Chapter 2

At those words, Eleanor stopped dead in her tracks.

A flick of her wrist to check the time, then her eyes raked over my filthy, bloodied body with open disgust.

For that bone marrow match—for Celeste—she'd break me without a second thought.

"Then make it quick. Just get her signature and keep the spare parts depot operational."

Spare parts depot.

In the end, that's all I was to my biological parents—not even a person.

Without a word, Arthur exhaled cigar smoke and grabbed my collar, dragging me from sunlight into the shadows of an abandoned repair shop.

I slammed into oil-stained concrete. My blood-crusted hands clawed at Arthur's boot, trying to hum that rough lullaby he used to murmur over me as a child.

The paralytic in my throat turned every breath to swallowing glass. No sound came.

Arthur felt the struggle at his feet, started to crouch—then Richard's voice cut through.

"Old man, breaking bones is too easy." Richard flicked imaginary dust off his suit. "I hear there's a psycho in Deadwater—dissection expert, skins people for the mob. 'Crazy' Billy, right?"

"Go get him. I've got a big job for him."

"Keep her breathing. Peel her skin inch by inch, strip the tendons—perfect lesson for this ungrateful bastard spawn of mine."

As he spoke, he smiled cruelly, clearly expecting me to scream and beg.

Lying on the ground, all I could do was stare back at him. Deadman. That's what he was. He just didn't know it yet.

The "Crazy" Billy he mentioned was indeed a bloodthirsty brute, but famously protective of his own.

When I was twelve, a stray bullet from cross-border drug runners grazed my dog. Billy went across the border alone and wiped out that entire cartel family.

If he recognized me here, this pompous couple would be wishing hell was an option.

Seeing my eyes full of mockery, completely unmoved, Richard's fury ignited.

He stepped forward and ground his shoe into my shattered kneecap, twisting viciously, his face contorted: "Let's find out how much punishment you can take."

Just then, Eleanor's phone rang.

She shot Richard a frantic look: "Celeste's video call! Shh—she absolutely cannot see this bloodbath..."

Richard grabbed a grimy, oil-stained rag and stuffed it in my mouth to muffle my screams. In an instant, he transformed into a doting father as he answered the video call.

"Sweet baby, did you take your medicine?"

"Daddy's touring vineyards with your sister. She's in the restroom right now. Don't worry—Daddy and Mommy love you most of all..."

Pitiful sobbing came through the speaker.

The two panicked immediately. While cooing reassurances and hunting for better light to fake the background, they hurried out of the repair shop, casually pulling the door shut behind them.

In the dim light, I bit down hard on a discarded spark plug.

With trembling hands, I pressed desperately against the torn flesh around the exposed bone, trying to stop the bleeding. 

The agonizing friction of shattered bone convulsed my entire body. Cold sweat pooled on the concrete, and my screams were locked tight in my throat.

With my parents temporarily gone, Arthur—who'd been silent the whole time—sighed with complicated emotion.

He found a bowl of pungent crushed herbs and pressed the paste onto my shattered leg with rough hands, voice low:

"Little girl, don't blame me. Deadwater's underground armory needs renovation. The old guys need this money."

With a heavy sigh, Arthur pulled the oily rag from my mouth.

I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face, and lifted a trembling, bloody finger, pointing frantically at myself.

Arthur, it's me. I'm Willow.

Arthur froze. "Girl, what are you trying to say?"

Just as I was about to write in my own blood on the floor, the iron door scraped open again.

The beaming couple had ended their call and were now planning a Michelin weekend for Celeste—white truffles, Alaskan king crab, Broadway musical.

Their family atmosphere was warm to the point of suffocation.

I'd been locked in a lightless attic and bounced around in transit for two full days without a drop of water. My stomach twisted like it would tear open.

Noticing me swallowing and clutching my abdomen, Eleanor's smile remained, but her eyes turned ice-cold.

She kicked over a foul-smelling bucket in the corner. Half a bucket of rotting slop—mixed with the remains of Deadwater hunting dogs—spilled in front of me.

"Eat. For a parasite hatched in the slums like you, this is already a feast."

"Help yourself. If you actually starve to death, the matching surgery won't do Celeste any good."

The acrid stench hit my brain. My vision darkened as I collapsed, gasping for air.

Arthur, standing in the shadows, finally couldn't hold back: "Mrs. Sterling, that's not food for humans."

Eleanor looked down from her height, coldly cutting: "You got paid. Stay in your lane."

Time blurred before the heavy rolling door was violently yanked open again.

"Crazy" Billy walked in.

He'd spent years navigating gang vendettas, his body wrapped in the thick scent of gunpowder and blood. Habitually spinning a blood-stained butterfly knife, he gave me a cold glance.

He sneered at the couple behind him: "This half-dead shriveled girl? You want me, Billy, to waste my blade on this? Embarrassing. Not doing it."

He pocketed the knife and started to leave. But Eleanor blocked him after just a few steps and slammed a thick stack of cash from her purse: "Not enough money?"

Billy's face darkened, murderous intent flashing in his eyes.

But strangely, he didn't explode. Instead, he cursed and shoved the couple out of the repair shop.

"I don't like flies watching me work. Get out, get out, all of you out!"

As the iron door slammed shut, Billy dropped his manic act.

He lit a crude cigar and looked at me, barely alive on the floor, and sighed:

"Little girl, I don't want to torture you. You look about the same age as a crazy little kid from our town who got picked up by some city money. Whatever those people outside want you to do, just agree. Don't be stupid, kid. No piece of paper's worth your skin."

Hoarse, I shook my head desperately. Tears mixed with blood splattered on the concrete.

Billy had always been good to me. The lethal close-combat moves and butterfly knife techniques I knew—he'd taught me every one, hand over hand.

At that thought, I forced my collapsing consciousness to lift my blood-drenched right hand, struggling to form the signature opening stance of the "Deadwater Stranglehold" he'd taught me.

That was the secret signal between us.

But the pain and paralytic made my muscles spasm wildly. My fingers twitched weakly and twisted—to an outsider, just the meaningless flailing of someone dying.

Billy exhaled a smoke ring and sighed helplessly:

"Girl, what are you thrashing around for? Can you talk?"

I shook my head in despair, gasping from extreme tension and pain.

If I missed this chance and Richard outside lost patience, it would truly be over.

I wracked my brain. What else... what else could prove I was that crazy little girl who used to follow him around?

On the edge of death, a lightning bolt struck through my mind—

Yes. The birthmark!