Chapter 4

Julia stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at me. She fidgeted with her shirt, her face turning red with embarrassment.

"How did you..." she began, stumbling over her words before switching to a defensive tone. "It's not my fault! You're so tight with money! Whenever I ask for some, you hesitate, so I had to turn to him! At least he gets me—he understands what real love is!"

Her defensiveness morphed into disdain as she looked me up and down, arms crossed.

"You're not serious about the divorce, are you? You can't expect me to fall for that. Stop this act."

Her gaze fell on the package I was holding, curiosity replacing her scorn.

"What's that odd thing you've got? Is it... some kind of clothing?"

Before I could respond, her boyfriend—a punk with dyed blonde hair and a cigarette between his lips—placed his hand on her shoulder and peered at the package.

"Hold on... isn't that a burial outfit? Did someone in your family pass away?"

The question lingered in the air as Julia stepped forward, reaching for the package.

"Let me take a look! What kind of trick are you trying to pull this time?"

I scowled and instinctively pushed her away.

Caught off balance, she tumbled to the ground with a thud. A small card fell out of her pocket.

I leaned down and retrieved it.

It was an identification card.

The picture was hers, but the name read: Julia Evans.

For an instant, it felt as if the world had gone quiet. Then the agony began—a piercing, intense pain in my head.

When Julia was born, Monica had suffered severe bleeding. Fearing I might lose them both, I had insisted Julia take Monica's surname to commemorate their survival.

Later, when my relationship with Monica deteriorated, Julia had repeatedly asked me to let her take my last name instead. She had claimed she wanted nothing to do with her self-centered mother.

But now...

At some point, she had willingly chosen to adopt Tim's surname.

I clutched my head as my vision grew hazy.

The physician had cautioned me this would occur—that the tumor would eventually press on my nerves, causing sight issues, memory problems, even mental decline.

How pitiful I had become, I thought bitterly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight off the darkness. When I opened them, I saw Julia grabbing the ID card from my hand and hastily shoving it into her pocket.

"Don't be angry!" she exclaimed, her words tumbling out in a rushed explanation. "I just felt bad for Uncle Tim, you know? He's getting on in years and has no children. It's just a name change—it doesn't mean anything! I'm still your daughter. Isn't it good to have two fathers who care about me?"

She glanced at my face, her assurance faltering as she noticed my expression.

"What's the matter with you now?" she asked, frowning.

"Don't tell me you're faking blindness again. No wonder Mom can't stand you—you act like a kid, always pretending to be sick for attention."

I remained silent, simply shaking my head as I walked past her.

She hesitated, as if wanting to say more, but didn't follow.

By the time I left, the throbbing in my head had somewhat subsided.

I took public transport to my childhood home—it wasn't far, just on the edge of town.

The structure was old, its walls marked by years of neglect. Every surface was covered in dust, and the air had a faint musty odor.

This was where I'd grown up, before Monica had taken us in after my father drowned saving her life.

I hadn't returned in years.

Now, the place felt like a mausoleum.

I tidied the bed, shut the windows firmly, and secured the door. Then, I opened the gas cylinder I'd brought, allowing the pungent scent of natural gas to permeate the room.

Calmly, I changed into the burial attire I'd purchased earlier and reclined on the bed, positioning myself for easy discovery by the mortician.

As I settled in, my phone vibrated.

I considered ignoring it, but out of habit, I answered.

Monica's impatient voice came through.

"Carter, where are you? There's a social gathering tonight, and you need to attend. I'm giving you half an hour to get ready."

Her tone was harsh, as if I were merely an inconvenience.

I replied evenly, "I won't be there. I'm about to die."

There was a loud crash on the other end, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Then Monica's voice, shrill and furious: "Carter, what on earth is wrong with you? Stop saying such ominous things!"

Before I could respond, I heard Tim's voice in the background, calm and calculated as always.

"Monica, perhaps Carter is struggling with the divorce. If he's truly that upset, why don't you take him back? I don't mind—I'll always be here to support you."

Typical Tim. Playing the selfless hero, always seeking sympathy. And Monica, oblivious as ever, never saw through his act.

Just as I anticipated, her anger flared.

"Carter, don't you dare use this to manipulate me! Do you think I'm asking you to come because I want to? The CEO specifically requested your presence, or I wouldn't have bothered. Fine, don't come. And while you're at it, don't bother returning home either. Don't expect to see Julia again, either!"

She hung up, leaving me in silence once more.

I exhaled slowly, my grip on the phone loosening until it fell to the floor.

The gas filled the room, thick and suffocating. My limbs grew heavy, my vision darkening.

The doctor had said that the end would feel like drifting off to sleep.

But this wasn't peaceful.

I could feel every second of my body shutting down, every painful gasp for air. My face felt swollen, my skin tight.

It's alright, I told myself. It'll all be over soon.

Death, I thought, was like a quiet summer night—eerily serene.

I could hear the faint hiss of the gas, a sound that seemed almost soothing.

Thank God I'd hired someone to handle my body.

Otherwise, I might have decomposed here for weeks without anyone noticing.

But just as I was surrendering to the darkness, the door burst open with a deafening crash.

Someone had forced it open.

An unexpected visitor had arrived.