My Parents Used My Depression to Launch Their AI

Chapter 4

The sudden intrusion of the internet personality turned my father's face beet red.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He swatted the man's phone away with a furious sweep. The device crashed to the floor, its screen splintering, and the livestream went dead.

"Who let you up here? Where is security? Throw this man out now!"

My mother spun around and planted herself squarely in front of him. "My daughter is resting in her room. She is frail and needs absolute quiet!

"So what if we edited a picture? We adore her, and we did not want to exhaust her. Is that a crime? You media vultures will invent anything for a few clicks! Believe me, I will have my lawyer send a formal notice and sue you for slander!"

"Resting?" The reporter let out a cold snort. He did not even bother retrieving his shattered phone. Instead, he aimed a finger straight at my bedroom door. "Since when does resting require bolting the door from the inside, or going days without eating, drinking, or answering a single call? Mrs. Callender, that fabricated family portrait is the biggest red flag here!"

His words, caught by a colleague's backup device, spilled into a brand-new live broadcast. Instantly, the screen erupted with viewer comments.

A: [They are tearing into each other live on camera!]

B: [The portrait really was fabricated! The wealthy always hide dark secrets.]

C: [This is getting sinister. Did Patient Zero suffer an accident, or was she silenced?]

D: [I knew Adele's smile looked unnatural in that photo. It was edited after all.]

E: [Any loving parent would fling that door open to prove everyone wrong. Why are they blocking it?]

Daphne stepped forward to steady my mother, her voice crisp and clear near the backup microphone. "Auntie, do not lower yourself to his level. He is only chasing clout. Adele is just having an episode in there, refusing to see anyone. She probably saw people online comparing her to me, felt slighted, and locked herself away." She lowered her tone to a near whisper. "Listen, it sounds like she is still knocking things over in there. It is all my fault. I never should have said anything to upset her."

No sooner had the words left her lips than a sharp clatter tore through the silence from inside my room. The arm of my cold, stiff body had shifted slightly, toppling the drinking glass on my nightstand.

My father jabbed a finger at the reporter, his voice grinding out from behind clenched teeth. "Do you hear that? She is right inside! My daughter's privacy is none of your business. Now get out before I have you arrested!"

The reporter blocked the corridor, refusing to yield an inch. "Mr. Callender, are you this defensive because of a guilty conscience? If your daughter is truly fine, why do you refuse to open the door and let everyone see?

"No one needs to barge inside. Just open the door an inch and let her speak for two seconds. One single word, and every rumor shatters completely!"

Shouts began echoing from the hall as the livestream comments surged and curious neighbors gathered.

"Open the door! Let us see Patient Zero!"

"Prove that Adele Callender is safe!"

The mounting pressure backed my parents into a corner with nowhere left to hide.

Amid the commotion, Peter arrived with a locksmith.

"Mr. Callender, public suspicion is spinning out of control," he murmured, his voice close to my father's ear. "If we do not open that door, this will cause irreversible damage to the company."

My father glanced toward the gathering crowd and the glowing phone cameras trained on him. His jaw tightened into a rigid line.

"Open it."

With a sharp mechanical click, the deadbolt gave way.

My parents exhaled together, visibly relieved, believing this farce was finally over.

The reporter and his camera pushed past them into the room, lens first.

Heavy curtains blocked the daylight, drowning the bedroom in murky gloom. A strange, stale odor hung thick in the air.

On the bed, a figure lay beneath the covers, turned away from the door and completely motionless.

"Adele, how long are you going to keep this childish drama going? Get up this instant!" My mother stormed toward the mattress.

She assumed I was staging another quiet protest under the sheets.

Her fingers clamped onto the duvet, and with a sharp heave, she wrenched it back.

The covers peeled away, exposing the bed right before the unblinking eye of the camera.