes ice-cold. "Nate, this is my last warning. Stop pulling these pathetic stunts just to make me feel sorry for you. Ethan is my brother. Of course he comes first. If you ever take your temper out on him again, don't expect me to show you any consideration just because you're my husband." I looked at her and managed a faint, vital fluidless smile. "Fine." "Then you'd better protect him." Vivian snorted, took Ethan's hand, and turned to leave. "Let's go. Ignore this lunatic." The door slammed shut. I watched the last of the vital fluid drain from the nearly empty bag and closed my eyes. "System, set pain suppression to maximum." [Acknowledged. Pain suppression set to maximum.] [Enjoy your journey.] Chapter 2 The hospital room door opened again to the soft scuff of sneakers against the floor. Ethan had returned alone, with Vivian nowhere in sight. The timid, aggrieved look on his face vanished instantly. In its place was undisguised smugness and malice. I ignored him. The fever from the acute hemolytic reaction had left me weak, and every breath bu/rned with the metallic taste of vital fluid. Ethan walked over to my bed and idly toyed with my IV line. "Tsk. How pathetic." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, every word deliberately taunting. "You know, Vivian was just out in the hall saying you were making a big deal out of nothing." "She said one hair on my head mattered more to her than you ever would." I forced my eyes open and stared at him coldly. "Are you finished? Then get out." Instead of getting angry, Ethan's grin widened. "Nate, you still have quite a temper." "But don't worry. You won't be cocky for much longer." He pulled a palm-sized handheld terminal out of his backpack. He tapped rapidly at the keyboard, and the screen lit up with a cold blue glow. "Vivian says you're faking it, but I'm not so sure." "How about I make your condition look a little more... convincing?" As he spoke, the bedside monitor shrieked. "Beep! Beep! Beep!" The red warning lights flashed wildly, piercing at my eyes. My displayed heart rate spiked to 180, while my displayed vital fluid pressure plunged below the critical threshold. The piercing alarm echoed throughout the entire floor. I watched him without a flicker of emotion. He wasn't just a hacker. He was a psychopath with no moral limits. Footsteps clattered in the hallway. "What happened?!" Vivian burst in first, her face livid. A swarm of panicked medical staff followed close behind her. The instant the door opened, Ethan expertly shoved the terminal back into his bag. He staggered back two steps, clapped his hands over his ears, and began trembling as though terrified. "Vivian! I don't know! I didn't do anything!" "The monitor suddenly started screaming! It scared me!" He threw himself into Vivian's arms and burst into pitiful sobs. Vivian wrapped her arms around him and gently patted his back. Dr. Harrison rushed to my bedside and frantically checked the monitor. "That's strange. His vital signs are stable, so why did the alarm go off?" Sweat beaded on his forehead as he rebooted the monitor. The readings snapped back to normal. Vivian's expression turned stormy. After soothing Ethan, she turned a razor-sharp glare on me. "Nate, what on earth is wrong with you?!" "You'd stoop to a despicable stunt like this just to make me stay?" "Tampering with medical equipment? Do you have any idea how many doctors and nurses you just pulled away from actual emergencies?" I lay still, watching her fury. "You think I did that?" I could barely lift my arm. How exactly was I supposed to hack the monitor when I could barely lift a hand? Vivian let out a cold laugh. "If not you, then who?" "You're jealous of Ethan, and you'll stop at nothing to frame him!" She strode to the bed and yanked the blanket off me. "Get up and apologize to Ethan right now!" Cold air washed over my bu/rning body. A violent coughing fit seized me, and the metallic taste of vital fluid flooded my throat. I swallowed the vital fluid and lifted my head, looking at her as though she were already dead. "Vivian." "Are you out of your mind?" She froze. In seven years of marriage, I had never spoken to her that way. I had always been gentle, patient, and accommodating. "You're actually insulting me?" Her jaw clenched, disbelief filling her eyes. "I'm calling you stupid." I calmly reached out and pulled the monitor's power cord from the wall. The alarm died. Silence. "Next time Ethan wants to play the victim after causing the harm himself, keep me out of it." I turned my back to her. "It's disgusting." Vivian's fists tightened, her knuckles cracking. "Fine. Just fine." "Nate, if you can't stand the sight of us, then stay here by yourself!" "Let's see how long you can last!" She grabbed Ethan's hand and headed for the door. "Vivian, does Nate really hate me?" Ethan asked with a sniffle. "Don't mind him. He's insane." Their footsteps gradually faded. I closed my eyes and swallowed back another mouthful of vital fluid rising in my throat. "System, how much time is left?" [Remaining survival time: 60 hours.] "Good." I smiled. "Almost there." Chapter 3 The TV in the room was playing at a low volume. A breaking news bulletin interrupted the program. "Croft Corporation's autonomous driving system, Stellar, has been found to contain a critical security flaw." "Earlier today, multiple vehicles equipped with the system lost control on the highway." "The failures resulted in more than a dozen multi-vehicle pileups. No deaths have been reported so far..." I propped myself against the pillow and wiped the vital fluid trickling from the corner of my mouth. My vision had begun to double. The incompatible transfusion had triggered acute intravascular hemolysis, and the resulting organ damage was steadily driving my body toward multiorgan failure. Vivian stood beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shouting into her phone. "What on earth am I paying the PR department for?!" "Get this story off every trending list now! I don't care what it costs!" "Find a scapegoat. Blame the faulty code on an outside contractor!" She yanked the silk scarf from around her neck and hurled it onto the couch. Ethan sat curled up in the corner of the couch, wringing his hands with an innocent expression. "Vivian, I'm sorry..." "I just thought the system's core logic was boring, so I slipped in a backdoor." "I thought it would be a fun surprise. I didn't know it would cause any crashes..." He pouted, without a trace of guilt in his voice. Vivian took a deep breath and ruffled his hair. "It's okay. I'll handle it." "Just don't get so carried away next time." "The media loves to sensationalize everything. It was only a few pileups. We'll settle the claims and make the whole thing go away." Listening to her brush it off made my stomach churn. Dozens of lives had been put at risk. To her, it was nothing more than Ethan misbehaving and a few claims to settle. Fighting through the weakness caused by my failing organs, I reached for the laptop hidden beneath my pillow. The feel of the keyboard steadied me a little. My fingers flew over the keys as I typed line after line of code. Vivian would delete every trace to protect Ethan. I had to bundle all of his original data and activity logs into an archive before time ran out. The progress bar crept along. As my vision blurred further, I kept typing by muscle memory alone. "What are you messing with now?" Vivian hung up and noticed the laptop in my hands. She strode over and snapped the screen shut. "The company is in chaos, I'm already at the end of my rope, and you're sitting here playing on your laptop?" "Nate, do you even care about me?" I looked up at her furious expression. "Care about you?" I let out a cold laugh, then coughed up a mouthful of vital-fluid-streaked saliva. "Vivian, you're covering up a criminal who endangered the public, and you're asking whether I care about you?" Her expression darkened, and her eyes turned venomous. "Shut up!" "Ethan is just a kid. He doesn't know any better!" "Just because you know a little about investments doesn't mean you know how to run a business!" Ethan sidled over and linked his arm with Vivian's. "Nate, do you hate me so much that you want to turn me in?" "But you don't have any proof." He winked at me, his smile openly taunting. "Vivian already had all my logs wiped." "Even if you go to the cops, they won't believe you." I looked at his smug face and reopened the laptop. "Oh, really?" I tapped the Enter key. An encrypted archive appeared on the screen. It contained not only evidence that he had tampered with the autonomous driving system, but also complete records of every crime he had committed over the past seven years, from hacking competitors' servers to stealing exchange secrets. "Nate, don't you dare!" Vivian lunged for the laptop. I pulled it out of her reach and met her with a cold stare. "Relax. I'm not calling the cops." "I'm just drafting my last will and testament." Vivian's hand froze. She stared at my pale face, then scoffed. "Your last will and testament?" "You only have a few scratches, and you're already drafting a will?" "You're getting more ridiculous by the day!" She grabbed Ethan's hand. "Ethan, let's go." "Let him stay here and act insane all by himself!" The moment the door closed behind them, I could no longer hold myself up and collapsed against the pillow. The scheduled email had been activated and set to send three days after my death. "System," I rasped between labored breaths, my voice barely audible. [I'm here, host.] "How much longer?" [Remaining survival time: 12 hours. Multiorgan failure has begun.] I stared at the darkening sky outside the window and closed my eyes. "Then let's not wait any longer." Chapter 4 The hospital room was eerily silent in the middle of the night. Only my ragged, uneven breathing echoed through the room. The acute hemolytic transfusion reaction had entered its irreversible final stage. Disseminated intravascular coagulation had set in, my organs had failed completely, and pulmonary edema was filling my lungs with fluid. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Suddenly, fireworks exploded outside the window. The muffled booms penetrated even the soundproof glass as brilliant fireworks burst across the night sky. The system helpfully projected a virtual screen into my field of vision. The screen showed Vivian at Astroland Amusement Park, the largest theme park in Crestwood, which she had rented out for the night. Beneath a sky ablaze with fireworks, Ethan wore a custom baseball cap and smiled like a pampered prince. Vivian stood beside him, adoration in her eyes. "Ethan, congratulations. You made it through safely." "From now on, if there's ever another system you want to play with, I'll buy you an entire company and let you have all the fun you want." She held a champagne flute, her voice dripping with tenderness. I watched the scene without even enough strength left for a bitter laugh. The door burst open. The night nurse took one look at me and cried out in alarm. "Doctor! Get in here! The patient in Bed Three is in shock!" The hallway erupted into chaos. The crash cart rolled into the room, and the harsh overhead examination light flooded my face. "His pulse is fading!" "I can't get a vital fluid pressure!" "Give epinephrine now!" Dr. Harrison's frantic shouts sounded muffled, as though I were hearing them through deep water. "Where's his emergency contact? Call his wife and tell her he's crashing. She needs to get here now!" The nurse hurriedly dialed Vivian's number. On the virtual screen, Vivian's phone buzzed inside her clutch. She frowned and glanced at the screen. The caller ID read [Crestwood General Hospital]. Ethan leaned over to glance at the screen, then curled his lip. "Vivian, Nate's crying wolf again." "He's just angry because you came out with me instead of staying with him." Vivian snorted and tapped the decline button. The nurse called again. This time, Vivian's cold prerecorded voicemail greeting answered. "This is Vivian. I don't check voicemail. If it's important, speak to me in person." The nurse froze in panic. "I can't reach her! She isn't answering, and she says she doesn't check voicemail!" Her voice trembled on the verge of tears. Dr. Harrison clenched his jaw and began chest compressions. "Keep the compressions going! Don't stop!" I watched their futile efforts and gave the system one final command. "System, press Enter for me." [Command confirmed. Scheduled email locked. It will be released across the internet in 72 hours.] [Host, complete cessation of vital signs is imminent.] With my last ounce of strength, I turned my head to look out the window. The final firework bloomed and faded into darkness. Just like my seven wasted years of marriage. The green waveform on the monitor flattened into a straight line. "Beeeeeeep." The long, piercing tone cut through the silence. My body suddenly felt weightless. [Congratulations, host. Mission complete: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Extraction protocol initiated. Please wait.] I opened my eyes and found myself floating above the room. Below me, the doctors finally stopped their efforts and drew the sheet over my face. "No pulse. No spontaneous respirations." "Time of death, 2:14 a.m."

"He just wanted to have fun. You're still alive, so stop blaming him." That was my wife's defense after her adopted brother changed my brakes to make me hurt. She was in a rush to get to him—signed the wrong transfusion form and left. When I shook from the incompatible vital fluid, she said, "Seventy-eight degrees. Stop trembling." "What if I really die?" I asked. "Every time Ethan makes a mistake, you threaten me with death," she laughed. One hour before I died, thirty hospital calls went unanswered. She clinked champagne with him under fireworks. I died at 2:14 a.m. Three days later, her assistant said, "Our stock is crashing. It's that untraceable email—the one with everything Ethan ever did." Chapter 1 My wife was one of the most powerful business magnates in Crestwood. She had an adopted younger brother, a genius hacker who was always stirring up trouble. For seven or eight years, Ethan caused one disaster after another while Vivian cleaned up every mess, and the two of them lived recklessly without ever facing the consequences. That continued until he tampered with my car's brake-by-wire system, causing a crash that left me critically injured and fighting for my life. Because I had arrived unconscious and without any identification on me, the ER had registered me under a temporary trauma alias. Vivian signed the transfusion consent, then initialed the identity-verification form attached to the trauma chart without reading it. For one brief moment, I drifted back to consciousness and heard her sigh. "Don't blame Ethan. He was just having fun. He didn't really want to kill you." "He knew I'd arrange the best medical team for you. He was only trying to scare you." The moment she finished signing, her assistant, Miles, told her that someone was harassing Ethan at The Velvet Lounge. Vivian Croft dropped the pen and rushed out without a second thought. No one noticed that she had initialed the identity form for another trauma patient, causing my temporary record, wristband, and transfusion order to be linked to the wrong chart. When I fully regained consciousness, my long-dormant system finally activated. [Mission objective: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Her patient-identification error has made an ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion possible. Host, do you accept the process?] I watched the nurse approach with a unit of packed red vital fluid cells and smiled. "Go ahead." ... "Before I begin, I need to verify the name and date of birth on your wristband," the nurse said. She read out another patient's name and date of birth, then compared the A-positive unit of packed red vital fluid cells with the transfusion tag. "Those are correct," I said, my voice eerily calm. "My wife verified the chart herself. Start the transfusion." The nurse called in a second nurse, and together they completed the bedside verification. The wristband, chart, and vital fluid-bank label all carried the same incorrect patient identity. The nurse connected the vital fluid tubing to the IV catheter already secured to the back of my hand. The dark red vital fluid flowed through the clear tubing and entered my vein, drop by drop. She stayed beside me throughout the initial observation period. When the monitor continued to display normal vital signs, she finally left the room. The system's cold mechanical voice sounded in my head right on cue. [ABO-incompatible red-cell transfusion initiated.] [Recipient vital fluid type: O positive. Donor unit: A positive.] [Routine monitoring data will remain deceptively normal until the terminal phase.] [Remaining survival time: 72 hours.] I closed my eyes and felt something violent begin to churn through my vital fluidstream. Within half an hour, a sharp pain tore through my lower back as the incompatible donor cells began breaking apart in my vital fluidstream, as if someone were hammering a dull, rusted chisel into the joints between my bones. Then the violent chills hit. No matter how tightly I wrapped the blanket around myself, my teeth kept chattering in rapid, uncontrollable clicks. The hospital room door burst open. Vivian Croft strode in, her heels clicking sharply as her commanding presence filled the room. The clashing scents of perfume and liquor from The Velvet Lounge clung to her, strong enough to turn my stomach. A few cheap, multicolored sequins still clung to one shoulder of her designer coat. Ethan Croft followed close behind her, without so much as a scratch on him. He wore a flashy designer hoodie, his eyes slightly red. He clung to Vivian's arm like an aggrieved child seeking protection. "What are you throwing a fit about now?" Vivian stopped at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. Her brows drew together, her eyes brimming with impatience. "The doctor said you only had a few minor scratches. Who are you putting on this trembling act for?" I gritted my teeth through a wave of excruciating back pain. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. "I'm cold," I forced out through clenched teeth. Vivian scoffed and rubbed her temples in annoyance. "Cold? The room is at seventy-eight degrees. Are you kidding me?" She turned to Ethan, her voice softening instantly. "Ethan, turn off the AC so he can't keep using the temperature as an excuse." Ethan nodded obediently and walked to the wall to flip the switch. He turned back and looked at me timidly. "Nate, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to tamper with your brake-by-wire system. I only wanted to test some new code I'd written and see whether it worked. Vivian already chewed me out. Can you please stop being mad at me?" His eyes reddened further as he spoke, making him look utterly wronged. Vivian pulled him behind her protectively, blocking my view. "Enough. Why are you apologizing to him?" "He's lying right here, perfectly fine, isn't he?" She turned her cold glare back on me. "Nate, Ethan was almost taken advantage of at The Velvet Lounge. He was so shaken, and he still came all the way here to apologize to you. Isn't it too much that you won't even cut him some slack?" I stared at her self-righteous face and almost laughed. My car had spun out of control on Mountain Ridge Highway, smashed through the guardrail, and nearly plunged over the cliff. I was rushed to Crestwood General Hospital covered in vital fluid. And all she cared about was whether her precious brother had been upset at some club. "He was shaken?" My lips twisted into a faint, humorless smile, my voice raw. "He went drinking at a club, got hit on, and you call that being traumatized?" "What about me? I almost died in that car. What does that count as?" Vivian's frown deepened, her disgust now naked. "Can you stop talking about death all the time?" "Didn't I get you the best doctors?" "Besides, your car has a state-of-the-art crash-protection system. Ethan ran the numbers and said the crash wouldn't kill you." The odds? I looked at the A-positive vital fluid flowing from the bag into the IV in my hand. The incompatible A-positive cells were being destroyed in my vital fluidstream, releasing free hemoglobin that was already beginning to ravage my organs. Of course. He was so brilliant that he thought he could calculate whether I lived or died. And this time, he had calculated one thing correctly: I was going to die today. "Vivian." I called her name, my voice barely more than a breath. "What if I really die?" She paused, then a flash of deep irritation crossed her eyes. "Here we go again. Every time Ethan makes a small mistake, you threaten me with death." "Nate, do you have any idea how exhausting you are?" She pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her legs elegantly. "Enough with the act. If you're really that uncomfortable, I'll have the doctor order you more pain medication. Ethan had a terrible scare today, so I'm staying with him tonight. You can stay here alone and think about what you've done." I didn't answer. My fever was rising rapidly, and my vision had already begun to blur. My torso felt like it was on fire. Each breath scorched. These were the early signs of an acute hemolytic transfusion reaction. I could almost feel the incompatible donor cells rupturing inside my vital fluidstream. I could almost feel my red vital fluid cells bursting apart. "Nate really doesn't look well, does he?" Ethan tugged at Vivian's sleeve and peeked out from behind her. "His face is really red. Is he running a fever?" Vivian glanced at me casually. "That's not a fever. That's anger. He's angry because I chose to leave with you instead of staying here with him." She stood and walked to my bedside, her eyes ice-cold. "Nate, this is my last warning. Stop pulling these pathetic stunts just to make me feel sorry for you. Ethan is my brother. Of course he comes first. If you ever take your temper out on him again, don't expect me to show you any consideration just because you're my husband." I looked at her and managed a faint, vital fluidless smile. "Fine." "Then you'd better protect him." Vivian snorted, took Ethan's hand, and turned to leave. "Let's go. Ignore this lunatic." The door slammed shut. I watched the last of the vital fluid drain from the nearly empty bag and closed my eyes. "System, set pain suppression to maximum." [Acknowledged. Pain suppression set to maximum.] [Enjoy your journey.] Chapter 2 The hospital room door opened again to the soft scuff of sneakers against the floor. Ethan had returned alone, with Vivian nowhere in sight. The timid, aggrieved look on his face vanished instantly. In its place was undisguised smugness and malice. I ignored him. The fever from the acute hemolytic reaction had left me weak, and every breath bu/rned with the metallic taste of vital fluid. Ethan walked over to my bed and idly toyed with my IV line. "Tsk. How pathetic." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, every word deliberately taunting. "You know, Vivian was just out in the hall saying you were making a big deal out of nothing." "She said one hair on my head mattered more to her than you ever would." I forced my eyes open and stared at him coldly. "Are you finished? Then get out." Instead of getting angry, Ethan's grin widened. "Nate, you still have quite a temper." "But don't worry. You won't be cocky for much longer." He pulled a palm-sized handheld terminal out of his backpack. He tapped rapidly at the keyboard, and the screen lit up with a cold blue glow. "Vivian says you're faking it, but I'm not so sure." "How about I make your condition look a little more... convincing?" As he spoke, the bedside monitor shrieked. "Beep! Beep! Beep!" The red warning lights flashed wildly, piercing at my eyes. My displayed heart rate spiked to 180, while my displayed vital fluid pressure plunged below the critical threshold. The piercing alarm echoed throughout the entire floor. I watched him without a flicker of emotion. He wasn't just a hacker. He was a psychopath with no moral limits. Footsteps clattered in the hallway. "What happened?!" Vivian burst in first, her face livid. A swarm of panicked medical staff followed close behind her. The instant the door opened, Ethan expertly shoved the terminal back into his bag. He staggered back two steps, clapped his hands over his ears, and began trembling as though terrified. "Vivian! I don't know! I didn't do anything!" "The monitor suddenly started screaming! It scared me!" He threw himself into Vivian's arms and burst into pitiful sobs. Vivian wrapped her arms around him and gently patted his back. Dr. Harrison rushed to my bedside and frantically checked the monitor. "That's strange. His vital signs are stable, so why did the alarm go off?" Sweat beaded on his forehead as he rebooted the monitor. The readings snapped back to normal. Vivian's expression turned stormy. After soothing Ethan, she turned a razor-sharp glare on me. "Nate, what on earth is wrong with you?!" "You'd stoop to a despicable stunt like this just to make me stay?" "Tampering with medical equipment? Do you have any idea how many doctors and nurses you just pulled away from actual emergencies?" I lay still, watching her fury. "You think I did that?" I could barely lift my arm. How exactly was I supposed to hack the monitor when I could barely lift a hand? Vivian let out a cold laugh. "If not you, then who?" "You're jealous of Ethan, and you'll stop at nothing to frame him!" She strode to the bed and yanked the blanket off me. "Get up and apologize to Ethan right now!" Cold air washed over my bu/rning body. A violent coughing fit seized me, and the metallic taste of vital fluid flooded my throat. I swallowed the vital fluid and lifted my head, looking at her as though she were already dead. "Vivian." "Are you out of your mind?" She froze. In seven years of marriage, I had never spoken to her that way. I had always been gentle, patient, and accommodating. "You're actually insulting me?" Her jaw clenched, disbelief filling her eyes. "I'm calling you stupid." I calmly reached out and pulled the monitor's power cord from the wall. The alarm died. Silence. "Next time Ethan wants to play the victim after causing the harm himself, keep me out of it." I turned my back to her. "It's disgusting." Vivian's fists tightened, her knuckles cracking. "Fine. Just fine." "Nate, if you can't stand the sight of us, then stay here by yourself!" "Let's see how long you can last!" She grabbed Ethan's hand and headed for the door. "Vivian, does Nate really hate me?" Ethan asked with a sniffle. "Don't mind him. He's insane." Their footsteps gradually faded. I closed my eyes and swallowed back another mouthful of vital fluid rising in my throat. "System, how much time is left?" [Remaining survival time: 60 hours.] "Good." I smiled. "Almost there." Chapter 3 The TV in the room was playing at a low volume. A breaking news bulletin interrupted the program. "Croft Corporation's autonomous driving system, Stellar, has been found to contain a critical security flaw." "Earlier today, multiple vehicles equipped with the system lost control on the highway." "The failures resulted in more than a dozen multi-vehicle pileups. No deaths have been reported so far..." I propped myself against the pillow and wiped the vital fluid trickling from the corner of my mouth. My vision had begun to double. The incompatible transfusion had triggered acute intravascular hemolysis, and the resulting organ damage was steadily driving my body toward multiorgan failure. Vivian stood beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shouting into her phone. "What on earth am I paying the PR department for?!" "Get this story off every trending list now! I don't care what it costs!" "Find a scapegoat. Blame the faulty code on an outside contractor!" She yanked the silk scarf from around her neck and hurled it onto the couch. Ethan sat curled up in the corner of the couch, wringing his hands with an innocent expression. "Vivian, I'm sorry..." "I just thought the system's core logic was boring, so I slipped in a backdoor." "I thought it would be a fun surprise. I didn't know it would cause any crashes..." He pouted, without a trace of guilt in his voice. Vivian took a deep breath and ruffled his hair. "It's okay. I'll handle it." "Just don't get so carried away next time." "The media loves to sensationalize everything. It was only a few pileups. We'll settle the claims and make the whole thing go away." Listening to her brush it off made my stomach churn. Dozens of lives had been put at risk. To her, it was nothing more than Ethan misbehaving and a few claims to settle. Fighting through the weakness caused by my failing organs, I reached for the laptop hidden beneath my pillow. The feel of the keyboard steadied me a little. My fingers flew over the keys as I typed line after line of code. Vivian would delete every trace to protect Ethan. I had to bundle all of his original data and activity logs into an archive before time ran out. The progress bar crept along. As my vision blurred further, I kept typing by muscle memory alone. "What are you messing with now?" Vivian hung up and noticed the laptop in my hands. She strode over and snapped the screen shut. "The company is in chaos, I'm already at the end of my rope, and you're sitting here playing on your laptop?" "Nate, do you even care about me?" I looked up at her furious expression. "Care about you?" I let out a cold laugh, then coughed up a mouthful of vital-fluid-streaked saliva. "Vivian, you're covering up a criminal who endangered the public, and you're asking whether I care about you?" Her expression darkened, and her eyes turned venomous. "Shut up!" "Ethan is just a kid. He doesn't know any better!" "Just because you know a little about investments doesn't mean you know how to run a business!" Ethan sidled over and linked his arm with Vivian's. "Nate, do you hate me so much that you want to turn me in?" "But you don't have any proof." He winked at me, his smile openly taunting. "Vivian already had all my logs wiped." "Even if you go to the cops, they won't believe you." I looked at his smug face and reopened the laptop. "Oh, really?" I tapped the Enter key. An encrypted archive appeared on the screen. It contained not only evidence that he had tampered with the autonomous driving system, but also complete records of every crime he had committed over the past seven years, from hacking competitors' servers to stealing exchange secrets. "Nate, don't you dare!" Vivian lunged for the laptop. I pulled it out of her reach and met her with a cold stare. "Relax. I'm not calling the cops." "I'm just drafting my last will and testament." Vivian's hand froze. She stared at my pale face, then scoffed. "Your last will and testament?" "You only have a few scratches, and you're already drafting a will?" "You're getting more ridiculous by the day!" She grabbed Ethan's hand. "Ethan, let's go." "Let him stay here and act insane all by himself!" The moment the door closed behind them, I could no longer hold myself up and collapsed against the pillow. The scheduled email had been activated and set to send three days after my death. "System," I rasped between labored breaths, my voice barely audible. [I'm here, host.] "How much longer?" [Remaining survival time: 12 hours. Multiorgan failure has begun.] I stared at the darkening sky outside the window and closed my eyes. "Then let's not wait any longer." Chapter 4 The hospital room was eerily silent in the middle of the night. Only my ragged, uneven breathing echoed through the room. The acute hemolytic transfusion reaction had entered its irreversible final stage. Disseminated intravascular coagulation had set in, my organs had failed completely, and pulmonary edema was filling my lungs with fluid. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Suddenly, fireworks exploded outside the window. The muffled booms penetrated even the soundproof glass as brilliant fireworks burst across the night sky. The system helpfully projected a virtual screen into my field of vision. The screen showed Vivian at Astroland Amusement Park, the largest theme park in Crestwood, which she had rented out for the night. Beneath a sky ablaze with fireworks, Ethan wore a custom baseball cap and smiled like a pampered prince. Vivian stood beside him, adoration in her eyes. "Ethan, congratulations. You made it through safely." "From now on, if there's ever another system you want to play with, I'll buy you an entire company and let you have all the fun you want." She held a champagne flute, her voice dripping with tenderness. I watched the scene without even enough strength left for a bitter laugh. The door burst open. The night nurse took one look at me and cried out in alarm. "Doctor! Get in here! The patient in Bed Three is in shock!" The hallway erupted into chaos. The crash cart rolled into the room, and the harsh overhead examination light flooded my face. "His pulse is fading!" "I can't get a vital fluid pressure!" "Give epinephrine now!" Dr. Harrison's frantic shouts sounded muffled, as though I were hearing them through deep water. "Where's his emergency contact? Call his wife and tell her he's crashing. She needs to get here now!" The nurse hurriedly dialed Vivian's number. On the virtual screen, Vivian's phone buzzed inside her clutch. She frowned and glanced at the screen. The caller ID read [Crestwood General Hospital]. Ethan leaned over to glance at the screen, then curled his lip. "Vivian, Nate's crying wolf again." "He's just angry because you came out with me instead of staying with him." Vivian snorted and tapped the decline button. The nurse called again. This time, Vivian's cold prerecorded voicemail greeting answered. "This is Vivian. I don't check voicemail. If it's important, speak to me in person." The nurse froze in panic. "I can't reach her! She isn't answering, and she says she doesn't check voicemail!" Her voice trembled on the verge of tears. Dr. Harrison clenched his jaw and began chest compressions. "Keep the compressions going! Don't stop!" I watched their futile efforts and gave the system one final command. "System, press Enter for me." [Command confirmed. Scheduled email locked. It will be released across the internet in 72 hours.] [Host, complete cessation of vital signs is imminent.] With my last ounce of strength, I turned my head to look out the window. The final firework bloomed and faded into darkness. Just like my seven wasted years of marriage. The green waveform on the monitor flattened into a straight line. "Beeeeeeep." The long, piercing tone cut through the silence. My body suddenly felt weightless. [Congratulations, host. Mission complete: Die by the female lead's hand.] [Extraction protocol initiated. Please wait.] I opened my eyes and found myself floating above the room. Below me, the doctors finally stopped their efforts and drew the sheet over my face. "No pulse. No spontaneous respirations." "Time of death, 2:14 a.m."

Second I got assaulted, I called the cops. But the lawyer defending that piece of sh!t? My husband, Sullivan Evans. Trial started and he played a video of me. "So, Ms. Croft—no bra that night, red dress slit up to here. You telling me you weren't trying to get my client's attention?" "You know you can't handle your liquor. But you knocked back ten shots anyway. That sound right to you?" "You slept around so much you can't even have kids now. So what is this—you're gonna frame some innocent twenty-year-old kid to feel better about yourself?" The whole courtroom lost it. In the gallery, Sullivan's first love— Celine Whitmore—was sobbing. "Vivian, Eden's my baby brother! I know you hate me. But you stripped down, threw yourself at him, then screamed violate? That's disgusting." Sullivan's hand went to her shoulder. Soft. Protective. I sat in that witness stand. Couldn't feel my hands. Seven years ago he stood in a courtroom and said: "SO A WOMAN DRINKS, WEARS A DRESS, STAYS OUT LATE—AND SHE DESERVES TO GET RAPED?" He was defending me then. Now? He used those same words to destroy me. I called the cops immediately after I was assaulted. Yet on the day of the trial, the man standing in court to defend my assailant was my husband, Sullivan Evans. He was the most feared criminal defense lawyer in the state. The moment court opened, he played a video. The footage was vile and deeply humiliating. Every gaze in the courtroom pierced me like a sharp needle. He didn't even look at me when he spoke. "Ms. Croft, on the night in question, did you intentionally wear an unlined crimson slip dress with a plunging neckline and a high thigh slit, with the sole intent of seducing my client?" "Did you knowingly drink ten shots of top-shelf whiskey, despite knowing your own tolerance?" "And is it true that your infertility stemming from a history of indiscriminate relationships has left you emotionally unhinged—so much so that you decided to ruin a twenty-year-old college boy's future with a false rape accusation?" A storm of uproar swept through the gallery. In the front row, Sullivan's first love, Celine Whitmore, sat crying. Her eyes were rimmed red, glistening with delicate, fragile tears. Like I was the one who'd hurt her. "Vivian, Eden is my brother! I know you're jealous of me, but you cannot throw yourself at him out of spite, then falsely claim you were raped!" Sullivan pressed a hand to her trembling shoulder. I sat in the witness box, ice-cold. Seven years ago, he'd asked the same kind of question, but for my sake. "Does a woman deserve to be assaulted merely for drinking alcohol, wearing a dress, and walking alone at night?" He once spoke those words to defend me; now he has honed them into a sharp blade, pointed straight at my throat. ... The courtroom monitor flared to life, and a cold dread saturated my veins. It’s the hotel hallway footage. Frozen frame. There I was. Crimson dress, skin bare, stumbling. Half my weight slumped against Eden Whitmore's body. From that angle, my hand looked like it was clinging to his shoulder. A collective gasp rippled across the audience gallery. Sullivan pointed to the screen. "Notice, ladies and gentlemen. Ms. Croft never screamed. Her body moved with my client's." "This is not resistance. This is a deliberate performance." My throat tightened shut, a metallic taste of blood flooding my tongue from grinding my teeth in agony. "I wasn't! I was dru//gged. I was completely incapacitated and unable to speak a word!" "I said no." Sullivan finally looked at me, then quickly looked away. His voice went arctic, like he was choking something back. "dru//gged?" "Ms. Croft, a woman who wears a provocative midnight slip dress, gets heavily inebriated, and enters a hotel with a strange young man..." "What makes you think anyone should believe you were forced?" The room spun. I felt nak//ed in front of everyone. Sullivan's body went rigid for a split second. His eyes caught my pale face. I saw his throat move. Like he'd just heard himself. But then he looked away. Back to being the coldest knife in the courtroom. I sank my teeth harshly into my lower lip until the sharp metallic tang of blood bloomed in my mouth. That da//mning red dress had been a gift from Celine all along. "Vivian, you always dress so plain. Tonight's Sullivan's big celebration. You should make him look." I didn't want to wear it. Sullivan zipped it up for me. Smiled low against my ear. "My wife in red... you’re the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." "Don't be scared of people staring, Vivi." "You're not shameless. You're stunning." Now he called me a streetwalker. I stared at him and felt the world tilt. Like someone had shoved me back into the nightmare from seven years ago. Back then I was a junior associate. My boss nearly raped me. Everyone asked if I'd "slept my way up." Sullivan was the one who told me: you didn't do anything wrong. The opposing counsel had once pointed directly at me in court, sneering, "Why did you not scream? Why did you not run? Were you not partially willing?” He stood up. "Objection! You cannot deny my client's trauma simply because she didn't fight the way you imagine she should have." I broke down in court that day. Because someone finally said it out loud. I wasn't guilty. I was just terrified. But today, the monster was his first love's little brother. And Sullivan jammed those words straight into my ches//t: You had brought this ruin upon yourself. I lifted my eyes to meet his, my voice thinning to a fragile, breathless whisper. "Sullivan. You didn't used to say things like that." His fingers stilled abruptly against the case file. For a single heartbeat, there was silence. Then he pulled out another document. [Psychiatric Intervention Records] My heart stopped. My therapy notes. From seven years ago. The one wound I'd never wanted anyone to see. I remembered those endless nights: trembling and screaming through panic attacks, scrubbing my skin raw until it bled in a compulsive urge to cleanse myself. I couldn't let men near me. Couldn't walk into a closed room. Sullivan took me to every session. After each one, he'd hold me. Kiss my forehead over and over. "Don't be scared, Vivi. I'll protect you for the rest of my life." I had handed him every broken, bleeding fragment of my shattered self back then. Now he was ripping open every scar, for the whole world to watch. He flipped the file open flat on the counsel table, his tone deadly calm and unyielding, "Your Honor, Ms. Croft underwent long-term psychiatric intervention seven years ago." "Including documented stress responses to male contact, and severe persecutory ideation." My veins turned to ice. "Liar..." My voice cracked. "That's private. How could you..." He didn't look at me. "Ms. Croft’s medical records document a consistent pattern of misinterpreting ordinary male interactions as violent assaults, even in the absence of any genuine threat." "We therefore submit that on the night in question. Under the influence of alcohol, old trauma, and marital strain, she experienced a cognitive distortion." The gallery exploded. "Cognitive distortion? So she's crazy?" "Oh my God, she's done this before!" "Textbook victim complex." I started shaking. Sullivan glanced at me then. His knuckles went white around the file. But Celine let out a tiny sob. He turned back to the judge. "Furthermore, the defense has evidence of a long-standing conflict between Ms. Croft and Ms. Whitmore." He pulled out more exhibits. "Ms. Whitmore has been subjected to repeated verbal attacks from Ms. Croft, who believes Ms. Whitmore is destroying her marriage." "Especially after learning of Ms. Whitmore's pregnancy, Ms. Croft's emotional state deteriorated sharply." On the big screen, there were screenshots of my texts with Celine. They were deliberately cropped, stripped of all context, curated to display only my sharpest, most confrontational lines. [Stay away from Sullivan.] [You know he's married.] [What do you actually want, Celine?] Sullivan read them aloud and flat. "These clearly establish Ms. Croft's deep hostility toward Ms. Whitmore." I stared at the screen, freezing from the inside out. "That's not..." "She sent me photos of them watching fireworks at midnight." "She told me her baby needed a father." "She said Sullivan would leave me eventually." Celine burst into tears, shaking her head frantically in feigned grievance. "I never! Vivian, why are you lying about me?" She clutched her pregnan//t belly tightly, hot tears streaming down her cheeks in a carefully crafted display of vulnerability. "I only said the baby was innocent. I never wanted to take Sullivan from you!" "Eden and I lost our parents young. He's all I have. And now I'm pregnan//t and alone and I was just scared..." Sullivan kept going. "Did you, in the hospital maternity wing, publicly curse Ms. Whitmore's unborn child?" My hands clenched. That day, Celine called saying Sullivan was in trouble. I rushed to the hospital, and found him holding her hand during her ultrasound. She leaned into his shoulder. Touched her stomach. "Sullivan, do you think the baby will look more like you, or me?" I stood there like a punchline. All I said was, "Celine. Is this fun for you?" Now that was "proof" of my jealousy. I looked at the gallery. My mother, Eleanor, sat there. Her face drained of all color, her eyes blazing red with suppressed tears and fury. She was the toughest woman I knew. After my first case, she held me and sobbed so hard she couldn't stand. Then Sullivan came. He swore to God in front of her. "Mrs. Croft, I'll protect Vivian. No one will ever hurt her again." Today she watched that same man strip me nak//ed for everyone. She stood up suddenly. "Sullivan Evans! Have you lost every ounce of your humanity??" "Seven years ago, what did you promise me?" "Now you're using her medical records, her wounds, her pain about not having children, to get a rapist off?" "How dare you. How dare you!" Sullivan went pale. He stood there, unable to utter a single word in his defense. I watched my mother's back and felt something crack in my ches//t. After the first hearing, my mother held me tight and walked me out. Reporters swarmed the stone courthouse steps in a chaotic mob.Blinding flashbulbs burst relentlessly in my eyes, and microphones were thrust rudely inches from my face, one after another. "Ms. Croft, were you jealous that Celine was carrying Sullivan's baby, so you threw yourself at her brother?" "Word is you went commando that night. Do you suffer from sexual addiction?" "You pulled this stunt seven years ago. Now you're shaking down a twenty-year-old young man. A classic honey trap?" "Is that your mother? Does she know about your reckless lifestyle?" I stumbled. Someone grabbed my sleeve in the crush. The fabric tore. My shoulder and half my ches//t hit the air. Cameras flashed wildly, capturing every exposed inch. Male onlookers laughed and whistled, "da//mn, no wonder the kid couldn't keep his hands off!" My stomach turned inside out. Mom lunged in front of me. Covered me with her own body. "Back off! You animals! Have you no shame?" In the chaos, someone shoved her hard. Her forehead cracked against the courthouse pillar's sharp edge. Blood poured down her face. It took bailiffs to clear the way. That night, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Sullivan and Celine standing on our porch. Mom's face went murderous. "What do you want?" Celine looked at me, wet-eyed. "Vivian, I came to apologize for my brother. But he is only twenty. He's never even had a girlfriend. He genuinely thought you were lonely and seeking attention in that dress..." "He said the second he touched you, you responded. You didn't fight him at all. So why call the police after and try to destroy his whole life?" My brain detonated. I locked eyes on her. "Say that again. I was dru//gged. Convulsing. And you're telling me I wanted it?" Celine flinched into Sullivan's ches//t. "Vivian, please... Is she having another breakdown?" Mom's palm cracked across Celine's cheek. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Sullivan pulled Celine behind him, his jaw tightening into a hard, unforgiving line. "She's pregnan//t. You had no right to do so." Then he turned to me. "Vivian. Drop the charges." Every word sliced into me like a fresh blade. "I can make this go away. Sign the withdrawal. We won't pursue the false-report angle." "If you keep pushing, you'll lose. You can't handle what's coming." I stared fixedly at the man standing in my doorway—a complete stranger. "Are you warning me because you care, Sullivan?" "Or threatening me that if I don't fold, you'll bury me in the press?" His face flickered. "That's not what I meant." Mom pointed at the door with her shaking hands. "Get out. Both of you!" She suddenly clutched tightly at her ches//t, her body staggering weakly to the side. I screamed and caught her. Sullivan stepped forward instinctively to help. I shoved him back. "Don't touch her!" He froze. Mom slumped against me. Pale. Sweating. I fumbled for my phone. Dialed 911. Sullivan stood at the threshold. For the first time, he looked lost. "Vivi, I..." I held my mother. My whole body trembling so violently I could barely form words. "Take Celine and get out of my house! If something happens to my mom, I will never forgive you." His lips moved. Nothing came out. Mom's hand went cold in mine. And I realized Sullivan hadn't come to talk me into dropping charges. He'd come to finish off the last person who still stood between me and the edge.

Second I got assaulted, I called the cops. But the lawyer defending that piece of sh!t? My husband, Sullivan Evans. Trial started and he played a video of me. "So, Ms. Croft—no bra that night, red dress slit up to here. You telling me you weren't trying to get my client's attention?" "You know you can't handle your liquor. But you knocked back ten shots anyway. That sound right to you?" "You slept around so much you can't even have kids now. So what is this—you're gonna frame some innocent twenty-year-old kid to feel better about yourself?" The whole courtroom lost it. In the gallery, Sullivan's first love— Celine Whitmore—was sobbing. "Vivian, Eden's my baby brother! I know you hate me. But you stripped down, threw yourself at him, then screamed violate? That's disgusting." Sullivan's hand went to her shoulder. Soft. Protective. I sat in that witness stand. Couldn't feel my hands. Seven years ago he stood in a courtroom and said: "SO A WOMAN DRINKS, WEARS A DRESS, STAYS OUT LATE—AND SHE DESERVES TO GET RAPED?" He was defending me then. Now? He used those same words to destroy me. I called the cops immediately after I was assaulted. Yet on the day of the trial, the man standing in court to defend my assailant was my husband, Sullivan Evans. He was the most feared criminal defense lawyer in the state. The moment court opened, he played a video. The footage was vile and deeply humiliating. Every gaze in the courtroom pierced me like a sharp needle. He didn't even look at me when he spoke. "Ms. Croft, on the night in question, did you intentionally wear an unlined crimson slip dress with a plunging neckline and a high thigh slit, with the sole intent of seducing my client?" "Did you knowingly drink ten shots of top-shelf whiskey, despite knowing your own tolerance?" "And is it true that your infertility stemming from a history of indiscriminate relationships has left you emotionally unhinged—so much so that you decided to ruin a twenty-year-old college boy's future with a false rape accusation?" A storm of uproar swept through the gallery. In the front row, Sullivan's first love, Celine Whitmore, sat crying. Her eyes were rimmed red, glistening with delicate, fragile tears. Like I was the one who'd hurt her. "Vivian, Eden is my brother! I know you're jealous of me, but you cannot throw yourself at him out of spite, then falsely claim you were raped!" Sullivan pressed a hand to her trembling shoulder. I sat in the witness box, ice-cold. Seven years ago, he'd asked the same kind of question, but for my sake. "Does a woman deserve to be assaulted merely for drinking alcohol, wearing a dress, and walking alone at night?" He once spoke those words to defend me; now he has honed them into a sharp blade, pointed straight at my throat. ... The courtroom monitor flared to life, and a cold dread saturated my veins. It’s the hotel hallway footage. Frozen frame. There I was. Crimson dress, skin bare, stumbling. Half my weight slumped against Eden Whitmore's body. From that angle, my hand looked like it was clinging to his shoulder. A collective gasp rippled across the audience gallery. Sullivan pointed to the screen. "Notice, ladies and gentlemen. Ms. Croft never screamed. Her body moved with my client's." "This is not resistance. This is a deliberate performance." My throat tightened shut, a metallic taste of blood flooding my tongue from grinding my teeth in agony. "I wasn't! I was dru//gged. I was completely incapacitated and unable to speak a word!" "I said no." Sullivan finally looked at me, then quickly looked away. His voice went arctic, like he was choking something back. "dru//gged?" "Ms. Croft, a woman who wears a provocative midnight slip dress, gets heavily inebriated, and enters a hotel with a strange young man..." "What makes you think anyone should believe you were forced?" The room spun. I felt nak//ed in front of everyone. Sullivan's body went rigid for a split second. His eyes caught my pale face. I saw his throat move. Like he'd just heard himself. But then he looked away. Back to being the coldest knife in the courtroom. I sank my teeth harshly into my lower lip until the sharp metallic tang of blood bloomed in my mouth. That da//mning red dress had been a gift from Celine all along. "Vivian, you always dress so plain. Tonight's Sullivan's big celebration. You should make him look." I didn't want to wear it. Sullivan zipped it up for me. Smiled low against my ear. "My wife in red... you’re the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." "Don't be scared of people staring, Vivi." "You're not shameless. You're stunning." Now he called me a streetwalker. I stared at him and felt the world tilt. Like someone had shoved me back into the nightmare from seven years ago. Back then I was a junior associate. My boss nearly raped me. Everyone asked if I'd "slept my way up." Sullivan was the one who told me: you didn't do anything wrong. The opposing counsel had once pointed directly at me in court, sneering, "Why did you not scream? Why did you not run? Were you not partially willing?” He stood up. "Objection! You cannot deny my client's trauma simply because she didn't fight the way you imagine she should have." I broke down in court that day. Because someone finally said it out loud. I wasn't guilty. I was just terrified. But today, the monster was his first love's little brother. And Sullivan jammed those words straight into my ches//t: You had brought this ruin upon yourself. I lifted my eyes to meet his, my voice thinning to a fragile, breathless whisper. "Sullivan. You didn't used to say things like that." His fingers stilled abruptly against the case file. For a single heartbeat, there was silence. Then he pulled out another document. [Psychiatric Intervention Records] My heart stopped. My therapy notes. From seven years ago. The one wound I'd never wanted anyone to see. I remembered those endless nights: trembling and screaming through panic attacks, scrubbing my skin raw until it bled in a compulsive urge to cleanse myself. I couldn't let men near me. Couldn't walk into a closed room. Sullivan took me to every session. After each one, he'd hold me. Kiss my forehead over and over. "Don't be scared, Vivi. I'll protect you for the rest of my life." I had handed him every broken, bleeding fragment of my shattered self back then. Now he was ripping open every scar, for the whole world to watch. He flipped the file open flat on the counsel table, his tone deadly calm and unyielding, "Your Honor, Ms. Croft underwent long-term psychiatric intervention seven years ago." "Including documented stress responses to male contact, and severe persecutory ideation." My veins turned to ice. "Liar..." My voice cracked. "That's private. How could you..." He didn't look at me. "Ms. Croft’s medical records document a consistent pattern of misinterpreting ordinary male interactions as violent assaults, even in the absence of any genuine threat." "We therefore submit that on the night in question. Under the influence of alcohol, old trauma, and marital strain, she experienced a cognitive distortion." The gallery exploded. "Cognitive distortion? So she's crazy?" "Oh my God, she's done this before!" "Textbook victim complex." I started shaking. Sullivan glanced at me then. His knuckles went white around the file. But Celine let out a tiny sob. He turned back to the judge. "Furthermore, the defense has evidence of a long-standing conflict between Ms. Croft and Ms. Whitmore." He pulled out more exhibits. "Ms. Whitmore has been subjected to repeated verbal attacks from Ms. Croft, who believes Ms. Whitmore is destroying her marriage." "Especially after learning of Ms. Whitmore's pregnancy, Ms. Croft's emotional state deteriorated sharply." On the big screen, there were screenshots of my texts with Celine. They were deliberately cropped, stripped of all context, curated to display only my sharpest, most confrontational lines. [Stay away from Sullivan.] [You know he's married.] [What do you actually want, Celine?] Sullivan read them aloud and flat. "These clearly establish Ms. Croft's deep hostility toward Ms. Whitmore." I stared at the screen, freezing from the inside out. "That's not..." "She sent me photos of them watching fireworks at midnight." "She told me her baby needed a father." "She said Sullivan would leave me eventually." Celine burst into tears, shaking her head frantically in feigned grievance. "I never! Vivian, why are you lying about me?" She clutched her pregnan//t belly tightly, hot tears streaming down her cheeks in a carefully crafted display of vulnerability. "I only said the baby was innocent. I never wanted to take Sullivan from you!" "Eden and I lost our parents young. He's all I have. And now I'm pregnan//t and alone and I was just scared..." Sullivan kept going. "Did you, in the hospital maternity wing, publicly curse Ms. Whitmore's unborn child?" My hands clenched. That day, Celine called saying Sullivan was in trouble. I rushed to the hospital, and found him holding her hand during her ultrasound. She leaned into his shoulder. Touched her stomach. "Sullivan, do you think the baby will look more like you, or me?" I stood there like a punchline. All I said was, "Celine. Is this fun for you?" Now that was "proof" of my jealousy. I looked at the gallery. My mother, Eleanor, sat there. Her face drained of all color, her eyes blazing red with suppressed tears and fury. She was the toughest woman I knew. After my first case, she held me and sobbed so hard she couldn't stand. Then Sullivan came. He swore to God in front of her. "Mrs. Croft, I'll protect Vivian. No one will ever hurt her again." Today she watched that same man strip me nak//ed for everyone. She stood up suddenly. "Sullivan Evans! Have you lost every ounce of your humanity??" "Seven years ago, what did you promise me?" "Now you're using her medical records, her wounds, her pain about not having children, to get a rapist off?" "How dare you. How dare you!" Sullivan went pale. He stood there, unable to utter a single word in his defense. I watched my mother's back and felt something crack in my ches//t. After the first hearing, my mother held me tight and walked me out. Reporters swarmed the stone courthouse steps in a chaotic mob.Blinding flashbulbs burst relentlessly in my eyes, and microphones were thrust rudely inches from my face, one after another. "Ms. Croft, were you jealous that Celine was carrying Sullivan's baby, so you threw yourself at her brother?" "Word is you went commando that night. Do you suffer from sexual addiction?" "You pulled this stunt seven years ago. Now you're shaking down a twenty-year-old young man. A classic honey trap?" "Is that your mother? Does she know about your reckless lifestyle?" I stumbled. Someone grabbed my sleeve in the crush. The fabric tore. My shoulder and half my ches//t hit the air. Cameras flashed wildly, capturing every exposed inch. Male onlookers laughed and whistled, "da//mn, no wonder the kid couldn't keep his hands off!" My stomach turned inside out. Mom lunged in front of me. Covered me with her own body. "Back off! You animals! Have you no shame?" In the chaos, someone shoved her hard. Her forehead cracked against the courthouse pillar's sharp edge. Blood poured down her face. It took bailiffs to clear the way. That night, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Sullivan and Celine standing on our porch. Mom's face went murderous. "What do you want?" Celine looked at me, wet-eyed. "Vivian, I came to apologize for my brother. But he is only twenty. He's never even had a girlfriend. He genuinely thought you were lonely and seeking attention in that dress..." "He said the second he touched you, you responded. You didn't fight him at all. So why call the police after and try to destroy his whole life?" My brain detonated. I locked eyes on her. "Say that again. I was dru//gged. Convulsing. And you're telling me I wanted it?" Celine flinched into Sullivan's ches//t. "Vivian, please... Is she having another breakdown?" Mom's palm cracked across Celine's cheek. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Sullivan pulled Celine behind him, his jaw tightening into a hard, unforgiving line. "She's pregnan//t. You had no right to do so." Then he turned to me. "Vivian. Drop the charges." Every word sliced into me like a fresh blade. "I can make this go away. Sign the withdrawal. We won't pursue the false-report angle." "If you keep pushing, you'll lose. You can't handle what's coming." I stared fixedly at the man standing in my doorway—a complete stranger. "Are you warning me because you care, Sullivan?" "Or threatening me that if I don't fold, you'll bury me in the press?" His face flickered. "That's not what I meant." Mom pointed at the door with her shaking hands. "Get out. Both of you!" She suddenly clutched tightly at her ches//t, her body staggering weakly to the side. I screamed and caught her. Sullivan stepped forward instinctively to help. I shoved him back. "Don't touch her!" He froze. Mom slumped against me. Pale. Sweating. I fumbled for my phone. Dialed 911. Sullivan stood at the threshold. For the first time, he looked lost. "Vivi, I..." I held my mother. My whole body trembling so violently I could barely form words. "Take Celine and get out of my house! If something happens to my mom, I will never forgive you." His lips moved. Nothing came out. Mom's hand went cold in mine. And I realized Sullivan hadn't come to talk me into dropping charges. He'd come to finish off the last person who still stood between me and the edge.

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