Chapter Two

I checked into a cheap motel called "Twilight". The air was thick with the smell of musty and cheap lubricant. Outside the window was a cracked wasteland, and every half hour, the vibrations from a heavy truck passing by would cause a layer of ash to fall from the walls.

But for Lily and me, this place represented safety.

I carefully hid Lily's urn in a crack under the bed, wrapping it in layers of her favorite knitted garment—the only thing that brought warmth to this cold, musty room.

My phone screen lit up, followed by notifications that my account was locked.

I stared at the string of cold "0s," and without a ripple, folded the black card—a symbol of our dependent relationship—in half and tossed it into the sink. For years, Victoria had tried to remind me in this way: I wasn't her husband; I was her most respectable, most easily manipulated "private property" in this bustling city.

Memories slithered into my mind like venomous snakes. In that bedroom with its silk sheets, every intimacy was accompanied by her indifference. Once, while helping her clear the path outside, I was accidentally burned on the back by a red-hot steel pipe; the deep, bone-revealing wound scabbed over, leaving a gruesome, dark red scar. That day, she was touching up her perfect red lipstick in front of the mirror when I accidentally revealed my bruise under the light. She disgustedly covered her mouth and nose with a silk scarf, turned away, and coldly said, "Arthur, cover your back. This tattered map is really disappointing."

She never loved me; she loved the silent, reliable man who would do anything for her. That disgust grew stronger each day, as if every second I breathed was damaging her dignity.

I flipped to the last few pages of my phone book and dialed the code to the past. Half an hour later, in the shadows of the hotel's back alley, a dark figure handed me a heavy canvas bag. The clinking of metal was crisp and pleasant—my long-lost professional tool.

The night deepened, and Victoria's special forces surrounded the hotel. The security chief leading the team sat in the passenger seat of the lead car, his body still wrapped in bandages from the conflict a few days prior, but his eyes gleamed with a ruthless thirst for revenge. However, when they kicked open the door and rushed to the bed, they were met only with empty bedding and a smiley face sticker on the wall.

I didn't run away; I had been watching them from the ventilation duct above. I watched the thugs fly into a rage at their missed opportunity, watched them turn their car around, and dejectedly return to their abandoned parts depot on the outskirts of the city. This was the logistics center of their money laundering chain, and I knew every blind spot in their surveillance better than these newcomers.

When they returned to their base and lowered their guard, I shut off the main power to the factory.

The moment darkness fell, it was the season for the scavengers. I put on my thermal scanner, the cold, fluorescent green covering my vision. I didn't rush to kill; instead, I stealthily slipped into their defensive formation. I used a silenced pistol to suppress their fire, and in close combat, I used the power of hydraulic shears to precisely shatter their right wrist joints. It was a crisp, chilling sound of shattering, echoing throughout the oppressive factory.

Five minutes later, apart from the supervisor who had been vigilantly guarding the monitoring room, no one else was standing in the factory. I pushed open the door, the gun barrel pressed against his forehead. He looked at his comrades lying in pools of blood, his teeth chattering. Without a word, I dragged him to the wall and used his blood to paint the blood-red verdict. Finally, I cut off the little finger of another of the most arrogant thugs and placed it in an exquisite wax-sealed wooden box—a "betrothal gift" for Victoria.

The next morning, using the remote control access I had previously implanted in Victoria's study, I monitored the situation there in real time.

Inside the study, Victoria opened the wooden box. When the bloody little finger was revealed, a crack finally appeared in her carefully maintained mask of elegance. She even staggered, grabbing the edge of the table for support.

Leon walked into the study. He glanced at the severed finger, suppressed the churning in his throat, and playfully picked up the wedding ring I had given up that day, which was sitting on the table. He didn't acid-etch the ring; instead, he forcibly cut it in half with a cigar cutter and tossed it into the ashtray beside him. "Get rid of this filthy junk," he said. "This unlucky thing is disgusting to look at."

Victoria gripped the edge of the table tightly, staring at the broken ring. Her eyes held no lingering affection, only a chilling coldness born of provocation.

I sat in an abandoned RV a thousand miles away, staring at the cold image on the screen. I sneered, pulled out the anonymous SIM card, and crushed it to powder under the wheels of a departing truck. Even if she dialed now, all she would get was an endless busy signal.

Victoria, this is just interest. Since you despise my traces so much, I'll tear your world to shreds too. This game has only just begun.