That ceiling light was meant to kill me. But fate was on my side—I raised my right hand just in time to shield myself. I didn’t die. I survived, against his wishes. So he made sure someone finished the job—by amputating my right hand. That way, there’d be no chance I could ever hold a brush again. This man... he was truly heartless.
Wiping away my tears, I stopped hesitating. I booked a flight to Seattle. After completing my last delivery for the night, I returned to my basement room—rented for just one hundred dollar a month.
“You're back, Sandra. Must’ve been a long day,” he said casually, handing me a glass of water.
After watching me drink it, he pulled out a tube of ointment. “Sandra, this is a new miracle medicine from the hospital. It’s great for healing injuries.”
I remembered the conversation he had with his friend—how that ‘medicine’ hadn’t even passed clinical trials. I pushed it away.
“I don’t want it. I still want to paint.”
Bruce smiled gently. “Don’t be scared, Sandra. This is exactly to help you hold a brush again.”
But his smile sent shivers down my spine. More likely, it was to ensure I never held a brush again. I shook my head firmly. His expression darkened.
“Sandra, don’t be so stubborn.”
And then, everything began to spin. My head grew dizzy and I collapsed onto the bed. In the haze, I felt the sharp sting of a needle entering my body. Then came the pain. A burning, tearing pain shot through my right arm. I curled into a ball, whimpering in agony.
Panicked, Bruce grabbed his phone. “What’s going on? She’s still crying in pain!”
His friend on the line responded calmly, “Bruce, I told you—this medicine is going to cause a reaction.”
But Bruce wasn’t listening. He just kept ranting, furious. In my foggy, pain-filled state, I let out a bitter laugh. He was still pretending. Still playing the concerned boyfriend. But I knew. I knew this was all his doing. He wouldn’t allow even the slightest chance for my hand to recover. Cutting it off wasn’t enough.
When he saw me trying to paint with assistive tools, he panicked. Now he was trying to destroy my nerves—to eliminate any possibility of me ever drawing again.
When I next woke up, I was back at that awful black-market clinic.
The doctor looked over, surprised. “You’re awake? I’ve already given you painkillers. Does your right hand still hurt?”
I shook my head slightly. “It doesn’t hurt as much. But... I can’t seem to lift it.”
I tried to demonstrate—pushing with all my strength—but my right arm barely responded. Bruce exhaled deeply, visibly relieved.
Then he choked out, “I’m sorry, Sandra. This is all my fault.”
His eyes were bloodshot, his face full of guilt. He leaned down to hug me tightly and I felt his tears slide down my neck. But I stared at the floor—eyes cold, mind clear. Bruce, isn’t this exactly what you wanted? To ruin me, so Kate could rise.
To avoid putting stress on my body, Bruce offered to carry me home.
Back in my room, I leaned against the bed and turned on my long-abandoned social account. Immediately, floods of hateful messages popped up. Some even revealed my personal information.
[That rat living in a basement is always doing shady things—stealing from others and pretending it’s hers.]
[Heard she lost a hand too. Serves her right. A plagiarist struck down by karma.]
I forced myself to remain calm and traced the source of the attack. Turned out, a major influencer had posted about me—on behalf of a friend. I clicked into that friend’s post. And my heart sank. I knew those sketches. They were mine. I stumbled out of bed and began digging through my cabinets. But the place where I kept my artwork was empty.
That’s when Bruce walked in, freshly washed and casual as ever.
I confronted him. “Did you take my drawings?”
He looked startled by how direct I was. “Sandra, I—I was worried they might upset you, so I moved them. They’re safe somewhere else.”
I handed him my phone, showing him the post. “Then explain this. How did my artwork end up with someone else? Or are you going to admit... you sold it?”
