Chapter 3
823 Words
I never expected those two to grow a conscience.
Three weeks ago, they had already shown me exactly who they were.
That day, three black SUVs rolled into Wolf Valley.
Lawyers in suits.
A stack of documents.
A paternity test stamped with an official red seal.
They said they had been searching for nineteen years and had finally found their missing daughter.
The whole town was happy for me.
Everyone except my mother.
She never once looked me in the eye.
Only later did I realize they had never wanted a daughter.
They wanted a donor.
My sister, Clara, had some strange illness.
Every now and then, something in her body would fail and need replacing.
And the match had to come from a direct blood relative.
They searched the whole world.
In the end, I was the only one left.
The "defective product" they had thrown away with their own hands nineteen years ago.
The day we signed the recognition papers, my mother's pen hovered over the document for a long time.
She looked at me with disgust, like I was a piece of old furniture she had no choice but to bring home.
"We should've gotten rid of her properly back then," she muttered to my father, thinking I couldn't hear her.
Gotten rid of me properly.
So in their mouths, from the moment I was born, I had been nothing but a problem that should've been "handled."
I stayed in that mansion's freezing guest room for three days.
On the first day, I pulled out Clara's breathing tube.
On the second day, I waited until they were asleep, climbed out the window, and turned on the gas on my way out.
On the third day, they finally lost patience.
They injected me with that drug, blindfolded me, packed me up overnight, and shipped me back to Wolf Valley.
They thought that if they threw me into a "den of monsters," I would get scared.
That I would obediently sign the papers and lie down on the operating table.
They had no idea.
The things in this world that scared me had never been in this town.
They were in that house with crystal chandeliers, colder than an ice cellar.
They were those two faces that smiled at Clara and froze over whenever they looked at me.
The door opened again.
Old Blade walked in.
The enforcer.
The most dangerous man in the club.
He spent most of his time around garages and blood, and he always smelled like motor oil and rust.
An unlit cigarette hung from his mouth.
He gave me a sideways glance, then sneered at my father.
"This little bean sprout? You want me to use a blade on this? Embarrassing."
With that, he turned to leave.
My mother stepped in front of him.
"You don't want the money?"
Old Blade's face darkened like the bottom of a burned pan.
He cursed under his breath and started shoving everyone out.
"I don't work with people breathing down my neck. Get out. All of you."
The door shut.
He crouched beside me.
His voice was still rough, but softer now.
"Girl, I don't want to hurt you."
"You're about the same age as the girl our town sent off to school."
He sighed.
"Whatever they want you to do, just agree to it. Save yourself some pain."
That girl is me.
I shook my head wildly.
Tears wouldn't stop falling.
Old Blade had taught me how to read and draw when I was little.
Those hands of his could cut a man's tendons without blinking.
But when he held a pen, every stroke was steadier than anyone else's.
I used every bit of strength I had to bite at the ropes around my wrists.
If I could just expose my forearm.
There was a crescent-shaped birthmark there.
Everyone in town knew it.
Old Blade noticed me struggling.
He frowned and stepped closer, reaching out to roll up my sleeve.
Just as his fingers touched the fabric—
The door was kicked open.
My father rushed in, his eyes locked on my loosened hand.
His face went cold in an instant.
"What are you trying to do?"
I whimpered desperately at Old Blade, using my eyes to beg him.
Look at my arm.
Look at my arm!
My mother reacted first.
She shoved Old Blade out the door, then turned back and grabbed a hammer from the wall.
My father said nothing.
He pinned my arm down with his knee.
Right in front of me, the hammer came down.
I screamed.
But all that came out of my throat was a muffled, broken sound.
White light exploded across my vision.
That hand would never close properly again.
"This," my father said, panting, "is what happens when you don't behave."
The hand with the birthmark was ruined.
And the last thing that could prove who I was shattered with it.
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