Chapter 2

Jasmine POV

On a stormy day, my right hand felt like thousands of ants were gnawing at the bone.

I sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, trying to thread a needle. One of Oliver's shirt buttons had fallen off.

I used to be quick and precise at suturing wounds, but now the needle trembled uncontrollably in my grip.

It missed the eye. My hand jerked, knocking over a small vial of dark amber tincture beside me.

It was an unlicensed painkiller I'd brewed for myself. The brownish-black liquid spilled across the floor, sharp and chemical.

The door opened. Oliver walked in with Grace.

The rain outside was heavy. Oliver's clothes were damp, but Grace was perfectly dry under his shelter, wearing the limited edition silk slip dress I'd been hunting for months.

It was my dress.

Oliver's expression tightened the moment he crossed the threshold. His eyes flicked to the mess on the floor. "Jasmine, what's all this? Keep it down. Grace just got home from the hospital. She can't take any stress."

Grace shrank behind him, glancing at me timidly, her hand clutching Oliver's sleeve. "Oliver, don't blame Jasmine. I'm just too easily scared."

I didn't look at them. I crouched to pick up the broken glass.

My right hand jerked. A sharp edge sliced my fingertip open, and blood welled up instantly.

If I'd gotten even a paper cut before, Oliver would have panicked and bought out every first aid kit in the city.

Now he just watched coldly, even stepping back to avoid the spilled liquid on the floor.

"That hand's been useless for ages. How can you still be so clumsy?" He yanked at his tie in irritation. "Leave it. The cleaner will deal with it. You smell like a lab. It's disgusting."

I watched the blood drip from my finger and mix into the black liquid below. Suddenly, it all felt pointless.

"My hand hurts," I said quietly.

It was the truth. On rainy days, the broken parts throbbed with pain.

Oliver stopped, then his frown deepened. "That excuse again. The physio said it healed months ago. How long are you going to keep up this act?"

Grace interjected softly. "Is Jasmine upset that I'm wearing her dress? I'm sorry. My clothes got wet, and Oliver didn't want me to catch a cold, so he told me to change. I'll take it off right now and give it back."

She moved to pull at the straps, her eyes instantly reddening.

Oliver grabbed her hand and glared at me. "It's just a dress. Are you really this petty? Jasmine, you used to be so generous. When did you become so calculating?"

I used to be generous because I had the confidence to be.

I was the youngest lead surgeon at this top-tier hospital. I had my pride. I didn't need to bother with a charity case like my adopted sister.

But now, my hand was ruined.

Oliver thought only my hand was ruined. But my value and dignity had been destroyed too.

I ignored Grace's performance, using my good left hand to pick up the glass shards one by one and drop them into the trash.

Blood smeared across the floor. It was a shocking sight.

Oliver finally seemed unable to stand it anymore. He walked over and kicked the trash can. "Enough. Stop being an eyesore. Go cook. Grace wants beef Wellington."

"I can't make it." I stood up, hiding my injured finger in my sleeve. "The pastry needs kneading. My hand doesn't have the strength."

"Jasmine!" Oliver raised his voice. "How long are you going to keep this up? Grace is someone you watched grow up. You know she's not well. Will making one meal kill you?"

"It'll hurt," I said, looking into his eyes calmly. "Using force makes my hand hurt."

Oliver froze, seemingly not expecting me to push back so bluntly.

The irritation in his eyes deepened. "Fine. Do whatever you want. If you won't cook, then starve."

He pulled Grace upstairs and slammed the bedroom door shut with a bang.

The world was finally quiet.

I looked at the empty living room. This place used to be lively. I loved buying flowers, experimenting with molecular gastronomy, waiting for Oliver to come home.

Now it was just a mess and bitterness filling every corner.

I went to the bathroom to treat my wound. When I came out, I noticed an express delivery notice stuffed in the mailbox by the door.

It was from Geneva headquarters.

The sender's name was a string of codes, but I knew who it was.

It was from the global epidemic response team codenamed "Sentinel."

Three months ago, right after my hand was broken, I'd submitted an application.

Back then, I hadn't planned to leave completely. I just wanted to give myself an escape route.

Now it seemed that route of escape had become my only path.

I clutched the notice in my hand, crushing the paper into a crumpled ball.

If there was no place left for me here, I would go where only the dead, or those who are already dead inside, could exist.